Twenty Five
Tilly noticed Savannah’s absence before they even reached the gear room.
Her desk was empty.
Too empty.
Monitor off. The chair pushed in. Not a single thing left behind.
The newsroom moved around the space like nothing was wrong. Phones rang. Producers called out blocks. Someone laughed too loudly near the assignment desk. The day kept going, indifferent to the empty chair where Savannah usually sat with her notebook angled just so.
Tilly stood there a beat longer than necessary, then kept walking.
The gear room smelled like damp coats and metal. Tilly set the camera down and started going through the motions.
Camera down.
Battery pack off.
Lens cap secured.
Their hands knew the order even if the rest of them felt out of sync.
That was when they saw it.
One of Savannah’s gloves lay crumpled on the floor near a light stand. Not placed. Not forgotten neatly.
Dropped.
Tilly crouched slowly, fingers brushing the concrete before closing around the fleece.
She never forgot things like this.
Not gloves.
Not scripts.
Not details.
Tilly straightened and looked toward Savannah’s desk.
Nothing.
No bag. No coat. No notebook tucked under the desk. No half-written script abandoned in a hurry.
Just absence.
The newsroom noise pressed in again. Someone rolled a chair back too fast. A printer jammed. Aimee’s office door opened and shut.
“Savannah did good work today,” Henry said to someone passing by. “Clean shots. Quick turnaround. She’s one of our strongest new reporters.”
“She’s sharp,” the producer said. “Give her the right story, and she’ll be chasing an Emmy within the next year.”
Tilly stayed where they were, Savannah’s gloves still in their hand.
Savannah was steady.
Savannah was rising.
Savannah was fine.
Tilly folded the gloves once, carefully, and tucked them into their jacket pocket. Then they finished what they’d started in the gear room. Wiped down lenses that didn’t need it. Reorganized cases already in order. Logged footage they’d logged a hundred times before.
The work gave them something to stand inside, even if it didn’t fix anything.
By the time they checked the clock, more than an hour had passed.
Savannah didn’t come back.
Tilly shut down the computer, slung their bag over their shoulder, and headed for the back hallway. They could tell Henry later. Or tomorrow. Right now, they just needed out.
“Tilly?”
Jamie’s voice cut through the hallway behind them.
When Tilly turned, Jamie was already walking toward them, expression focused in that way that meant she’d clocked something and wasn’t going to pretend she hadn’t.
“You’re leaving early?” Jamie asked.
“So did Savannah.”
Jamie stopped short, eyes flicking past Tilly to the empty desk. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“Then you know why I’m leaving.”
“And I know you don’t do that unless something’s wrong,” Jamie said. “So talk.”
“Not now.”
“No,” Jamie said calmly. “Exactly now.”
Tilly exhaled and leaned back against the wall, the cold seeping through their jacket. “She kissed me.”
Jamie stilled. “Savannah kissed you?”
“The night of the storm. In the truck.”
“That explains a lot,” Jamie said quietly.
“And then she wouldn’t look at me,” Tilly added. “And now she’s gone.”
Jamie’s jaw tightened. “She left shaking.”
Tilly’s hand slipped into their pocket, fingers closing around the folded gloves.
“She feels something,” Jamie said. “And she’s scared.”
“Or she regrets it?”
Jamie shook her head. “Savannah doesn’t regret wanting someone. She regrets wanting them too much.”
Tilly didn’t argue. They didn’t know how to.
“She left her glove,” Tilly said instead.
Jamie glanced at the pocket, then back at Tilly. “Then give her space. Don’t corner her. Don’t make this worse by forcing a conversation she’s not ready to have.”
“And if she never is?”
Jamie’s expression softened. “Then you’ll still know you didn’t push.”
That landed heavier than anything else she’d said.
Tilly nodded once.
Outside, the cold hit hard and clean. The wind cut across the parking lot, sharp enough to make their eyes water. Tilly stood there for a moment, breath fogging, gloves heavy in their pocket.
They could call her. Could text. Could say something messy and real and immediate.
They didn’t.
Instead, they got in their car and sat with the engine off, hands resting on the steering wheel. The day stretched ahead of them, quiet and unresolved.
The drive home passed in a blur of gray streets and melting snowbanks. Tilly didn’t turn on the radio. The silence felt easier than music that might accidentally say something true.
By the time they pulled into their apartment complex, the sky had dimmed into that flat, early-evening light that made the day feel unfinished. They sat in the car for a moment, keys still in the ignition, watching their breath fog the windshield.
Eventually, they grabbed their bag and headed inside.
The hallway smelled like all-purpose cleaner and old carpet. Someone’s door slammed two floors up. A TV murmured behind a neighboring wall. Normal apartment noise. Other lives, stacked close and uninterested.
Tilly unlocked their door and stepped inside.
The apartment was quiet in the particular way it always was when they were alone.
Shoes by the door. Their jacket hung on the hook instead of being tossed over a chair.
Camera bag set down neatly beside the couch, where it wouldn’t be tripped over later.
Nothing had moved since morning. No sign that the day had reached in and rearranged anything.
Tilly stood there longer than necessary, then reached into their jacket pocket and pulled out Savannah’s gloves.
They set them on the small kitchen counter.
The gloves looked out of place in the compact space. Too soft. Too familiar. Tilly stared at them like they might explain something if given enough time.
They didn’t.
Tilly filled the kettle and set it on the stove out of habit, then leaned back against the counter while it heated. The sound of the water rising was steady, predictable. Something they could trust.
When the kettle clicked off, they poured the water and wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into their palms. It grounded them more than they expected.
They checked their phone.
No new messages.
They set it face down on the counter without answering the urge to flip it back over.
The apartment settled around them. Pipes ticking somewhere in the walls. Footsteps passing in the hallway outside. A neighbor’s laughter drifted faintly through the ceiling. Life continuing, close enough to hear but not close enough to touch.
Tilly folded the glove once and slid it into the drawer beneath the counter. They’d give it back. Soon. She’d notice it was missing.
They leaned their forehead briefly against the cabinet door and closed their eyes.
They had done the right thing today. That didn’t make it easier.
After a minute, they straightened, took a slow breath, and carried their mug to the couch. Work would come tomorrow. Explanations could wait. Whatever conversation needed to happen with Savannah would happen when it could, not when it was forced.
For now, this was enough.
Tilly sat there until the mug cooled in their hands and the light outside the windows faded fully to dark, letting the quiet stretch without trying to fill it.