Forty Four
Savannah waited until the apartment was quiet before she let herself fall apart.
Not the dramatic kind. No crying into pillows or pacing the floor. Just the slow, methodical shutting down she had perfected over years of knowing exactly how to survive disappointment without letting anyone see it.
Tilly had left.
That was the only part her brain seemed willing to hold onto.
Not space. Not a pause. Not a minute to think.
Left.
Savannah stood in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the stove like it had personally betrayed her. The burner was still warm. The pan still smelled like garlic and tomatoes, the sauce half-finished, thickening into something she no longer wanted.
She turned the heat off. Slowly. Like any sudden movement might knock something loose in her chest.
She picked up the spoon, gave the sauce one absent stir, then stopped. Her throat tightened.
She wasn’t going to eat this.
The realization landed with a strange kind of finality.
She carried the pan to the trash and tipped the contents in, watching the steam curl up and disappear.
It felt wasteful and also necessary. She rinsed the pan immediately, scrubbing harder than required, like if she cleaned it fast enough, the moment wouldn’t have time to stick.
Savannah sat on the edge of her bed with her phone in her hand, staring at the dark screen like it might light up on its own if she stared long enough. It didn’t.
She told herself not to text. She told herself she had already said enough. Said too much, probably. If you don’t want to keep doing this, then don’t. The words replayed in her head, sharp and final and impossible to soften now.
She had meant them as self-defense.
She always did.
The apartment felt wrong without Tilly in it. Too quiet. Too open. Like every sound echoed a second too long. The hook by the door was empty. No jacket. No lingering sign they had ever been there at all.
That settled something heavy and final in her chest.
She cleaned.
It was easier than thinking. Easier than sitting with the feeling that she had finally let herself want something and immediately ruined it.
She wiped down counters that were already clean.
Straightened pillows that hadn’t moved. Folded a blanket and unfolded it again because the crease wasn’t right.
This was what she did when things went bad.
She controlled what she could.
The note replayed in her head. The stupid note she had written months ago and never thought about again. A list. A shorthand. A way to keep herself from falling too hard, too fast.
Problem.
Her throat tightened.
It hadn’t meant what it sounded like. It hadn’t. It had been fear, not judgment. A warning to herself, not a verdict on Tilly.
But that distinction didn’t matter now.
Savannah sank onto the couch and curled in on herself, arms wrapped tight around her middle. She stared at the blank TV screen, seeing nothing.
This was why she didn’t do this.
Why she didn’t let things get this close. Why she kept people at arm’s length and called it professionalism or independence or being smart. Because the second she needed someone, the ground dropped out from under her.
Tilly hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t accused her.
They had looked hurt. Quiet. Like they were deciding whether staying was worth the cost.
Savannah squeezed her eyes shut.
She had seen that look before. In herself. In people who were already halfway gone.
She picked up her phone again. Opened her messages. Scrolled to Tilly’s name and stared at it until her eyes burned.
She didn’t text.
She knew how this went.
You give space. You respect the break. You don’t beg. You don’t chase. You let the silence stretch until it becomes the truth.
That was the rule she had learned early and never questioned.
So she isolated.
She texted Harper something vague about being tired. She ignored Jamie’s check-in. She went to bed early with the lights off, stomach empty, and unmoved by the idea of fixing that.
Sleep didn’t come.
Her thoughts circled the same conclusion, over and over, until it stopped feeling like panic and started feeling like certainty.
It was over.
Not because Tilly had said so.
Because Savannah had learned not to wait around for endings to be announced. If someone needed space, you gave it. If they left, you let them go.
She turned onto her side and stared at the wall, listening to the quiet she had chosen.
This was safer.
It always was.
* * *
The next morning, Savannah woke up to the sound of her alarm and did not move.
She lay there staring at the ceiling, the light thin and gray through the blinds, her body heavy in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Her throat felt tight. Her head ached, dull and persistent. She took a slow breath and felt it catch halfway in.
She rolled onto her side and checked her phone.
No new notifications.
That shouldn’t have mattered. It did anyway.
Savannah closed her eyes and let the alarm buzz itself out.
She had never called in sick before.
