There’s a particular shade of crimson that only appears on my cheeks during video calls with certain colleagues. It’s not the warm flush of embarrassment or the gentle pink of mild discomfort—it’s a deep, betraying red that seems to radiate heat through the screen. That’s precisely what happened when his name unexpectedly appeared on my work chat, followed by that ringing notification that usually signals just another mundane work discussion.
He was supposed to be discussing his project, but all I could process was how his deep brownish-grey eyes seemed to look directly through the screen while mine darted anywhere but at his face. The camera became both a blessing and curse—a barrier protecting me from full exposure while simultaneously amplifying every micro-expression. He kept his camera on the entire time, the gentleman, while I desperately wished for technical difficulties that never came.
This wasn’t our first encounter, of course. I’d seen him moving through office hallways like he owned the space, that effortless confidence making everyone else seem slightly out of place. Our paths had crossed numerous times before this call, yet I’d never managed to form actual words in his presence. Something about exceptionally attractive men turns my vocal cords into traitors, leaving me with nothing but awkward smiles and hurried escapes.
Then came the nickname.
At the end of that call, he casually crowned me with a teasing moniker as if we’d been friends for years rather than strangers who just had their first proper conversation. That single moment—that effortless bestowing of familiarity—ignited something dangerously close to obsession. Suddenly, opening Outlook and checking work messages carried a thrill I hadn’t felt since high school crushes. Every notification became a potential message from him, every meeting invitation a possible encounter.
I’m nothing if not slightly obsessive when fixated on something or someone. At my worst, I feel like the female equivalent of Joe Goldberg from “You”—minus the murderous tendencies, of course. There’s something about that laser-focused attention, that hyper-awareness of another person’s presence, that feels both exhilarating and slightly dangerous.
Why do we become so captivated by people we rationally know might not be good for us? Why does logic evaporate when faced with charismatic charm and casual nicknames? That video call blush represented more than just attraction—it signaled the beginning of that familiar spiral where someone else’s attention becomes dangerously intertwined with self-worth.
The irony isn’t lost on me that this entire dynamic unfolded through screens and digital messages—the modern workplace’s version of romantic tension. Virtual connections somehow amplify these emotions, creating space for projection and fantasy where reality might otherwise intrude. That camera-off button becomes a shield protecting our vulnerabilities while simultaneously allowing them to grow unchecked in the privacy of our own screens.
Perhaps that’s the core of this particular psychology—the space between what’s real and what we imagine, between professional interaction and personal interpretation. One video call, one nickname, and suddenly I’m analyzing every hallway encounter and message notification through an entirely different lens.
The Blush That Started It All
It begins with a notification. Not a dramatic one, just the soft chime of Microsoft Teams cutting through another afternoon of focused work. His name appears in my chat window—someone from the design team I’d never directly worked with, though I’d certainly noticed him around the office. The message was professional enough: “Hey, got a minute to hop on a quick call about the project timeline?”
What followed was perhaps the most professionally embarrassing thirty minutes of my remote work life.
He, being the conscientious colleague, had his camera on immediately. I, being… well, me, fumbled with my webcam button while trying to sound like a competent adult. When I finally managed to turn mine on, the damage was already done. My cheeks had flushed that particular shade of crimson that feels like it must be visible from space. I could feel the heat radiating from my face, a physiological betrayal that no amount of deep breathing could conceal.
There’s something uniquely vulnerable about video calls that in-person meetings never quite capture. The rectangle showing my face felt like an accusation, highlighting every micro-expression. I found myself unable to maintain eye contact with his pixelated image, those deep brownish-grey eyes that seemed to look right through the screen. My gaze kept darting away—to the side of the screen, to my own thumbnail video, to the keyboard—anywhere but directly at those disarmingly attentive eyes.
What made it worse was how completely normal he seemed. Calm, professional, slightly amused in that way charismatic people often are. He discussed project deliverables and timeline adjustments while I fought a silent battle against my own autonomic nervous system.
This wasn’t our first non-encounter, though it was our first actual interaction. I’d seen him countless times in the physical office—passing in the hallways, waiting by the coffee machine, sitting across the room during all-hands meetings. Our company operates on a hybrid model, and on the days we both happened to be in the office, I’d developed what can only be described as a carefully choreographed avoidance routine.
