26.0
By Monday morning, I'd forgotten what day it was.
The last time I checked my phone, it was Friday. It died sometime after, and I never bothered plugging it back in. No emails, no calls, no calendar reminders — just quiet.
I'd been at Amira's house since Wednesday. A week of disappearing without permission.
Jenna had probably lost her mind. My dad definitely had.
But for the first time in months, I didn't care.
Amira had just left to drop her off at daycare. The front door had barely closed before the quiet settled in like a weight.
I turned on the TV out of habit. The morning news came up — the kind of polished optimism that used to feel like home.
"...and with the results now certified, Bryan O'Connor will officially represent the Democratic Party in the general election, alongside his running mate, Senator Brooks Whitmore..."
My stomach dropped.
Onscreen, Bryan's face filled the frame — confident, controlled, every strand of hair in place. The anchor was still talking, but I barely heard her.
This was supposed to be good news.
It should've been.
Instead, all I could think was I hoped we lost.
Because a loss meant breathing room.
A loss meant not having to pretend my life fit into the version of me they sold on camera.
The camera cut to a clip from the debate. I turned the volume down and leaned back, staring at my own reflection in the black glass.
What would they think if they saw me like this — in sweats, unshaven, hiding out in a woman's house, a toy tiara sitting on the coffee table beside my mug?
Probably exactly what they'd always thought.
The front door opened again.
Amira stepped in, hair loose. "Im back," she said, setting her keys on the counter.
I nodded toward the TV. "Bryan got the spot."
Her eyes flicked to the screen, then back to me. "That's good, right?"
"It's supposed to be."
She caught the tone, didn't press. Just walked over and brushed her fingers across the back of the couch where I was sitting. "Are you excited?"
"Yeah," I lied, pulling her hand into mine. "Just means things are about to get busier."
She nodded slowly. "I figured."
I didn't want to leave. Not yet.
So I pulled her closer, pressed my mouth to her forehead, and just stayed there for a beat — breathing her in.
"I've gotta shower and head to the office," I said finally.
She made a small sound, disappointment wrapped in understanding. "Okay. I gotta start looking at salons anyways. You'll just be a distraction if you hang around here."
"If you need anything—"
She cut me off, smiling. "You'll be the first to know."
By the time I got to the penthouse, the air felt sterile.
Empty, like the building itself knew it was better off without me.
I plugged my phone in, and the screen lit up like a warning flare. Seventy-two missed calls. Dozens of texts — from Dad, Jenna, my mother, Bryan, even Margot.
I tossed the phone face down on the counter and went straight to the shower.
The water hit hard and hot, and for the first time in days, I saw my reflection in the fogged glass — dark circles under my eyes, a faint cut on my hand I didn't remember getting. I looked like someone who'd been hiding.
When I got out, the steam had already filled the room.
And that's when I heard it — her voice.
Margot.
She was in the kitchen, humming something under her breath. The same old routine. Like we hadn't gone nuclear two weeks ago.
When I walked in, she didn't even look up. "Morning," she said softly.
That was it. No fight. No accusation.
Just quiet.
It should've been suspicious. It was suspicious. But I didn't have the energy to care.
For once, I appreciated the silence.
She finally spoke, still scrolling through her phone. "You've been gone."
"Yeah."
Her tone didn't change. "Longer than usual."
I poured coffee, didn't answer.
"Bryan's office has been calling nonstop," she added. "Your father too. I told them you were feeling under the weather."
I almost laughed.
She set her phone down, finally looking up. "I don't care what you call it, Brooks. Just make sure you're ready for what comes next. The nomination makes things more chaotic."
I nodded once. "So I've heard."
She gave a small smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Try not to look so miserable about success. It's unbecoming."
"I'll work on that," I said, finishing my coffee.
"Do," she murmured, turning back to her phone. "The debate team sent notes for you. Suit fitting's at three."
It wasn't an argument. It wasn't anything.
Just two people orbiting the same empty space, pretending the gravity hadn't already shifted.
I rinsed the mug, left it in the sink, and went to get dressed.
The closet was lined like a showroom—rows of suits, crisp shirts still in plastic. Everything pressed, color-coded, untouched. It all looked like a life I didn't remember choosing.
