Chapter Eight
A Life That Doesn’t Fit
Sarah
The office smells like burnt coffee, the kind that’s been reheated more than once. Half the staff is huddled around the main monitor, whispering like the volume of their voices might change the headline. “It was supposed to be off-record,” one of the assistants says, wringing his hands.
“Off-record doesn’t exist anymore,” I remind him, as I scroll through the first headline already climbing the feed. “We deal with what’s real, not what was supposed to be.”
The words are already spreading, a post game comment from Jace Prescott, clipped on every sports feed.
“Hard to win when the refs are more focused on their whistles than the game.” The athletic director wants a statement ‘yesterday,’ the coach is on a plane, and the intern who was supposed to record the Q&A forgot to hit save.
It’s chaos. The kind I’m built for.
The kind where everyone panics and looks to me before they even realize they’re doing it. Control has a sound— quick typing, short breaths, something I can trust.
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Everyone breathe. I’ll handle the statement. You,” I nod to the intern—“find every live clip from that press feed and pull the original quote. Context is our friend.”
She nods, wide-eyed, and scrambles toward her desk.
The room exhales a little, and I feel that familiar shift, the one where noise becomes clarity.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, rewriting what Jace should’ve said if he’d thought before speaking.
And if frustration hadn’t gotten the better of him.
I build sentences one after the other until the mess starts to sound less like damage control.
By the time the athletic director calls, I already have a draft ready. “It’s all set,” I tell him, voice calm, steady. “You’ll have the release in five. I’ll also send you the talking points for the follow-up interview too.”
He sighs, relieved. “You’re a miracle worker, Sarah.”
“No,” I say lightly, clicking through the final draft, “just good at what I do.”
Not a miracle. Just practiced. God knows I had to put out a million and one fires in my last position.
I hang up, reread the statement, and tighten it until it sounds like something people will actually believe. This job is a constant balance, half triage, half theater. Control the story and control the fallout.
The hum of adrenaline fades, leaving only an ache between my shoulder blades. I stretch, roll my neck, and glance at the clock, it’s seven-thirty. The rest of the office cleared out an hour ago.
Of course they did.
I’ve made a habit of being the last one standing, proof that purpose feels safer than rest.
I should go home and eat something that isn’t vending machine junk.
Maybe call my sister Rachel before she starts leaving her “just checking in” voicemails.
Life of a college student I guess. I’ll have to remember to pin her down one day and meet up.
Instead of doing any of that, I open a new document and start outlining the next week’s media schedule.
I keep moving and fixing things on it until I think it’s perfect. This also gives me less time to think about things that shouldn’t be running through my head. More importantly, someone.
My phone buzzes once.
Ellie: You’re still there, aren’t you?
Me: You say that like it’s a bad thing.
Ellie: Because it is. Go home before they start charging you rent.
Me: One more thing, then I’m gone. I promise.
Ellie: Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.
But what’s the alternative? Go home to silence and memories that don’t stay in the past where I put them? I’d rather face crisis PR than sit in the quiet of my own thoughts.
I delete the next three lines of a report that no one will notice tomorrow, then rewrite them anyway. It’s easier than admitting I don’t know what to do when the world isn’t demanding something from me.
This is what I do best, fix problems that aren’t mine. Rewrite stories that should’ve gone differently. Pretend I don’t see the cracks until someone else names them.
The glow of the screen reflects in the window, it’s a faint mirror of myself. Hair pulled into a low knot, blazer still buttoned, lipstick long faded. Professional. Composed. The woman everyone calls when things fall apart.
Outside the window, the parking lot hums with rain and a streetlight that never fully turns off, it just flickers. The reflection is steady, which is more than I feel.
If people only knew how much I relate to the mess.
A sound outside, laughter from the hallway, someone leaving with someone else, makes the office feel smaller. My chest tightens, that quiet, uninvited ache pushing up before I can stop it.
I close the laptop, grab my coat, and turn off the light. The darkness settles fast, making the room seem still. The sort of stillness that folds in on you. The hallway buzzes faintly, that low thread of electricity that never really stops.
My heels echo against the tile, each step a small reminder of how empty this place feels after hours. A little creepy, if I’m honest.
I tell myself that yes, I’m tired, but I’ve earned this exhaustion. That the ache in my chest is just the residue of a long day.
Maybe that’s what I’ve built my life around, staying busy enough not to feel what’s missing. But the quiet has a way of catching up and reminding you.
And lately, the cracks have been following me home.
The building is nearly silent when my phone buzzes again inside my purse. Pulling it out, I see that it’s Ellie again.
Ellie: Don’t think I don’t know you didn’t actually leave.
Me: You're stalking me now?
Ellie: Please. You’re predictable.
Me: Ouch.
Ellie: I know you. You get twitchy after a big day. You’ll sit there until midnight rewriting the same sentence just to feel in control.
I smirk even as my chest tightens.
Me: It’s called dedication.
Ellie: It’s called avoidance.
That hits hard.
Me: Are you always this nosy after office hours?
Ellie: Only to people I think are about to fall apart and call it productivity.
My phone buzzes again before I even make it out of the building.
Ellie: You good, Sar? For real.
Me: I’m fine.
Ellie: You sure? You’ve been… different lately. Distracted.
I push through the lobby doors and step into the cool night air. The parking lot’s mostly empty, rain tapping against the asphalt. My reflection flashes in the glass before it’s swallowed by the dark.
Me: Long day, it happens.
Ellie: Uh-huh. You said that yesterday. And the day before.
Me: You keeping a log?
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. You don’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.
Maybe I’m avoiding it because I’m not sure who I’ll find there.
…………
The next morning, Ellie’s waiting by the coffee machine like she’s been planning this ambush since last night. Her arms are crossed, mug in hand, expression too casual to be casual.
“You actually went home?” she asks, one brow raised.
I grab a mug from the cabinet. “Define home.”
She snorts. “You and your technicalities. I’m proud of you, though. Look at you, leaving the office before midnight like a functioning adult.”
“Barely,” I say, pouring coffee that tastes like regret. “Don’t expect it to become a habit.”
Ellie leans against the counter, watching me over the rim of her mug. “You know, you’ve got this look sometimes. Like your body’s here, but your head’s halfway across the state.”
I stir the coffee I don’t even like, watching the swirl.