Ellie:Nope. Just noticing patterns.
By the time I reach my car, the phone buzzes again. I slide into the driver’s seat and let the door click shut. The quiet feels heavier here. I don’t start the engine. Just sit there, screen glowing in my hand.
Ellie:You ever think maybe you’re tired because you never stop?
Me:Pretty sure that’s the definition of this job.
Ellie:No. The job ends.Youdon’t.
Her words shouldn’t sting, but they do. I let my head fall back against the seat and stare at the faint glow from the dashboard. She says it like it’s simple. Like switching off is something I still remember how to do.
Ellie:You know I’m only saying this because I love you, right?
Me:I know.
Ellie:Then go home.
Me:I’m literally in my car.
Ellie:Engine on, or are you just sitting there pretending that counts?
I huff out a breath, half laugh, half sigh.
Me:You’re relentless.
Ellie:Bulldog energy. And you love me.
I smile, because she's right about that too.
For a minute I just stare at the text thread, the tiny blue bubbles lined up like she’s holding the other end of the rope and refusing to let go. Ellie is the kind of friend who doesn’t let you drift too far before yanking you back.
Me:Thanks, El. Really.
Ellie:Don’t thank me. Just go home before the ghosts start helping you with press releases.
That gets an actual laugh out of me.
Me:Copy that. Heading home now.
Ellie:Uh-huh. I’ll believe it when Find My Friends says you’re actually home.
I shake my head and toss the phone onto the passenger seat. The screen goes black, leaving me alone with my own face in the rain-blurred window—same tired eyes, same practiced composure.
One of Ellie’s messages lingers in my mind:You’ve been different lately.
I hate that she’s not wrong about that.
I start the car, headlights cutting through the drizzle, and back out of the space. The phone buzzes one more time before I hit the street.
Ellie:Night, workaholic. Try dreaming about something other than crisis management and things that shall not be named.
Me:No promises.
I back out of the nearly empty parking lot, headlights cutting through the drizzle. The wipers drag across the glass in slow, bumpy arcs as I roll toward the main road. When I reach the stop sign, the mirror catches my eyes—tired, pretending to look composed. I’m half shadow, half woman and still pretending I have it all handled.
And for the first time tonight, I let myself admit what I don’t say out loud.
Maybe I’m not avoiding the quiet because it’s lonely.
