Jamie Garrison, WCVB News
Her chest tightened. She read it three times. The words blurred, not because they hurt but because she hated that they still could.
She closed the email without sending her reply. Then she reopened it, deleted the draft, and started again.
Professional. Polite. Cold.
She signed her name, hit send, and watched the message disappear from her outbox.
The relief lasted maybe a second before the guilt slid in behind it.
She leaned back, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “You’re fine,” she muttered. “You’re fine.”
Leo would have looked at her like he didn’t believe her.
She stayed late that night, long after most of the office emptied. Vega passed by once, said something about not burning herself out, and she nodded without looking up.
When she finally shut her computer down, the glow of the screen left a ghostly imprint on her vision. The walk to her car felt longer than usual.
In the driver’s seat, she stared at her hands on the steering wheel until the quiet started to ring.
She was furious at Jamie for showing up that night. Furious at herself for caring that she had. Furious that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase the sound of her voice.
The anger didn’t fade when she got home. It sharpened. She threw her keys too hard on the counter. She dropped her bag and left it where it fell. She filled a glass of water and didn’t drink it.
Leo padded in from the bedroom, tail slow, head tilted. He watched her a long moment before nudging her leg.
“I’m fine,” she said again.
He huffed like he didn’t buy it.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Me neither.”
She turned off the kitchen light, the glow from the street spilling faintly through the window. It made everything look softer than it felt.
Erin stood there until the silence filled the room again. It was almost a comfort now, the one thing that stayed when nothing else did.
Forty Two
The newsroom felt smaller lately. Too bright. Too loud. Too many people pretending not to notice that she wasn’t all there.
Jamie sat at her desk, the glow from her monitor flattening everything around her. The hum of printers, the chatter over police scanners, even the clack of keys all blended into one dull throb. Normally, that noise centered her. Tonight it only made her want to hide.
She stared at the half-finished script on her screen. The story was fine. Clean copy, solid sound bites, nothing special. She could have written it in her sleep, and maybe she had. Her reflection in the monitor looked tired, the light washing out the green of her eyes.
“Garrison,” her producer called across the bullpen. “You good with the VO for the five?”
“Yeah,” she said automatically, even though she hadn’t recorded it yet.
He gave her a look but didn’t press. That was worse. It meant he’d already stopped expecting much from her.
Jamie rubbed at her temple, trying to will herself into focus. She’d once loved this—the rush of deadlines, the sense that every line mattered. Now it all felt mechanical. She could hit every cue, write every transition, and still sound like someone else was speaking through her.
She pulled the mic closer and read the lines, keeping her voice steady. When she played it back, she didn’t sound like herself. The tone was flat, the pacing off, like someone imitating her but missing the spark.
She saved the file anyway.
When the segment aired that evening, she stood by the monitors andwatched herself talk. The words came out in perfect order, perfectly wrong. No energy. No heartbeat. Just noise filling time.
