Eight
By Friday morning, Savannah was already behind.
Not visibly. Not in any way that the newsroom could clock. Her scripts were clean. Her hair was pinned back just right. She hit the morning meeting with a notebook full of angles and a voice that sounded calm enough to anchor a hurricane.
But she was behind.
Aimee moved through the rundown faster than usual, reshuffling assignments mid-sentence like cards in a deck. A protest downtown. A zoning vote pushed up. Overnight storm damage out west. The board filled, erased, filled again.
“Wells,” Aimee said without looking up. “You’re off transit. We need you on the council story. Andrew’s already rolling.”
Savannah blinked once. “Okay.”
No one else reacted. That was how it worked. Stories moved. People adjusted. Only rookies needed explanations.
Still, the change sat wrong in her chest. Transit had been hers. She had sources, context, and momentum. Now she was stepping into something half-built, expected to make it look intentional.
She glanced toward the gear lockers.
Tilly was there, back turned, loading a tripod into its case with practiced efficiency. They didn’t look up. Didn’t even hesitate.
Savannah told herself it meant nothing.
And still, something in her chest tightened anyway.
“Franklin,” Aimee added, “warehouse fire follow-up with Andrew.”
Tilly gave a short nod. “Got it.”
No protest. No question. Just movement.
That bothered her more than it should have.
She waited until the meeting broke, until the newsroom dissolved into its usual controlled chaos. Then she crossed the floor, timing it so she intercepted them near the back door.
“Hey,” she said lightly. “We’re not a package deal anymore?”
The words came out easily. The question didn’t feel like one.
Tilly slung the gear bag over one shoulder. “Were we ever?”
Savannah smiled like it was a joke, taking a second longer than it should have. “We were efficient.”
“We still are,” Tilly said. “Just separately now.”
They pushed through the door before she could answer.
For a moment, Savannah stood there with her smile still in place, like an expression waiting for the rest of the performance to catch up, before following Tilly outside. Like she wasn’t ready to let the moment end there.
“You’re allergic to compliments, huh?” she said.
Tilly stopped walking, but didn’t look up. “Only the ones you give.”
“That’s rude. I’m great at compliments.”
“You’re great at self-promotion.”
“Close enough.”
That earned her a glance, quick and sharp. Savannah grinned. “See, that was almost a smile. I’ll take that as progress.”
“You’re grading my facial expressions now?”
“Only when they’re this rare.”
Tilly shook their head, a quiet laugh caught under their breath. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” she said, following as they brushed past her, “you keep showing up.”
They didn’t answer, but the corner of their mouth twitched before they walked away toward their rig.
Inside, Harper reappeared, balancing a muffin on a napkin. “You and Franklin split up?”
“Different assignments,” Savannah said.
“Bummer. You two were scary good together.”
Savannah raised an eyebrow. “Scary?”
“In a good way. Like synchronized swimming, but with deadlines.”
Savannah let out a practiced laugh. “We’re coworkers, not a circus act.”
The rest of the morning blurred into pre-shoot rhythm. She checked scripts, rewrote her tag twice, pretended not to notice the space where their banter usually lived.
Out in the field, the train-delay story was as flat as it sounded. Commuters in bad moods, a gray sky pressing down. Andrew framed his shots cleanly and said very little. Savannah hit her standup perfectly on the first take, then asked for another.
“Still rolling?”
Andrew nodded. “Looked good.”
“Let’s do one more for safety.”
He reset without question. By the third take, her throat ached, and her fingers were stiff from the cold, but the phrasing was flawless. She told herself that was why she kept redoing it—because she wanted it perfect, not because she missed that subtle nod Tilly gave when a line landed right.
A gust of wind caught her hair across her face. Andrew lowered the camera automatically, waiting. “You good?”
“Yeah,” she said, brushing it back. “Just… too much air movement.”
“Wind,” he said dryly.
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. She didn’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 her fearless. 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.