The funny thing about attraction is that it rarely announces itself properly. It doesn’t walk through the front door. It doesn’t introduce itself. It certainly doesn’t ask permission. Instead, it sneaks in through a side entrance disguised as curiosity, humour, intellectual admiration.
Or, in this particular case, a workplace nuisance. Years ago, I met a guy through a security job. At first, I wasn’t interested. At all. In fact, I remember thinking:
Act I
Ew.
Not my type.
Case closed.
Or so I thought. Unfortunately, attraction is rarely interested in my opinions. The problem was that he was around constantly. The second problem was that he was funny.
Act II
Well…
He’s kind of funny.
A dangerous development. Humour has started more relationship problems than beauty ever has. Beauty gets your attention. Humour lowers your defenses.
I should have recognized the warning signs immediately. Instead, I continued my field research. Which led to the next complication.
Act III
Well…
He’s actually really smart.
Now we were in trouble. He made conversation feel effortless. He was one of those irritating people who introduced me to things before they became popular. The kind of person who knew about podcasts before everybody had a podcast. The kind of person who always had a new idea, a new theory, a new rabbit hole.
This was becoming increasingly inconvenient, because I still didn’t think he was my type. (At least not officially.)
Act IV
Wait.
Why am I catching feelings?
An unfortunate development. At this point, I attempted what I believed to be a perfectly rational solution. I introduced him to a friend. A beautiful friend. Single and ready to mingle. Someone who I thought might genuinely enjoy talking to him. From my perspective, this was efficient. Everybody wins, problem solved.
Act V
Subject A attempts to redirect Subject C toward Subject B. For a brief moment, it seemed to work. The two of them started talking. I considered the situation resolved. Then reality intervened.
Act VI
Subject B rejects Subject C. Apparently he wasn’t interested in her. Which would have been fine. Except that he informed me that the reason he wasn’t interested in her was because he liked me. A statement that should have immediately activated every alarm system in my body. Instead, I continued the experiment.
Act VII
Subject A and Subject B establish diplomatic relations. This, in retrospect, was where the situation became unsalvageable. Because once attraction becomes mutual, everybody starts making decisions they would never recommend to a friend. The anthropologist in me understands this. The participant regrets it.
For a brief period, things were fun. Then came the part that always appears in studies of ferality:
competition,
confusion,
instinct,
chaos.
Act VIII
Subject C launches surprise offensive. What followed was a sequence of events so unnecessary that years later I still struggle to explain it without laughing. The conversations, revelations, and complete collapse of what little order remained.
Eventually I realized that whatever was happening, it wasn’t worth participating in.
Which led to the final conclusion.
Act IX
Everybody involved becomes messy. Not one person. Everybody. The guy, the friend… me. Everyone contributed. We all made questionable decisions. Became a little less civilized than we probably imagined ourselves to be.
Which, oddly enough, is why I find the story so funny now. Nobody was a mastermind or a villain. Nobody was operating at peak wisdom. We were simply young adults conducting unauthorized experiments in attraction and emotional decision-making. The results were inconclusive. The casualties were avoidable. The data was fascinating.
Years later, a mysterious message appeared on my phone from an anonymous number. The sender refused to identify himself. Offered cryptic observations. Spoke in complete sentences. Avoided direct answers. And immediately became my leading suspect.
The identity remains unconfirmed. But if my theory is correct, there is something strangely fitting about it. Because some people leave your life dramatically. Some people leave quietly. And some disappear entirely, only to reappear years later like a Victorian ghost with a prepaid phone plan.
Perhaps it was him. Perhaps it wasn’t. The investigation continues. But if nothing else, the case has reminded me of one universal truth:
At first, he wasn’t my type.
Then he became funny.
Then he became intelligent.
Then he became a problem.
Epilogue
For years, I didn’t think much about him.
Life moved on.
Jobs changed.
Friendships ended.
New people entered the story.
Old people drifted out of it.
Eventually, I deleted almost everyone from my phone.
Exes.
Former coworkers.
Old friends.
People I no longer spoke to.
People who no longer belonged in my orbit.
I assumed they had done the same.
Then, one Friday morning, a message arrived from an unknown number.
The sender knew my full given name.
Not Karny.
Not the name I write under.
The government-issued version.
The archived version.
The version of me that belonged to another chapter of my life.
The message read:
“Can’t believe you are still alive.”
An unusual opening.
The sender refused to identify himself.
Claimed to be a “well-wisher.”
Avoided every direct question.
And then disappeared back into the fog.
Most people would probably find this unsettling.
I found it fascinating.
Because the moment I read it, my brain immediately began sorting through old files.
Who would say something like that?
Who would find that funny?
Who would appear out of nowhere after years?
Who would refuse to identify themselves simply because they enjoyed the mystery?
That’s how he became the leading suspect.
Not because I have proof.
Not because I know.
Because the personality fits the crime.
And if my theory is wrong, then somewhere out there is an entirely different idiot who thought “Can’t believe you are still alive” was an appropriate reintroduction after several years of silence.
Which, somehow, is even funnier.
The case remains open.