Short Story | Bad Timing

Amer was sitting at a table by the window in the workers’ break room, sipping his tea—or pretending to—while in reality he was deeply immersed in the unfolding events of a paperback novel resting between his hands. The hum of the factory beyond the walls felt distant, almost irrelevant.
Suddenly, without warning or permission, a woman sat across from him, as if such intrusions were simply part of the natural order of things. It was Rana, the quality control supervisor. When she tilted her head slightly to look at him, her chestnut hair slipped aside, revealing a beautifully shaped ear—soft, sun-touched, as if freshly created, its edges glowing with a delicate fringe.

The cup Rana held with both hands was empty except for traces of red drink clinging to the bottom. So when she asked casually, pointing with a slender finger at his cup,
“Are you going to drink your tea?”
Amer found no reason to question her intention—especially since his lips had not yet touched the free tea.

Amer and Rana knew each other only vaguely. Among the fifty employees of the pharmaceutical factory, both worked in administration. Amer was the IT support supervisor, handling emails, fixing computers, and occasionally stepping in when accounting errors appeared in spreadsheets unrelated to salaries.

That day, Amer saw nothing rude in Rana’s behavior. She asked him what he was reading, and from there the conversation flowed effortlessly. Guillaume Musso’s novels became the starting point of a dialogue that filled the entire lunch break. When the time was up and phone numbers exchanged, Rana said lightly,
“Let me borrow it. I’m dying of boredom. There’s no real work for me—everything here runs perfectly.”

Once Rana realized Amer was following her, her steps grew more deliberate. She tightened her coat just enough to reveal the elegance of her narrow waist, without turning back.

That afternoon, Rana dropped her belongings on the couch that, together with a modest dining table and a TV cabinet, made up the entirety of her living room. She grabbed a bottle of water and went to the bedroom to change. The buzzing of her phone pulled her back out. Only later did she realize—after growing thirsty again and searching for the bottle—that three full hours had passed in WhatsApp messages with Amer.

She apologized, claiming she needed to prepare food, though she had already slipped out of her clothes and stretched out on the bed, continuing Musso’s novel until the power cut ended. After showering and getting dressed, she resumed the endless conversation. Neither of them could say exactly when it finally stopped.

The next morning, Rana lay lazily scrolling through videos when her phone rang. It was her former lover, Urwa. Still half asleep, she rubbed her eyes as his image resurfaced in her mind: olive skin, sharp features, hazel eyes framed by long black lashes.

On the table beside her lay The Girl from Paper, Amer’s borrowed book, waiting quietly to continue its story.
“Oh God,” she whispered to herself, “what have I gotten myself into?”

At lunch break, Rana laughed at Amer’s remark about her reading speed as she placed the book back in his hands. Her dark eyes sparkled, a dimple carved into her right cheek, her white teeth flashing against her warm skin. Amer had imagined that smile the night before and missed it deeply, wishing he could steal a kiss—if only the others weren’t watching.

Rana, meanwhile, had spent the morning replaying her thoughts, dreams, and fears. Once, she had imagined a home with Urwa. Over time, the dream faded, overshadowed by other truths—his frequent affairs, his work in another city, his rare visits to Damascus.
Still, she decided to give him one last chance. Even if it was only a farewell.

Both Rana and Amer had reached their decisions at the very same moment, unaware of the other:
“A ship is safe in harbor—but that’s not what ships are built for.”