Hot guys have always had this effect on me—not the awestruck admiration you might expect, but something closer to mild panic. My brain seems to short-circuit in their presence, leaving me with the social graces of a startled deer. I’d perfected the art of pretending to be intensely interested in my phone screen whenever he approached, or suddenly remembering I needed to take the long way to the kitchen to avoid passing his desk.
The call continued with what was probably a productive work discussion, though I’d be hard-pressed to recall specific details. My brain was too busy recording entirely different data: the way he laughed at his own joke, the confident ease with which he spoke, the slight tilt of his head when listening.
Then came the moment that somehow rewired my brain chemistry. As we were wrapping up, he said, “Thanks for your help on this, [teasing nickname].”
The nickname wasn’t particularly creative or even all that personal—just a playful twist on my actual name. But the casual familiarity of it, the implication that we had some established rapport that simply didn’t exist, triggered something primitive in my psychology.
That single word—that silly, throwaway nickname—somehow granted permission for the obsession to take root. It created a narrative of connection where none existed, a shared intimacy that lived only in my interpretation of that moment.
After we disconnected, I sat staring at the black screen of my monitor, the heat still lingering in my cheeks. The rational part of my brain knew exactly what had happened: a charming colleague had been professionally friendly during a work call. The rest of my brain had already written the meet-cute of a romantic comedy and was busy casting the supporting roles.
That’s the danger of these small digital interactions in our increasingly virtual work lives. A moment that would have been forgettable in person becomes magnified through the lens of a webcam, analyzed and reanalyzed through the silence that follows when the call ends and you’re left alone with your thoughts.
The blush eventually faded, but the psychological imprint remained. I started opening Outlook and Teams each morning with a new sense of anticipation, wondering if today would bring another message, another call, another moment of that delicious, terrifying attention.
And when those messages did come—because they did, multiple times—they were always about work. Project updates, questions about specifications, the occasional light banter that lives firmly in the realm of workplace appropriate. But each notification with his name triggered that same physiological response, that same hopeful dread.
What’s fascinating is how this digital interaction colored my perception of our physical encounters. The next time I passed him in the office hallway, everything felt different. That casual nod of acknowledgment now carried the weight of our virtual connection. The space between us seemed charged with possibilities that probably existed only in my imagination.
This is the modern workplace crush, amplified by the strange intimacy of video calls and instant messaging. It’s built on fragments—a pixelated smile, a casual nickname, the speculation that fills the spaces between brief digital interactions. We’re left to construct entire relationships from the barest of raw materials, our imaginations doing most of the heavy lifting.
That single video call became a touchstone moment, not because of what was actually said about project timelines, but because of everything that happened in the unspoken spaces—the blush, the avoided gaze, the nickname, the way the ordinary became extraordinary through the alchemy of attraction and imagination.
The Charisma Conundrum
There’s a particular type of man who moves through the world differently. You know him when you meet him—or rather, when he chooses to acknowledge you. My office crush possesses that rare quality of making everyone feel like they’re the only person in the room, even when you’re just another name in his chat list. This isn’t about physical attractiveness alone; it’s about how he wields attention like a carefully sharpened instrument.
He remembers small details about people—the project you mentioned weeks ago, your coffee preference, the name of your dog. When he focuses on someone, his brownish-grey eyes hold complete attention, his body language signaling genuine interest. Yet the unsettling truth emerges gradually: this isn’t special treatment reserved for you. This is simply how he operates with everyone. The nicknames, the teasing smiles, the effortless banter—they’re part of his social toolkit, polished through years of being the center of attention.
My first impression labeled him immediately: classic fuckboy archetype. The kind who grew up comfortable with admiration, who understands his effect on women and uses it without malice but with practiced ease. There’s a particular confidence that comes from knowing you can win people over, a social currency that’s spent freely but never depleted. He approaches conversations without the hesitation that plagues the rest of us, his pretty privilege acting as both shield and weapon against social anxiety.
This pattern isn’t unique to my experience. Women across offices, social circles, and dating apps report similar attractions to men who exhibit this specific blend of confidence and charm. We know intellectually they might be trouble. We’ve warned friends about similar types. Yet something in our wiring responds to that unapologetic self-assurance, that ability to navigate social situations with effortless grace.
