She almost smiled. Almost.
The rest of the afternoon passed in efficient silence. No friction, no spark. Work that was clean but bloodless.
Easier.
And somehow worse.
Back at the station, the newsroom hummed with its late-day rhythm. Phones, printers, footsteps. Savannah sank into her chair, opened her laptop, and pulled up the raw footage. The first frame froze on her face mid-sentence, eyes sharp, mouth half-open. Too confident. She cropped two seconds off the top.
Harper rolled over from the next row, sipping what had to be her third coffee. “So,” she said, “how’s it feel being the newsroom’s golden child?”
Savannah didn’t look up. “You make it sound like a disease.”
“Maybe it is.” Harper grinned. “Everyone’s still quoting that ‘neighborhood wants answers’ line.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Not from Franklin?”
Savannah paused half a heartbeat before replying, “We don’t text. We work.”
The answer came too quickly.
“Sure,” Harper said, wheeling away with a knowing little hum.
Savannah exhaled through her nose, pretending to focus on the timeline. Across the room, the back door opened. The shift in air told her before she looked up, like her body had learned the difference. Tilly came in, gear bag over one shoulder, cheeks pink from the cold. They stopped at the assignment desk, gave a brief update, that same steady voice cutting through the hum.
Savannah’s eyes flicked to the glass partition ahead of her, catching their reflection as they passed behind her desk. Shedidn’t turn. She didn’t have to. She could feel it—that subtle gravitational pull of someone who wasn’t even looking at her.
When her package aired that evening, she sat perfectly still, posture set, expression neutral. The piece was good—clean sound, balanced pacing, exactly what the station wanted. It should have felt like a win. It didn’t.
The anchors smiled into the camera. The control room lights dimmed for a commercial. Across the bullpen, a soft laugh drifted out from the edit bays—Tilly’s voice, low and warm. Savannah caught herself listening for it even after it faded.
She forced her gaze back to her monitor. Her reflection stared back, all composure and poise. It looked like confidence. It always did.
She started packing up, but when she passed the edit bay on the way out, her steps slowed. The room was empty, lights low, monitors asleep. Still, she saw it clearly—how it looked the night they’d argued: Tilly at the desk, sleeves rolled up, tattoos along their forearms catching the glow from the screens. She told herself she was just remembering a workspace layout. Not the way it felt with them in it.
The newsroom was nearly empty now, the quiet hum of machines filling the space. She gathered her notes, slipped her coat on, and stepped into the hall. Her reflection followed her down the glass corridor—straight spine, steady walk, someone in complete control.
Outside, the cold met her like static. The parking lot stretched out under the soft yellow wash of the streetlights, pavement still damp from an afternoon drizzle. A bus hissed at the corner. Somewhere a siren wailed, distant and tired. Savannah’s breath came out in pale clouds as she crossed toward her car.
She’d won an award at her last station. Stayed late. Took the shifts no one wanted. Never called in sick. Never asked for help.Her news director had called her “resilient.” She’d smiled and thanked him and not said: I learned to be resilient at ten because the alternative was falling apart, and falling apart wasn’t an option. She unlocked her car and sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel.
The comment section on her phone called herfearless.She didn’t feel fearless. She felt hollow, the kind of tired that came from always trying to stay half a step ahead of her own reputation.
She tucked her phone away, started the car, and let the heater crawl to life. She thought of something Harper had said that morning, tossed off like a joke:You two were scary good together.It hadn’t meant much then, but now, in the quiet, it stuck. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because Harper had noticed before she did.
Maybe because it wasn’t just about the work.
She gripped the steering wheel, pulse steadying, face reflected faintly in the windshield.
It wasn’t loneliness. It was focus.
At least, that was what she kept telling herself.
Perfect on camera. Rising star. Alone in a parking lot, wishing the praise felt like enough.
Nine
