Patience Heart

Personal Preference

The redesign development had already started, and the normally lively office atmosphere at Chattame had grown strangely quiet. Most employees were now working from home during the development phase, leaving the office almost empty. The usual chatter and laughter had been replaced by the rhythmic sounds of carpentry tools, the clatter of hammers and drills echoing through the floors as craftsmen worked tirelessly to reshape the space.

On the third floor, I made my way toward Adam's office. It was practically unrecognizable now—most of the books and papers that once filled the shelves had been packed away, leaving the room in a bare, transitional state. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke still hung in the air, faint but unmistakable, and it made me pause at the doorway for a moment.

Funny how that smell made me miss him. The same man I had spent years trying to forget.

I hated the smell of cigarettes, always had. Yet somehow, the scent had become intertwined with memories of him, making it bittersweet. Adam never used to smoke. When we were together, he loathed the habit as much as I did. But things had changed—he had changed. 

I hadn't seen him in weeks. Mama Dee mentioned he'd returned to China, summoned to handle another problematic project that needed his "cold hands" to fix. He always did have a way of managing things that seemed impossible to everyone else.

I sighed and stepped further into the room, my fingers brushing against the empty desk. This place felt strange without him, like it was missing its core. But it was my job to breathe new life into it, to redesign Adam's office space, and I wanted to make it personal. Not just for the company, but for him.

I already had a vision of how I wanted it to look. Instead of the stark monochrome that dominated most of the office, I'd chosen a palette of navy blue, crisp white, and accents of gold. Blue was Adam's favorite color. I smiled as the memories of his wardrobe came rushing back to me—most of his clothes were some shade of blue, from deep midnight to light pastel. The same color Timmy, my  son, favored. The thought of him always made me smile, even in moments like these, when the emotions threatened to become overwhelming.

I still found myself wondering why, despite not being Adam's son, Timmy and Adam shared so many uncanny resemblances. It wasn't just their shared love for the color blue. It was the small things—like the way they both furrowed their brows when concentrating, or how they preferred silence over needless chatter. The way Timmy could sit for hours, lost in his own world, reminded me so much of Adam.

It was strange, almost eerie at times. I'd catch Timmy doing something—like tapping his fingers absentmindedly when he was thinking—and my heart would skip a beat because it was something Adam used to do. The likeness was there in more than just behavior. Even their eyes, a similar shade of deep brown, had the same piercing quality, making me wonder if the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on me.

Maybe it was just my mind, connecting dots where there weren't any. Or perhaps, as much as I wanted to deny it, Adam had left a mark on me deeper than I realized—a mark that somehow found its way into the life I built after him. It was a thought I couldn't quite shake, no matter how much I tried to dismiss it.

Lately, I'd been spending my lunch breaks with Mama Dee, one of the few people who still came to the office regularly. Before the redesign began, her office was on the third floor, so we often crossed paths as I worked on my designs. Now, she's temporarily moved to the fourth floor.

Our friendship had blossomed quickly, mostly due to our mutual love for cooking. Every day, we'd swap recipes and share the meals we brought from home. Mama Dee always praised my Indonesian dishes, especially when I surprised her with something new. She was floored when I told her I was half-Indonesian—it seemed to deepen our connection, almost as if she felt like she understood me more after that.