Nadia gripped the rejected article like it could crumble under her fingers. The paper's edges were already frayed from her nervous handling, each crease a testament to hours of work dismissed in minutes.
Back at her desk, the newsroom buzzed around her—phones ringing, editors shouting across rows of cubicles, keyboards clicking in rapid-fire bursts—but it all blurred into static. The sting of the Martin's words still echoed in her head, sharp and clear against the background noise.
"It's competent. But it's safe. It doesn't make noise." 
Noise.
As if she hadn't bled onto every paragraph. As if she hadn't stayed up three nights straight, interviewing sources, fact-checking, polishing every sentence until it gleamed. As if the story didn't matter.
The screen before her blinked back blank, cursor pulsing with quiet accusation. She couldn't bring herself to type. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, paralyzed.
Then a hand landed gently on her shoulder, warm and familiar.
"How'd it go?" Zora's voice was soft, already bracing for the answer. Her dark eyes, usually bright with mischief, were clouded with concern.
Nadia didn't turn. She just shook her head, the movement barely perceptible. "It was bad."
Zora exhaled, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Shit. I'm sorry. Tyrone said so?"
"Who else?" Nadia crumpled the article between her palms. "Said I needed 'noise.' Whatever the hell that means."
"It means he wants you to be someone you're not," Zora said, folding her arms. "Someone who cares more about the shock value than the substance."
Nadia nodded once, swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "Maybe that's what it takes to get ahead in this place."
"Don't say that." Zora's voice was fierce now. "Your work has integrity. That still matters somewhere."
"Does it?" Nadia glanced around the office, at the frantic energy of people chasing deadlines. "Sometimes I wonder."
She was tired. Tired of climbing the walls of this place, fighting for scraps of recognition while her life outside these walls quietly crumbled. Tired of the constant struggle to be heard in a room full of louder voices.
Then her phone buzzed.
One message. Unknown number.
She opened it.
MEET ME. ONE SHOT TO GET THIS RIGHT. I WOULDN'T ASK IF IT WASN'T LIFE OR DEATH. SOMETIMES, NADI, THE ONLY WAY OUT IS TO GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING.
Her breath hitched.
Jayson.
The name wasn't there, but the voice from earlier—"Nadia…"—it had carved into her like a whisper from a wound that never healed.
Three years gone and now this.
"What is it?" Zora asked, noticing the change in her expression. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Nothing," Nadia said quickly, too quickly. She locked the phone and slipped it into her pocket. "Just my mom's hospital sending another bill."
Zora's face softened. "How is she doing?"
"Same. Better some days, worse others." Nadia began gathering her things, movements mechanical. "I should go see her tomorrow."
"And Bryan? Is he being any help?"
Nadia's hands stilled. "Bryan is... being Bryan."
"That bad, huh?"
"Let's just say he's perfected the art of being physically present and emotionally absent."
Zora squeezed her shoulder. "You know you can crash at my place anytime, right? Sofa's not much, but it's yours if you need it."
"Thanks," Nadia managed a weak smile. "I might take you up on that someday."
She stared at the phone again, thumb hovering. Block? Reply? Scream?
Instead, she locked the phone and began to pack her bag.
She needed to think.
Night would help. It always did.
By the time she reached the apartment, the sky was bruised violet, the city muting into night. Her key turned in the lock with a tired click, the sound as familiar as her own heartbeat.
Inside, the smell of whiskey hit her first—sharp, medicinal, too strong.
Then she saw him—Bryan, planted on the couch, a half-empty glass in one hand, eyes glued to the television. His shirt was rumpled, his hair uncombed, as if he'd been sitting there since morning.
He didn't look up.
She dropped her bag by the door. "Hey."
Nothing.
The game blared. Some crowd roaring, a goal, cheers. The announcer's voice rose to a fever pitch.
"I said hey," she tried again, louder this time.
Bryan grunted, a sound that might have been acknowledgment or dismissal. He took another sip from his glass, eyes never leaving the screen.
She watched him a moment longer, counting seconds, giving him a chance to say something, anything. When nothing came, she turned and headed for the bedroom.
The silence stretched like something between them had long snapped, and they were both pretending not to notice. Like a wire that once connected them had frayed to nothing.
She closed the door behind her. The bedroom felt colder than usual, the air stale, curtains drawn against the fading light.
