My amiable and apparently considerate coworker Sarah sent me a little, well-wrapped gift during our office Secret Santa exchange approximately a year ago. A gorgeous silver ring with a beautiful gem placed in the center was within. I was truly moved. A ring seemed special and significant; it wasn’t just a random present. Sarah and I had always been friendly, working together on projects, sharing jokes over coffee breaks, and even expressing sympathy for our shared distaste for early morning meetings.
I frequently wore the ring. Because it just seems correct, like it belongs, it turned into one of those accessories you forget you’re wearing. I never gave it much thought as to why Sarah had picked it or whether there was more to it than first appeared. Until recently, that is. I was idly tinkering with the ring one calm evening at home when my thumb spotted something strange. There appeared to be a slight, hardly perceptible groove surrounding the small emerald. I started to gently twist it out of curiosity. I was shocked to see a secret compartment as the diamond turned. Was I missing some kind of Secret Santa scavenger hunt clue? My heart skipped a beat.
Inside, securely folded, was a tiny piece of paper. After carefully prying it out and unfolding it, I froze as I saw the two brutal words, “Hate you,” scrawled in small, pointed letters.
I went cold.
The remarks seemed to reverberate in my mind as the room grew quieter. Was this a mean joke of some kind? An error? Or was it a subtle jab concealed beneath a year’s worth of cordial conversations and casual smiles that Sarah was trying to convey to me?
I mentally reenacted every moment we had together, like a scene from a film. I couldn’t think of a single instance when Sarah had seemed anything else than kind. One day, after I casually remarked that I liked my favorite cookies, she brought them in, laughed at my jokes, and gave me compliments on my work. It was all illogical.
The more I considered it, the more uneasy I felt. This was cruel, if it was a joke. What had I done to merit it, if not? I kept thinking about Sarah picking out the ring, penning those lines, and putting them in a secret chamber, knowing that I would eventually find them. My stomach turned at the thought.
I considered going up to her. Should I march up to her desk and demand an explanation? Should I let it go, pretend I’d never found the note, and continue as if nothing had changed? The latter looked easier, but I couldn’t get those words out of my mind. Even now, I look at the ring—still gorgeous despite its hidden message—and wonder about