“I shouldn’t have left,” I sob. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve fought.”
“No, babe,” she says fiercely, gripping my arms. “You shouldn’t have had to. But now? Now we’re going to figure this out. You hear me?”
I nod, face pressed against her shirt, tears soaking through cotton.
Because even though I left Sam behind I’m not ready to let him go.
The next morning, I drag myself out of bed like my limbs are made of concrete.
Every movement is a fight.
Showering. Dressing. Eating.
It all feels like too much and not enough at the sametime. All I want is to crawl back under the sheets and let the world spin without me. But I can’t. Not today. Not when there’s a desk to clean out, pride to swallow, and ghosts to face.
I owe it to myself to close this door properly even if it slams on my fingers.
Tish is meeting me there. I finally convinced her to go home last night, though she fought me on it until the bitter end. She said, “You shouldn’t be alone right now.” But what she doesn’t realize is I already am.
My eyes catch on the sticky note still resting on the coffee table, Sam’s address written in her looping script. It flutters slightly as the fan kicks on, like it’s breathing. Like it’s waiting.
So am I.
But not right now.
I leave the sticky note, letting my fingers linger on it for half a second longer than necessary. Later. I’ll write a letter later.
Outside, the morning sun hits my skin, but it doesn’t sink in. It’s warm, sure, but it’s not Wyoming. There’s no crispness to the air, no scent of pine or fresh hay. Just smog. And traffic. And sirens. The rhythm of a life I’m no longer sure I want.
It takes over an hour to get to the station.
Tish is waiting in the lobby, perched on the edge of one of the plastic chairs like she’s ready to pounce on anyone who looks at me sideways.
“Ready?” she asks as we step into the elevator.
I nod, even though I’m not. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She gives me a look. “Frederick’s already here. He passed me on his way in.”
Of course he is. Early bird gets to avoid accountability.
“And Kurt?”
“Haven’t seen him yet, but you know how he rolls. He’ll stroll in an hour late and get high-fived for it.”
My stomach clenches.
I used to brush it off, those little imbalances. The way my ideas got taken more seriously when someone else pitched them. The way my name was forgotten, but my work was stolen. The way Kurt always had a pass. But now? Now it’s just one more crack in a foundation that should’ve crumbled a long time ago.
“I should’ve quit,” I mutter as the elevator dings.
Tish arches a brow. “Yeah, but if you had, you might never have found him.”
She doesn’t say Sam’s name. She doesn’t have to. The ache in my chest answers for her.
I inhale slowly, the air thick with everything I’m about to say. “Let’s do this.”
The elevator dings as we reach the fourth floor, the metal doors sliding open with a soft hiss. Familiar sounds greet me. The hum of monitors, the buzz of phones, the indistinct murmur of reporters bouncing between desks. For years, that noise felt like adrenaline. Now? It’s just a headache in surround sound.
