Then she walks out, leaving her plate half-full and tension in her place.
I stare at the table, my appetite gone.
Next to me, Sam’s still watching. Not accusatory. Not even angry. Just watching. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m worth believing.
I clear my throat, but it comes out small and raw. “I didn’t write those pieces. I helped fact-check one. That’s all. I usually only cover events in LA.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods once. “Doesn’t really change how it felt.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I don’t suppose it would.”
The weight of the silence stretches again, long and brittle. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
“I didn’t come here to follow you. Not like that,” I add. “I wasn’t sent. I wasn’t assigned. I was just…” I trail off, searching for something that won’t sound pathetic or invasive or like I’m chasing a ghost I have no business touching.
“You were just curious,” Sam finishes for me.
I meet his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I was.”
He leans back slightly in his chair, gaze flicking to the window for a beat before coming back to me. “You know, when I pulled you out of that car you didn’t look like someone chasing a headline. You looked like someone in way over her head.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “That’s accurate.”
Another pause. This one less sharp.
Then, softly, he says, “You want the truth?”
I nod.
“Half the time, I don’t even know why I’m here,” he says. “So if you came looking for answers.” His voice lowers, something sad curling under it. “Don’t expect too much.”
I don’t respond. Not yet.
Because beneath his silence, Phern’s anger, the storm, the lie still hanging between us… I’m starting to see it.
This isn’t just a story.
This is a fracture. A retreat. A man unraveling quietly in his childhood home.
I’m already in deeper than I ever meant to be. Which means I should walk away before things go any further. But sometimes what we should do and what we end up doing are two different things.
Sam glances down at his plate, then back up at me. “You know one of the last times I ate breakfast at this table?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head.
“My dad was still alive. I was nineteen. Just signed my first record deal. Thought I was invincible.” He gives a small, humorless smile. “He said, ‘Don’t let that label take your soul.’ And I laughed. Thought he was being dramatic.”
His thumb brushes absently against his coffee mug.
“I didn’t get it until years later. Not until I’d already given it up. Piece by piece.”
The words settle between us like dust. No anger in them. Just truth.
He meets my eyes again, steady and open in a way that twists something in my chest.
“I guess what I’m saying is I get it. How easy it is to chasesomething so hard, you don’t realize what it’s costing you until it’s gone.”
I don’t know what to say. Not really. Not when everything in me is tilting forward, listening too hard. Feeling too much.
