The Woman at the Next Desk

Leonie shared a desk in a narrow office alcove with a new hire named Saira, and at first she told herself the arrangement was harmless. They were close enough to hear each other breathe, close enough to reach the same stapler, close enough that Leonie could feel Saira’s eyes on her without looking up.

Then the copying began.

It started with breakfast. Leonie ate the same yogurt, fruit, and granola every morning, and within a week Saira was bringing the identical meal in a matching container. Lunch followed. Leonie would unwrap her sandwich and salad, and Saira would produce the exact same thing. If Leonie stayed late, Saira stayed late too, although her workload was light enough that she had long since finished. She would sit at her keyboard, tapping random keys as if the office itself depended on it, and only relax when Leonie stood up to leave.

The strangest part was the staring.

Leonie would glance sideways and find Saira watching her, face blank, eyes fixed. It happened so often that Leonie began to feel as though she were being measured, copied line by line. She mentioned once, casually, that she came in early because of a brutal commute. After that, Saira began arriving early too, despite having no reason to be there before nine.

For a while, Leonie excused it. Saira was young, new, maybe eager to fit in. Maybe she was looking for a model to follow. But months passed, and the behavior only became more unsettling.

Leonie stopped trying to win the contest no one had announced. She took lunch outside the office when she could. If she planned to work late, she slipped away from her desk for a minute first, refusing to act like the signal that dismissed Saira for the day. The early arrivals faded on their own after a couple of weeks. Saira seemed unable to keep the habit alive.

The staring, though, remained.

Leonie tried meeting it head-on. Whenever she caught Saira’s gaze, she would say, "Can I help you?" or simply look back until Saira flinched away. The directness reduced the watching, but not by much. Saira only became subtler, pretending to reach for a pen or scratch her neck while keeping Leonie in view.

Then summer arrived, and Saira came down with a persistent cough.

Company policy allowed remote work, but Saira kept showing up anyway, filling the tiny alcove with harsh, unguarded coughing fits that lasted all day. She never covered her mouth. Leonie found herself escaping to conference rooms whenever possible, laptop under one arm, resentment simmering hotter with every day of that wet, rattling sound.

The office manager could hear the coughing from the surrounding desks. Finally, Leonie asked to be moved, and the request was approved. It would take time, but the change was set in motion.

A week later, Leonie noticed the staring had returned in a new form.

She felt it before she saw it: that prickling awareness at the edge of her vision. She turned and found Saira looking away too quickly. Minutes later, it happened again. And again. On the fourth time, Leonie’s nerves were stretched so tight she could barely think.

Then she saw the phone.

Saira had lifted it low in her lap, camera angled directly toward Leonie.

Leonie stood so abruptly her chair scraped the floor. Saira jerked, nearly dropping the phone, and thumbed furiously at the screen. For an instant, Leonie saw the camera app open. Her stomach turned cold.

She did not wait to hear an explanation. She walked straight to her manager and told the truth, voice shaking with anger. By the time she stepped outside to steady herself, Human Resources had already been informed.

The next day, Leonie had a new desk.

It was farther from the alcove, farther from the staring, farther from the strange imitation that had made her skin crawl for nearly a year. At the new desk, she sat beside a coworker named Camille, who wore mismatched earrings, ate curry for breakfast, and never once copied a thing Leonie did.

Best of all, they got along beautifully.