As the car pulls away, I watch the hotel recede in the window and feel that same unsettling sense from yesterday settle in my stomach again. I don’t belong here, but Addison needs me. These talks need an interpreter, and somehow, despite everything, I’m here anyway.
I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and prepare myself for the day ahead. Fear can wait, but right now, I have a job to do.
The venue is fortified in a way that makes my chest tighten the moment we arrive.
Concrete barriers, armed guards, and metal detectors layered on top of more metal detectors. Badges are checked and rechecked, every step forward feels earned, like the building itself is suspicious of anyone who wants inside. Addison barely blinks as we pass through security. She’s done this so many times that this is muscle memory for her—hands up, bag open, patient smile, eyes already scanning the room beyond the checkpoint.
I follow her lead, clutching my badge like it might grant me courage by proximity. Inside, the air changes. It’s cooler, filtered, heavy with anticipation and something sharper beneath it. Tension, hope maybe—the fragile kind that breaks easily if handled wrong.
Delegates mill about in clusters, voices low, expressions guarded. I hear Somali, Arabic, English, Swahili, French, German, Spanish, Mandarin, and other languages I can’t place weaving together in overlapping currents. My brain kicks intogear automatically, sorting sounds, identifying cadence, and preparing to switch tracks at a moment’s notice.
This I can do.
I take my seat beside Addison at the long table, headset resting lightly around my neck for now. My notebook is open in front of me, pen aligned carefully along the spine. Across the room, cameras are already being set up, lenses trained on faces that carry the weight of entire regions on their shoulders.
James moves quietly along the perimeter, camera in hand. He doesn’t hover or intrude. He simply exists where he needs to be—adjusting angles, checking light, watching everything without looking like he’s watching anything at all. I don’t know why I notice it so clearly, but I do. Every time I feel myself start to drift, to spiral, I catch sight of him in my peripheral vision—steady and unmoved—and my breathing evens out again.
It’s ridiculous to draw comfort from a man I barely know, but I can’t help it.
Addison leans over. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”
She smiles, soft but confident. “You’re going to do great. Just listen and translate. That’s it.”
Right. Listen and translate. I can do that.
The talks begin with formalities—opening statements, carefully chosen words delivered in practiced tones. I slip into the rhythm almost immediately, my voice becoming something separate from my thoughts as I translate, bridging gaps one sentence at a time.
This part feels almost peaceful. Language has rules, structure, and behaves if you respect it. There’s comfort in that, even here.
I catch myself leaning forward slightly as the conversation deepens, tracking nuance, adjusting phrasing to preserve intent rather than exact wording. A pause here matters, a softened verb there prevents offense. I’m hyper-aware of how much rests on tone alone.
Addison listens intently, occasionally scribbling notes, and meeting my eyes once in a while with a small nod of approval. She’s in her element—asking questions at the right moments, pushing just enough without crossing lines.
Watching her work is grounding. If she can do this, if this is her normal, then I can keep up. At least I hope I can.
We have a quick mid-morning break before getting back to it.
By the time lunch is called, I realize something important. I’m not panicking. I’m tired, alert, and aware of every exit and every unfamiliar sound, but I’m not falling apart.
As we stand, gathering our things, I catch James’s eye for the briefest moment. There’s no smile, no acknowledgment beyonda subtle stillness, like he’s taking stock and filing the information away.
I don’t know why that steadiness feels like reassurance, but it does, and for now, that’s enough.
Lunch is a strange, suspended thing.
We’re escorted to a secure dining area that feels deliberately neutral—no windows, no decoration beyond what’s strictly necessary, food laid out buffet-style, like comfort can be standardized if you try hard enough. I pick at my plate more than I eat, my appetite dulled by adrenaline and the constant low-grade awareness humming through my veins.
Addison, of course, eats like this is just another Tuesday.
She balances her plate on one hand, chatting with another journalist while still somehow clocking everything happening in the room. Her shoulders are loose, her laugh easy. If anyone didn’t know better, they’d think she was attending a conference in Geneva instead of peace talks in a city that still carries fresh scars.
I sit beside her, grateful for the proximity, letting her normalcy bleed into me by osmosis.
“You’re doing really well,” she praises quietly, once the others drift out of earshot.
I raise a brow. “That sounded suspiciously like reassurance.”