Popular culture reinforces this attraction constantly. From Netflix’s Joe Goldberg to countless romantic comedies, the charismatic but emotionally unavailable man remains a persistent fantasy. These characters demonstrate how charm becomes a narrative device—their ability to captivate serving as proof of their worthiness as objects of desire. We’re taught through repetition that breaking through a charismatic man’s defenses represents the ultimate romantic achievement.
The psychology behind this attraction reveals uncomfortable truths about our own needs. Charismatic men often represent competence and social validation—qualities we instinctively find attractive. Their attention feels earned rather than given, making it more valuable. When someone who could have anyone chooses you, however briefly, it triggers deep-seated validation mechanisms that override rational thinking.
This dynamic becomes particularly potent in workplace environments where social hierarchies naturally form. The charismatic colleague often occupies a position of informal influence, their approval carrying weight beyond their actual role. When they bestow attention, it feels like both personal and professional validation—a powerful combination that can cloud judgment.
Yet the very qualities that make these men compelling also make them potentially problematic partners. The ease with which they charm often correlates with difficulty forming deep attachments. When everyone receives your best behavior, nobody receives your authentic self. The performance of charm becomes a barrier to genuine connection, leaving admirers constantly chasing something that may not exist beyond the surface.
Understanding this pattern doesn’t necessarily break its spell. Recognition and change exist in different emotional territories. But naming the phenomenon provides some distance, some ability to observe the attraction without being completely consumed by it. We can appreciate the artistry of charm while recognizing it as performance rather than personal endorsement.
The office charmer’s true power lies not in his individual actions but in the space he creates for projection. He becomes a blank canvas where we paint our fantasies of being chosen, of being special enough to captivate someone who captivates everyone. The tragedy—and the fascination—is realizing the painting was always about our own desires rather than his qualities.
The Psychology of Power Behind the Obsession
There’s a particular thrill that comes from being chosen by someone who seems to have endless options. That moment when the charismatic coworker—the one who floats through office hallways leaving a trail of slightly dazzled colleagues in his wake—decides to focus his attention on you. It feels like winning a silent competition you didn’t even know you’d entered.
This sensation, this choice anxiety, taps into something primitive within us. When someone perceived as high-value selects us from the crowd, it creates an illusion of power—the fantasy that we possess something so compelling it overcomes their usual casual demeanor. We become the exception to their rule, the one who finally captures their full attention.
Yet this perceived power often masks a deeper vulnerability. The intoxicating feeling of being “chosen” frequently stems from placing our self-worth in someone else’s hands. We engage in a dangerous game of self-value projection, where their attention becomes the mirror through which we measure our own attractiveness, intelligence, and worthiness. Their momentary focus feels like validation, their casual banter like confirmation of our special qualities.
This psychological dance creates what might be called superficial control amidst actual power imbalance. On the surface, it seems we hold the power—we’re the ones being pursued, complimented, singled out. But in reality, the power remains firmly with them because we’ve assigned such tremendous importance to their attention. The more we crave their validation, the more power we hand over, creating a paradox where the feeling of being powerful actually stems from giving our power away.
These dynamics often trace back to early attachment patterns. Those with anxious attachment styles—shaped by inconsistent caregiving in childhood—may find themselves particularly drawn to charismatic but emotionally unavailable types. The intermittent reinforcement—those moments of intense attention followed by periods of distance—creates a powerful psychological pull similar to gambling addiction. The uncertainty makes the occasional rewards feel more exhilarating, keeping us hooked in hope of the next dopamine hit.
The workplace context adds another layer to this psychological cocktail. Professional settings create natural power structures and hierarchies that can mirror or amplify these emotional dynamics. When someone’s professional competence intersects with personal charm, it creates a potent combination that can bypass our usual defenses. We’re not just attracted to them—we’re attracted to their competence, their social capital, their professional standing, making the attraction feel more “valid” than a purely social connection.
Virtual communication intensifies these dynamics in unexpected ways. Video calls create a false intimacy—we’re invited into each other’s personal spaces, seeing home backgrounds and casual attire, yet the screen also provides a safety barrier that encourages bolder flirtation than might occur in person. The digital medium allows for more careful self-presentation and curated responses, enabling both parties to project idealized versions of themselves onto the interaction.
