Savannah pulled back just as fast, eyes wide as she’d surprised herself. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Tilly opened their mouth. Nothing came out.
She shook her head once, retreat already setting in. She unlocked her car, slid inside, and shut the door. The engine turned over. Headlights flared. A moment later, she was gone, tires whispering over wet asphalt.
Tilly stood there for a second longer than necessary, breath fogging, fingers numb around the strap of the camera bag, trying to get their heartbeat under control.
This wasn’t supposed to happen again — this slipping, this noticing.
Tilly sat in the driver’s seat of their car for a long moment before turning the key.
They weren’t proud of it, but part of them kept replaying the way she’d said ‘thank you’ — soft, like it meant something.
And Tilly hated that it did.
Ten
Savannah’s apartment was too quiet when she got home.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet. Not the soft, domestic kind she sometimes imagined other people had, with low music and the clink of dishes and someone calling from the other room. This was the kind of quiet that echoed. That made the hum of the fridge sound loud. That made her own footsteps feel like they didn’t belong.
She dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and toed off her boots, lining them up with the others. Coat on the rack. Bag on the counter. Everything in its place. The way she liked it.
She should’ve felt good. The day had gone smoothly. Clean presser, good sound, fast edit. Nothing went wrong that couldn’t be fixed. Aimee had liked the cut. The segment slotted right into the ten like it was born there.
And yet.
It felt flatter without something to push against.
She poured a glass of water, took two sips, and set it down without finishing the rest. The TV flickered on out of habit, muted, light washing the wall. A different station was running a package from the Common, some holiday pop-up glowing in the cold. The reporter was trying too hard. Savannah caught herself critiquing the framing before remembering no one had asked.
She grabbed her phone. No new texts. A group chat from Providence, all baby pictures and heart emojis. An email from Aimee.Great work today. Thanks for the quick turn.
Nothing else.
She told herself she hadn’t been expecting anything else.
That didn’t stop her from checking again.
She set the phone down. Picked it up again a second later. Scrolled through her own clip from earlier. The standup was clean. Her hair hadn’t moved. Her voice stayed steady through the second fact. It was good. Technically, it was good.
It just didn’t feel like the housing story. That one had stayed with her, a low hum in her chest that lasted for hours. This one didn’t do that. This one sat there and waited to be forgotten.
She shut the clip off.
She paced the apartment once, then again, the quiet pressing in on her from all sides. She wasn’t someone who got stuck on people. That wasn’t how she’d gotten here, to Boston, to a better market, to a newsroom that cared about accountability. She kept things light. Friendly. Professional. Neatly separated.
Tilly didn’t fit neatly anywhere, which made it impossible to file them away.
They were supposed to be another shooter. Sharp. Precise. Occasionally infuriating. Someone she adjusted to and moved on from.
Instead, she kept thinking about stupid things. The way they saidpart of the job,like it wasn’t a compliment. The way they’d turned their chair to face her in the edit bay and asked, quietly,“Did I do something?”
She opened her Notes app.
The same one she’d opened on her first night.
Tilly Franklin
