She stayed at her desk long after her work was done, pretending to tweak a package she’d already filed. The room wasn’t quiet—phones still rang,printers still hummed—but somehow it felt like silence anyway. A producer laughed at something on Slack. Someone yelled for a graphic fix. Jamie felt like she was standing in the middle of it all, invisible. The newsroom she loved felt foreign, like she was watching it through glass.
Harper called a quick goodbye from the door, and Jamie waved without turning. The ten o’clock producer shuffled papers at the far desk. A morning show writer slipped in early with a hoodie and headphones. The cycle never really stopped in here, and she was usually comforted by that. Tonight it only made her feel like she was standing still while everything else kept moving.
She replayed her morning live hit on loop, focusing on every breath, every word that felt off. She wondered if Erin had seen it. If she’d muted it before Jamie spoke. If she even had the TV on anymore.
Her phone buzzed and she lunged for it. It was a calendar alert. She silenced it and laughed, a sharp, broken sound that startled even her.
Another hour passed before she finally shut her laptop. She told the night producer she was heading out, and he nodded without looking up. The parking lot outside was half-full, light from the control room windows spilling across the asphalt. The air smelled like rain that never came.
She sat behind the wheel with the keys in her lap, staring at the faint glow of the phone in her cupholder. Erin’s name was still pinned to the top of her messages. The contact photo—one Jamie had taken at the dog park—showed Erin laughing at something out of frame. She traced her thumb over the image.
She tapped the address in her favorites. The map loaded fast.
Twelve minutes away.
She gripped the wheel. Her heart hammered. For a second she thought she was going to do it. Just go. Show up. Apologize face-to-face. She could tell her she never meant to hurt her. That she wished she’d made a different choice. That she couldn’t stop thinking about her. She could say all of it.
Her hand shook. The map glowed brighter.
And then she closed it.
She opened messages instead.
Please. Just tell me you’re okay.
She hit send.
The message hovered, then locked.
Delivered.
She waited. The car idled, rain tapping against the windshield, the city lights washing her face in gold. A red light from the tower blinked steady in her rearview mirror, unmoved by anything happening below it. The screen stayed still. No dots. No reply.
Her breath stumbled once, then again, and before she could stop it, she was crying—loud, sudden, ungraceful. The sound ripped out of her, sharp and ugly. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white. The sobs came in waves, fast and shaking, until she couldn’t breathe. Her chest ached. Her throat burned. It felt like something breaking loose inside her, something that had been stuck for days.
When it finally stopped, she was left gasping, tears streaking her face. She wiped them with the sleeve of her jacket and laughed weakly through the leftover hiccups. “You’re really losing it, Garrison,” she whispered, voice raw.
Her phone lit up again, but it was just the dashboard reflection. No message. She set it facedown and started the engine. The lot gate lifted slow, metal against metal. She pulled out into the street, headlights cutting through the dark, and drove toward nothing.
Thirty Nine
For ten days the apartment had learned the sound of her footsteps. It knew the rhythm of her pacing and the pause where she stopped by the window. It knew the cabinet that stuck if you didn’t lift while you pulled. It knew the quiet she tried to keep.
Leo knew it too. He followed her like a shadow that breathed. He nosed her calf when she forgot the leash by the door. He stared at her coffee until she remembered to drink it while it was still warm. When she talked, he listened like it all mattered.
“Okay,” she told him now, standing at the counter with the mug in both hands. “Here’s what we’re gonna do.”
His ears flicked. Morning light ran a clean strip across the floor. Outside, someone dragged a trash bin and it rattled and then settled.
“We’re gonna be normal,” she said. “You and me. I’m gonna feed you. I’m gonna take you out. I’m gonna answer emails that use the word ‘clarify’ three times in five sentences and not throw my laptop across the room.”
Leo sneezed like he didn’t buy it. She smiled before she could stop herself.
“And we’re not gonna call Jamie,” she added, softer. The name sat in the room like it had its own chair. “We’re not gonna text Jamie. We’re not gonna think about Jamie longer than it takes to say her name out loud and then let it go.”
She waited. No thunder. No siren. Leo thumped his tail once, cautious approval.
She crossed to the fridge and looked at the sticky note she’d pressed there a week ago.Stay quiet. Stay focused.The corners had started to curl. Shesmoothed them with her thumb.