Understanding these psychological mechanisms doesn’t necessarily diminish their pull—awareness and change exist in different domains of the brain—but it does provide a framework for self-observation. The next time you feel that flutter of excitement seeing a particular name in your inbox, you might pause to ask: Is this about them, or about what their attention represents to me? Am I enjoying the connection itself, or the validation it provides?
This isn’t to pathologize normal attraction or suggest every workplace crush stems from psychological patterns. Human connection remains wonderfully complex and occasionally mysterious. But when attraction tips into obsession, when our emotional equilibrium becomes dependent on another person’s attention, it’s worth examining what needs we’re trying to meet through them—and whether we might learn to meet those needs ourselves.
The most empowering realization often comes when we recognize that the qualities we admire in them—confidence, charm, social ease—are actually qualities we could develop within ourselves. Their attention feels valuable precisely because we value those traits, and the real power shift occurs when we stop seeking validation of our worth from others and instead build it from within.
The New Landscape of Digital Desire
That video call changed everything, and not just because of his deep brownish-grey eyes or the way he made me blush without even trying. There’s something uniquely potent about these digital encounters that amplifies every flutter of attraction into something resembling obsession. The screen creates both distance and intimacy simultaneously—a paradox that plays havoc with our emotional responses.
Camera-on interactions create a peculiar form of intimacy. When he maintained eye contact through the lens, it felt more intense than any hallway glance. There’s nowhere to hide on camera—the slight flush creeping up your neck, the unconscious smile that forms when they say your name, the way your eyes flick away when the attention becomes too much. These micro-expressions become magnified in the digital space, creating emotional data points that we analyze long after the meeting ends. The absence of physical presence forces our imagination to work overtime, filling gaps with idealized versions of reality.
Workplace messaging platforms have become the new frontier for digital flirtation. That little notification bubble triggers a dopamine rush that’s hard to ignore. When his name appears in the chat, there’s that split-second thrill before rationality kicks in. The asynchronous nature of messaging allows for calculated responses—you can craft the perfect reply, insert just the right emoji, maintain that delicate balance between professional and playful. It’s a curated performance where everyone gets to edit their best self into existence.
The hybrid reality of modern work creates a strange duality in these attractions. Passing him in the hallway after weeks of digital interaction carries unexpected weight. The screen-to-real-life transition feels like meeting a celebrity you’ve only seen on television—familiar yet foreign, known yet unknown. That first in-person interaction after establishing digital rapport becomes loaded with significance. Does the chemistry translate? Will the voice match the face? The anticipation builds until the moment of encounter becomes almost mythological.
Boundaries blur uncomfortably in this new environment. Work chats bleed into personal hours, professional discussions morph into private jokes, and colleague relationships develop undertones that would never emerge in traditional office settings. The convenience of digital communication makes it dangerously easy to cross lines—sending that message at 8 PM because “it’s just work,” initiating another video call because “there’s more to discuss,” creating excuses for interaction that feel justified professionally but serve emotional needs personally.
This digital environment also creates artificial scarcity that heightens attraction. When interactions are limited to scheduled calls and sporadic messages, each contact becomes disproportionately significant. The absence of casual coffee machine encounters means every digital interaction carries more emotional weight than it would in person. We read meaning into response times, analyze message tones, and interpret emoji usage with the intensity of cryptographers decoding secret messages.
The performative aspect of video calls adds another layer to this dynamic. Everyone’s slightly better version of themselves on camera—better lighting, chosen background, professional attire from the waist up. This curated presentation creates attraction based on partial information, allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks with whatever qualities we find most appealing. It’s like developing a crush on a movie character—the person exists, but our perception is largely projection.
Remote work also eliminates the natural cooling mechanisms that exist in physical offices. There’s no walking away to your desk, no colleagues interrupting, no visible reminders of their interactions with others. The digital space creates isolated bubbles where intense connections can form without the moderating influence of social context. This isolation allows attractions to grow unchecked by reality, flourishing in the private garden of our screens.
Yet this digital intimacy remains fundamentally unfulfilling. The lack of physical presence creates a perpetual state of anticipation—always waiting for the next message, the next call, the next virtual encounter. It’s like being permanently hungry despite constantly thinking about food. The digital nature of the connection ensures it remains suspended in possibility rather than progressing to actuality.
