Please let me explain. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.
Below that, another.
Just tell me you’re okay.
She’d sent a third before she left for work.
I’ll wait as long as it takes.
All of them sat on Delivered. None said Read.
She typed another now, thumbs shaking slightly.
I know I messed up. I know you need space. But I need to know you’re all right.
She didn’t send it. She deleted it, retyped it, and deleted it again. Her reflection stared back from the dark part of the screen, and she hated the way she looked — like she hadn’t slept, like she’d been crying even when she hadn’t.
“Live hit in twenty,” Tilly said, voice sharp enough to make her jump.
“Right,” Jamie said, closing the script. “Yeah. Ready.”
She wasn’t ready.
Outside, the wind whipped against the camera as they set up on the sidewalk. Tilly checked exposure, adjusted the mic pack, and tossed her a look. “Try to breathe this time.”
Jamie laughed under her breath. “You’re hilarious.”
The earpiece crackled. “Stand by,” control said. She rolled her shoulders back, pasted on the smile, and stared into the camera. The toss from the anchor was clean, cheerful. Jamie’s response wasn’t. Her throat caught halfway through the second sentence, a tiny stutter that barely showed, but she felt it like a crack in glass.
She pushed through it. Finished the tag. Tossed back. Held the smile until the light died. The second the red tally blinked off, her face fell. Her hands shook as she unclipped the pack.
“You’re off your rhythm,” Tilly said, coiling the cable. “You gotta get it together.”
“Don’t start,” Jamie muttered, heading for the car.
“I’m serious,” Tilly said, following close. “You’ve beenoff for days.”
Jamie stopped short and turned, the words snapping out before she could swallow them. “You think I don’t know that?” Her own voice startled her. She exhaled hard, jaw tight, eyes bright with something she couldn’t name. “She won’t answer me, Tilly. She won’t even read the messages. What am I supposed to do?”
“You give her time,” Tilly said, low but firm. “That’s what you do.”
“I can’t just sit here pretending everything’s fine.”
“You can if it keeps your job,” Tilly said. “You think I don’t get it? But you can’t fix this by blowing up your own life.”
Jamie opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. The heat behind her eyes built too fast. “I’m trying,” she said, voice small now. “I’m trying, but I don’t know how to not worry.”
Tilly exhaled through their nose and softened. “You care about her. That’s not the problem. The problem is you’re drowning yourself trying to pull her out of the water.”
Jamie looked away, blinking hard. “That’s poetic.”
“It’s true.” Tilly lifted the gear bag into the backseat and shut the door. “You’re no good to her like this.”
Jamie didn’t answer. She climbed into the passenger seat and stared out the window, the world blurring past in dull gray streaks.
Back inside, the newsroom felt heavier than before. A feed monitor near the assignment desk played b-roll from an older story — the Medford presser. Erin’s voice came faintly through the speakers. Jamie froze. It was just background noise to everyone else, but for her, it landed like a heartbeat. She forced herself to look away.
By six, the newsroom shifted into its evening rhythm. The day crew filtered out, but the night producers moved in, settling at their desks with energy drinks and half-eaten sandwiches. The air smelled like takeout and cold coffee. One of the anchors walked by, heels clicking, joking with the weather guy about a graphic glitch. Normally, Jamie would have laughed too. Tonight she barely looked up.
