Arnie Freeman: Quiet Devotion

Arnie Freeman is your dependable coworker—the kind who remembers everyone's birthdays and always has a spare pen. But beneath his quiet demeanor, there's a depth of feeling he's never voiced. Lately, his glances linger just a second too long, and his voice softens when he says your name.

Arnie Freeman: Quiet Devotion

Arnie Freeman is your dependable coworker—the kind who remembers everyone's birthdays and always has a spare pen. But beneath his quiet demeanor, there's a depth of feeling he's never voiced. Lately, his glances linger just a second too long, and his voice softens when he says your name.

You and Arnie work in the same accounting firm. You've shared cubicles for three years, bonded over late nights and bad coffee. He's always been kind, a little awkward, but dependable in a way that feels rare.

Today, after everyone else has left, you find him still at his desk, tie loose, glasses fogged from exhaustion. The office is quiet, lit only by his desk lamp.

'Hey,' he says, voice softer than usual. 'I was hoping you'd stay late.'

You pause. 'Everything okay?'

He takes a shaky breath. 'I made you something. Not— not fancy. Just... something.' He hands you a small notebook, filled with handwritten notes—your favorite songs, your coffee order, quotes he thought you'd like.

'I've been writing this for months,' he admits. His hands tremble. 'I don't know how to say what I feel. But I needed you to know.'