What makes this particularly challenging is how these digital attractions feel simultaneously real and imaginary. The emotions are genuine—the racing heart, the obsessive thoughts, the emotional high when they message. Yet the relationship exists primarily in the space between our ears, built on limited data and amplified by imagination. This creates cognitive dissonance—we know intellectually that we’re building castles out of clouds, but emotionally we’re already furnishing the rooms.
The professional context adds another layer of complexity. Unlike dating apps or social situations, workplace interactions come with built-in reasons to maintain contact. Projects need discussing, deadlines require coordinating, professional networking justifies continued interaction. This creates a perfect environment for prolonged ambiguity where mixed signals can flourish under the guise of professionalism.
Perhaps most dangerously, digital workplace attractions allow us to avoid the vulnerability of real-world rejection. The professional context provides built-in plausible deniability for both parties. If feelings aren’t reciprocated, everyone can pretend it was never about anything more than work. This safety net encourages emotional risk-taking that we might avoid in clearer circumstances.
Understanding these mechanisms doesn’t necessarily diminish their power, but it does provide valuable perspective. Recognizing that the digital environment artificially intensifies attractions helps create emotional distance. Remembering that everyone performs their best self on camera maintains realistic expectations. Acknowledging that professional contexts create artificial proximity prevents misinterpretation of convenience as connection.
The challenge becomes navigating this new landscape with awareness rather than avoidance. It’s about appreciating the thrill of digital chemistry while maintaining perspective about its limitations. It’s enjoying the fantasy without mistaking it for reality. And most importantly, it’s recognizing when these digital attractions reveal more about our own emotional needs than about the person on the other side of the screen.
From Infatuation to Self-Awareness
The shift begins not with grand resolutions but with small moments of clarity—those instances when you catch yourself refreshing your email for the tenth time or crafting elaborate scenarios in your head about what a casual Teams message might mean. This awareness, however uncomfortable, is the first tool in recognizing our emotional patterns.
Start by simply noticing your physical reactions. That flutter in your stomach when his notification pops up, the way your breath catches when you see him in the hallway—these bodily responses often arrive before conscious thought. Keep a brief journal for one week: note the timing, intensity, and context of these reactions without judgment. You’re not trying to eliminate these feelings, just to understand their triggers and patterns. The goal isn’t to become emotionally detached, but to create enough space between stimulus and response to choose how you want to engage.
Reality testing requires asking yourself uncomfortable questions with brutal honesty. When you find yourself imagining meaningful connections from minimal interactions, pause and ask: “What actual evidence exists for this narrative?” We often build entire relationships in our minds based on a handful of interactions, filling gaps with assumptions and fantasies. Try this exercise: write down exactly what was said or happened in an interaction, then separately write down the story you’ve created about what it means. The gap between these two documents reveals the extent of your projection.
This isn’t about cynicism—it’s about distinguishing genuine connection from the stories we tell ourselves. Real connection develops over time through consistent patterns of behavior, not through intense but isolated moments. The colleague who gives everyone charming nicknames isn’t necessarily showing special interest in you, even if it feels that way in the moment. The difference between fantasy and reality often lies in pattern recognition rather than isolated incidents.
Rebuilding self-worth outside external validation might be the most challenging yet rewarding work. Your value isn’t determined by who notices you or how intensely they pursue you. Begin by identifying your core values and strengths outside romantic attention. What are you good at? What do you care about deeply? Make a list of accomplishments and qualities you’re proud of that have nothing to do with your attractiveness or relationship status.
Develop practices that reinforce self-validation. This could be setting personal goals and celebrating when you achieve them, or learning to comfort yourself when disappointed rather than seeking immediate distraction or validation elsewhere. The ability to sit with discomfort without rushing to fix it through external means is a superpower in emotional development. Remember that being chosen by someone doesn’t increase your worth, just as not being chosen doesn’t diminish it—your value exists independently.
Maintaining professional boundaries while acknowledging personal feelings requires conscious effort, especially in hybrid work environments. Set clear rules for yourself: maybe you limit checking his online status to certain times, or you give yourself a twenty-minute delay before responding to non-urgent messages. Create physical boundaries too—when working from home, avoid checking work communications from your personal spaces like your bed or favorite relaxation spot.
