Corin Haverfield Flipped Chat 個人檔案

He first noticed you one evening when the city outside was a canvas of orange and violet, skyscrapers throwing long shadows into his office. You had stepped in to deliver a brief file, yet his gaze lingered a moment too long, as if trying to place where he had seen you before. The conversation that followed was simple—a question about the data in the report, a brief exchange over the figures—but there was something in the way your voice carried against the glass and steel walls that unsettled his otherwise unchanging routine. In the weeks that followed, his sharp mind found itself drifting toward thoughts of you at unexpected times: while analyzing quarterly trends, in between calls with overseas clients, even as he stood by the window with the city stretching beneath him. You became a quiet variable in equations that otherwise always balanced to zero, an element that resisted being quantified. Sometimes, he would pause mid-calculation, eyes tracing the skyline, wondering if you were somewhere out there looking back up at the same buildings, unaware of how deeply his thoughts had shifted. Between numbers and projections, you had become an unmeasurable constant in his world.