They had been living together for a year and six months. And yet, every corner of this place reminded her of how distant they'd become. His clothes piled in the corner, her books stacked neatly on the nightstand. Parallel lives that rarely intersected anymore.
Her mother had been in the hospital for two weeks. Bryan hadn't asked once.
He used to care. Or maybe he just used to pretend better.
Now?
Now he accused. Questioned. Watched her phone like it was a loaded gun. Made her explain every late night at work, every text message, every call.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands in her lap, staring at the framed photo on the dresser. Her and Bryan at the beach last summer, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling. It felt like looking at strangers.
"What happened to us?" she whispered to the empty room.
Somehow, she was relieved they never talked about marriage. The thought of binding herself to this slow decay made her chest tight.
Another buzz. Her phone again. She glanced.
Still Jayson. Still unread.
Her heart raced at the sight of his number on the screen, a pavlovian response she hated herself for. After everything, after all this time, he still had that power over her.
The knock on the bedroom door came sharp, startling her.
"Nadia."
She didn't answer.
Another knock. Harder. The door rattled in its frame.
She stood, opened it.
Bryan stood there, glass in one hand, his face tight with something half-sour, half-pathetic. His eyes were bloodshot, his stance unsteady.
"You think you can just walk in here and act like I'm invisible?" he said, words slightly slurred. "Didn't even greet me?"
"I did," she said, her voice flat. "You chose not to hear me."
"No. No, you didn't. And I'm not stupid. You've been off lately. Taking calls in the other room. Coming back late. I'm not blind." He leaned against the doorframe, studying her face. "Who is it?"
Her jaw tensed. "Bryan, not tonight."
"If not tonight, then when?" His voice rose. "You're never here anymore. And when you are, you're somewhere else in your head."
He scoffed. "Yeah. Sure. 'Not tonight.' Maybe because you've got someone else to text now, huh?"
That landed like a slap.
"Is that what you think?" Her voice was quiet now, dangerously so. "That after everything—after the hospital visits, after taking care of your drunk ass, after trying to keep us together—I'm cheating on you?"
He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, suspicious.
"Answer me," she demanded, stepping closer. "Is that what you think of me?"
"I don't know what to think anymore," he muttered, looking away. "You're different."
"I'm tire, Bryan. There's a difference."
She didn't say anything more. Just walked past him, into the hallway, her heartbeat climbing into her throat.
He didn't follow. Just called after her:
"I know what this is, Nadia. You're taking me for granted. Acting like I'm some burden."
She paused, hand on the kitchen counter, clenched her fist with tension.
"You didn't even ask about my mom." Her voice was quieter now, but firm. "Two weeks. Not once."
Silence.
The only reply was the noise from the TV, some beer commercial with people laughing, living lives nothing like hers.
"She could be dying for all you care," Nadia added, the words burning as they left her mouth.
"That's not fair," Bryan said finally, his voice rough. "I've had my own shit to deal with."
"Like what? The game? Another drink?" She gestured to the glass in his hand. "Tell me, Bryan, what's so important that you can't ask a simple question about the woman I love most in this world?"
He stared at her, mouth opening and closing like he was searching for words and finding none.
"Forget it," she said, exhaustion seeping into her bones. "I'm going to bed."
She walked back into the bedroom, closed the door, and locked it.
Sat on the bed.
Opened Jayson's message, the words glowing in the dim light.
Bryan's voice roared outside the door, muffled but clear enough. 
Something hit the wall—his fist or maybe the glass.
Nadia didn't utter a word. She already had too much on her mind. She just laid backwards, facing the ceiling as the sounds from outside the door gradually faded.
She thought about her mother in the hospital, tubes snaking from her arms, her once-vibrant face now gaunt and pale.
She thought about the rejected article, about noise and hunger and how much of herself she was willing to sacrifice for a career that kept moving the goalposts.
And she thought about Bryan, about the man she'd fallen for—kind, attentive, ambitious—and how little of him remained in the bitter shell on the other side of the door.
Her phone buzzed again. A second message from Jayson.
PLEASE, NADIA. 
Her thumb hovered over the reply button. Outside, she could hear Bryan moving around, muttering to himself, the clink of a bottle against glass.
The night deepened around her, wrapping her in shadows as a decision formed in her mind.
She began to type....