Not really. Not unless she was actually sick, feverish, or contagious, or physically unable to stand. She was the kind of person who showed up anyway. Who pushed through. Who treated work like proof she was fine.
She stared at the wall and realized she couldn’t do it today.
The thought landed quietly, without drama.
She couldn’t go in. She couldn’t put herself in the newsroom and risk seeing Tilly across the room, or worse, not seeing them at all. She couldn’t answer questions or smile or pretend she wasn’t hollowed out.
Her chest felt tight again.
Savannah sat up slowly, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and picked up her phone.
She opened her messages. Scrolled to her producer’s name. Her thumb hovered.
This was new.
Her pulse kicked up, sharp and uneasy, like she was doing something wrong instead of taking care of herself.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
Hey, I’m not feeling great today. I’m going to take a sick day.
She stared at the message for a long second, waiting for the guilt to spike. For the panic. For the instinct to justify it.
None of it came.
She hit send.
The confirmation felt strangely anticlimactic.
Savannah set the phone down and sat there, listening to the quiet of the apartment she hadn’t left the night before. The kitchen was clean. The stove cold.
Nothing to do. Nowhere she had to be.
The freedom should have felt good.
Instead, it scared her.
She pulled the blanket back around her shoulders and lay down again, staring at the ceiling, letting the day move forward without her for the first time since she could remember.
Savannah stayed in bed longer than she ever had on a workday.
The morning light shifted across the wall, slow and indifferent. She tracked it without really seeing it, counting time by the way the room changed instead of by the clock. Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand. She didn’t reach for it right away.
When she did, it was her producer.
Feel better. We’ve got coverage.
No follow-up questions. No guilt. No need for her to explain herself.
That almost made it worse.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling again, the quiet pressing in now that there was nowhere she was supposed to be. The apartment felt different in daylight. Too clean. Too empty. Like a hotel room she’d checked out of but hadn’t left yet.
Her stomach twisted when she remembered the pan in the sink from the night before. Then she remembered she’d dumped it. Rinsed it. Left nothing unfinished.
Of course, she had.
Savannah dragged herself out of bed eventually, more out of restlessness than intention. She padded into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, which she barely drank. The fridge hummed softly. The counters were bare. No cutting board out. No second mug by the sink.
She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.
This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Space. Quiet. Control.
She opened her phone again without meaning to and scrolled to Tilly’s name. It sat there like a bruise she kept pressing on to see if it still hurt.
It did.
Savannah locked the phone and set it face down on the counter, like she was putting something dangerous out of reach.
She tried to distract herself. Put on a show she’d already watched twice. Folded laundry that didn’t need folding. Organized the junk drawer until everything had a place and none of it mattered.
Every few minutes, her brain tried to replay the argument from a different angle. Tried to rewrite it. If she’d said it differently. If she hadn’t gone straight to then go. If she’d asked Tilly to stay instead of daring them to leave.
She knew why she hadn’t.
Asking meant admitting she needed them.
Savannah sat back down on the couch and pulled her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around them. Her breathing went shallow without her noticing. The silence grew heavier, no longer neutral, just loud enough to notice.
She thought about work. About how the newsroom would sound without her there. About Tilly, maybe, noticing her desk was empty. Or maybe not. Maybe they were grateful for the distance. Maybe this was easier for them.
The thought hollowed her out.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead into her knees, willing herself not to spiral. Not to do the thing where she assumed the ending and acted like it was mercy.
Her phone buzzed again.
She flinched before she could stop herself.
It wasn’t Tilly.
It was Harper.
You alive?
Savannah stared at the message longer than necessary.
Yeah. Took a sick day.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
You never take sick days.
Savannah exhaled through her nose.
Guess there’s a first time for everything.
Another pause.
Want company? Or do you want to be left alone?
The question caught her off guard. Not the offer. The choice.
Savannah’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. Her instinct was immediate and sharp.
I’m fine.
She deleted it.
She tried again.
I think I just need today.
Harper responded almost immediately.
Okay. I’ll check in tomorrow. And Savannah?
Savannah waited.
You don’t have to earn rest.
Her throat tightened.
Thanks, she typed, and meant more than she could say.
She set the phone down and leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling again. The day stretched ahead of her, unstructured and unfamiliar.