By the time I was dressed, Margot had disappeared somewhere down the hall. Her perfume lingered in the air—expensive, clinical, meant to impress people she didn't like.
I checked my reflection once before heading out.
The drive downtown was a blur of red lights and talking heads on the radio. Everyone had something to say about Bryan's nomination—his strategy, his team, the ticket. My name kept getting thrown around like punctuation.
It should've felt like an accomplishment.
It just felt heavy.
The second I walked into headquarters, Jenna spotted me.
"Wow," she said. "The missing man returns."
I didn't stop walking. "Good morning, Jenna."
"Morning?" she scoffed, trailing after me down the corridor. "It's noon. You've been off the grid for five days, Brooks."
I glanced at her. "Three."
"Four and a half," she shot back. "You missed two press calls, a radio interview, and a donor dinner. Bryan's been chewing glass all weekend."
I sighed. "He'll survive."
"Will you?" she countered.
That made me pause.
She folded her arms, lowering her voice. "Look, I'm not your mother, and I'm definitely not your therapist, but what the hell's going on with you?"
"I told you," I said. "I needed time."
"Time?" She gave a short, humorless laugh. "You don't get time right now. You're running for Vice President. There's a camera lens aimed at your whole life."
"Then tell them to focus somewhere else."
She stared at me, the fight bleeding out of her expression. "You used to love this," she said quietly. "The energy, the pressure—you thrived on it."
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
Her eyes softened, but she didn't ask what I meant. Maybe she already knew.
I brushed past her toward my office. "I'll handle it."
"Handle it soon," she called after me. "Because Bryan's expecting you at campaign HQ tomorrow morning and if you ghost again, he'll have your head."
I shut the door behind me before she could say anything else.
The room smelled like paper and burnt coffee. My desk was buried in folders and polling sheets, every one of them screaming importance in bold type.
I sat down, staring at the stack until the words blurred together.
All I could see was Amira in her kitchen, hair tucked behind one ear, a smile trying not to happen. All I could hear was Alina's laugh echoing down the hall.
I should've felt guilt.
Instead, I felt something dangerously close to peace.
The rest of the afternoon bled into night.
Meetings, calls, draft notes — all blurring into one long, fluorescent loop. The office had emptied hours ago, but I stayed. Not because there was anything left to prove. Just because it was easier than going home.
By eleven, the only light came from my laptop and the city bleeding through the window. The skyline looked colder from here, too clean to feel real.
I closed the screen and leaned back, rubbing my eyes. The silence pressed in heavy.
This was what success looked like, apparently. A room full of papers no one would read twice and a calendar that didn't belong to me anymore.
The drive to South Philly felt quieter than it should have. The streets were mostly empty, the kind of late-hour stillness that makes you feel like you're the last person awake in the world.
Amira's house came into view — porch light off, one window glowing faintly upstairs.
I parked out front, sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel. My phone buzzed twice on the console. Margot. Mom. I turned it face down.
When I finally knocked, it was soft, more a habit than a demand.
She opened the door a few seconds later, hair loose, T-shirt rumpled, the kind of tired that didn't need explaining.
"Hey," she said, voice quiet. She stood there barefoot, a dish towel still in her hand. Her hair was tied up, loose curls falling around her face
"Hey," I echoed.
"You're late," she teased, half a smile forming.
"I lost track of time."
She stepped aside to let me in. The living room was dim except for the lamp near the couch.
"Alina's asleep?" I asked.
She nodded. "Out cold. Long day."
"Her and me both."
She set the towel down on the counter. "I was just cleaning up."
"I can help."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
She didn't argue, so I started picking up the last of the dishes from the coffee table while she wiped the counters.When we finished I loosened my tie, taking a seat on the couch.
She disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, came back with two glasses of water. "You look exhausted."
"I feel worse."
"You should sleep," she said, sitting beside me.
"I will." I looked over at her. "Just not yet."
Her lips curved faintly, the kind of small, knowing smile that said she understood what I wasn't saying.
We sat there in silence for a while — the hum of the refrigerator, the soft tick of the wall clock, the faint creak of the floor when she shifted closer.
The exhaustion settled in my bones, but being near her made it softer somehow.
When she leaned her head against my shoulder, it didn't feel like escape anymore.
It felt like gravity.