Develop connections and interests outside this dynamic. The more invested we are in multiple areas of life, the less any single interaction will dominate our emotional landscape. Join other projects, strengthen different workplace relationships, and cultivate hobbies that have nothing to do with work or romance.
Finally, practice compassionate self-talk. Instead of berating yourself for feeling attracted or obsessed, acknowledge these feelings as human while gently guiding yourself toward healthier patterns. “I understand why I’m drawn to this attention, and I’m learning to meet these needs in more sustainable ways” is more effective than “I shouldn’t feel this way.”
The transformation isn’t about becoming immune to attraction or connection—it’s about developing the discernment to distinguish between what feels good in the moment and what actually aligns with your wellbeing long-term. It’s recognizing that the thrill of being chosen by someone charismatic often says more about our own needs for validation than about the person themselves. And that awareness, however uncomfortable to acquire, becomes the foundation for genuinely satisfying connections—both professional and personal—that are based in reality rather than fantasy.
The Screen Still Glows
That video call remains etched in my memory with a peculiar clarity—the slight lag in his voice, the way his brow furrowed when concentrating, the unexpected warmth in those brownish-grey eyes that seemed to look directly at me through the screen. I can still feel the heat rising in my cheeks, the frantic internal monologue wondering if my blush was visible through the webcam’s lens. It was just a work call, yet it felt like something more, something dangerously close to connection.
These moments of workplace obsession, however intense they feel in the moment, are ultimately about something far more significant than any particular person. They’re about us—our patterns, our needs, our unhealed parts that see a potential fix in the attention of someone who seems to have it all together. The charismatic colleague, the charming stranger, the seemingly unattainable crush—they become mirrors reflecting back what we desire to see in ourselves.
There’s no shame in these feelings. The flutter of excitement when a notification appears, the quickened heartbeat when passing someone in the hallway, the mental replaying of conversations—these are human responses to connection, however imagined or one-sided they might be. What matters isn’t the elimination of these feelings, but the understanding of what they represent. They’re not necessarily about him, but about what he represents: validation, desirability, worth.
The psychology behind why we’re drawn to certain types—the charismatic, the confident, the slightly unattainable—is complex, rooted in everything from childhood attachment patterns to social conditioning. We’ve been taught that being chosen by someone everyone wants somehow confirms our own value. It’s a dangerous equation that places our self-worth in the hands of others, particularly those who may be least equipped to handle it responsibly.
Yet even knowing this, the heart wants what it wants, as the saying goes. The thrill of the chase, the dopamine hit of attention from someone who gives it sparingly, the fantasy of being the exception to someone’s rules—these are powerful draws that override logical understanding. We become detectives analyzing every word, every glance, every emoji in a message, building narratives from the flimsiest of evidence.
Perhaps the real work isn’t in stopping these feelings, but in changing our relationship to them. To observe the obsession without becoming it, to notice the patterns without judgment, to acknowledge the longing without letting it dictate our actions. There’s a middle ground between suppressing natural attractions and letting them consume us—a space of mindful awareness where we can appreciate someone’s qualities without making them responsible for our happiness.
In the end, that video call was just a video call. The charming colleague is just a person, with his own insecurities and complexities, not a character in our personal romantic narrative. The power we ascribed to him to validate us was always ours to begin with—we just loaned it out temporarily, forgetting we could take it back at any time.
So the screen still glows with possibility, and maybe that’s okay. The excitement of connection, however fleeting, reminds us of our capacity to feel, to hope, to imagine different possibilities for ourselves. The key is remembering that our worth isn’t determined by who notices us in a meeting or who messages us after hours. It’s inherent, constant, and completely separate from anyone else’s attention or approval.
Maybe the real question isn’t “Why am I obsessed with this person?” but “What does this obsession tell me about what I need to give myself?” The answers might be more interesting—and certainly more lasting—than any crush could ever be.
And if he messages again? Well, I’ll probably still get that little thrill—I’m only human, after all. But maybe next time, I’ll also remember to thank myself for noticing the pattern, for doing the work, for understanding that my value was never his to give in the first place.
