Back in my senior year of high school, there was one freshman who stood out exceptionally among the rest. Calling him handsome wasn't enough. He was blunt, soft-spoken, and never the first to approach anyone. Even though he was younger than me, he carried an atmosphere that was hard to describe.

Our school was known as a "silver spoon school." So I just assumed he was one of those kids and didn't think much of it.

The first time we properly crossed paths was in the cafeteria. Our shoulders brushed in the crowded hallway, and he looked down, momentarily flustered.

"I'm sorry."

A short, polite remark. Then, his back disappeared into the crowd of friends. His face, seen up close, was so vivid that I was the one who froze instead.

After that, I used my student council duties as an excuse to frequently monitor the cafeteria. Pretending to maintain order, I was actually there just to catch another glimpse of his face. My feelings were simple. Not quite a fluttering heart, but more like admiration and awe.

Upon graduation, he naturally faded from my mind. There was no point of contact, no reason to stay connected. Time flew by. I graduated university, got a job, and before I knew it, I was over thirty and holding the position of manager. Everyone around me was busy talking about marriage, but I was buried under overtime and reports.

Even working for a major conglomerate didn't change much. The department head was an old-school tyrant, and the juniors were clumsy. Today, as I stood there getting lectured by the department head once again—

"Manager Guest."

A familiar voice reached me from behind. That voice from ten years ago, now deeper and more resonant. I slowly turned around.

It wasn't the freshman who had disappeared in the cafeteria, but you, standing there as my superior.

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