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The rain had started before dawn. It wasn’t a storm, but the drizzle was heavy enough to transform the bedroom window into a grayish veil, distorting the lights outside. For most people, that meant a minor inconvenience—the need to grab an umbrella before heading out or put on a good coat—but for Emily, it signaled that the day had already gotten off to a disastrous start.
A familiar pain woke her before the alarm went off, heavy and constant.
She lay still for a few minutes, her gaze fixed on a glow-in-the-dark star that Bronwyn had stuck to the ceiling when she was six. Over the years, and after several rough patches due to her stubbornness, she had learned that sitting up too quickly was a mistake. She first needed to assess what kind of day she would have to face.
She slowly wiggled the toes of her right foot. Nothing; a tiny glimmer of hope flickered in Emily, suggesting the situation might be a good omen. Then she moved her ankle, gradually working through the joint’s range of motion until a sharp twinge shot across the outer side of her leg. She didn’t worry too much, as both the position in which it had occurred and the degree of pain were within expectations. She moved on to her knee, managing to bend it slightly, which she considered sufficient. The problem arose when she attempted to slowly rotate her hip.
She cursed under her breath as a deep, dull pain settled in her groin, then insidiously spread to her lower back. The joint, locked in place, felt as if it were encased in concrete.
Emily closed her eyes.
“Perfect…” she whispered, her tone lacking real irritation. It felt more like an old sense of resignation.
She was experiencing a flare-up, and she could only blame herself.
And perhaps the rain, to some extent.
These flare-ups didn’t occur for just one reason; they were the result of a series of small decisions and circumstances that piled up, eventually taking their toll: the rain; the over twelve hours she had spent on her feet the previous day during the opening of a new store, two relatively long flights within the same week, her habit of sleeping less than five hours a night during busy periods; and, above all, her deliberate choice to ignore every warning sign and minor discomfort she had felt in the days leading up to this moment. The discomfort felt like whispers that had suddenly turned into screams.
It wasn’t anything unusual; she had simply pushed her body too hard. Once again, she had forgotten that for twenty years, her body had been reminding Emily that it was no longer the same.
At least that brief pause had helped her ease her morning stiffness.
Getting out of bed was a process, one she no longer resented. Emily rolled onto her left side, using her arms to propel herself. After a few seconds, she carefully let both legs drop over the edge of the bed. She paused before placing the soles of her feet on the floor, counting to five and taking a deep breath before sitting up.
The first step was always the worst, and that day Emily was all too aware of it.
Her pelvis protested immediately, refusing to cooperate. Her right leg took a fraction of a second longer to bear her weight, as if it were a rusty door. Emily stood motionless next to the mattress, focused on maintaining her balance and controlling her body—she didn’t move until the spasm subsided.
She thought about her day-to-day life at Coach, where she was still the woman who strode through the offices in high heels, barely giving her assistant a moment’s respite, with a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. There, everything moved at her pace—often chaotic and unpredictable. It was the only pace at which she felt comfortable, ever since her days at Runway. From the doorway of her apartment outward, no one would have guessed that Emily Charlton needed an extra ten minutes every morning just to walk with any semblance of normality.
Emily moved through the rest of her routine with almost no hiccups.
When she entered the bathroom, the mirror reflected the image of a practically flawless woman. Her skin was well cared for, not a hair out of place, and her expression revealed no hint of pain. It never did; that was a skill Emily had honed with particular diligence—never allowing her face to betray any weakness.
As Emily brushed her teeth, she rested one hand discreetly on the sink. It was more out of necessity than habit, yet her eyes in the mirror remained disturbingly indifferent.
A few minutes later, she put on the outfit she had selected the day before: a black silk shirt by Tom Ford, a structured anthracite-gray wool blazer with the sharply defined shoulders typical of Saint Laurent, and a pair of high-waisted black cigarette trousers by Alexander McQueen. Her dark gray Max Mara Ludmilla coat awaited her by the apartment door. She hesitated when it came time to choose her shoes. The pair Emily had set out were stunning black stilettos that would have provided the perfect height to accentuate her outfit, but just the thought of wearing them made the pain in her hip throb. Reluctantly, she opted for a pair of Jimmy Choo with much lower heels.
It was a compromise Emily resented, but it was her only option if she wanted to avoid limping before an hour had passed.
Emily was in the middle of a call with the marketing department—having arranged to work remotely that day—when she received an automated reminder for her scheduled appointment: 1:45 p.m. Physical therapy. Without hanging up, she stared at the notification for several long seconds.
She could cancel. The message offered only two options; with a single swipe of her finger, she could choose to stay home, dealing with the pain, far from the hustle and bustle of the city and the stares. Yet, her physical therapist had always insisted that she shouldn't cancel during a flare-up. Those were precisely the days when she needed the exercises the most.
Emily sighed and tapped one of the options.
She received a reply almost instantly.
Thank you for confirming your appointment. Please remember to check in at the front desk 15 minutes before your appointment.
The day was deteriorating rapidly.
At noon, she left her apartment to head down to the building’s parking garage, only to find a notice from the management affixed to the doors of the four elevators, stating that the entire system was under repair. Through the steel and aluminium doors, the distant sound of machinery echoed, and according to the notice, this issue wouldn’t be resolved quickly—at least not within the next half hour.
Emily turned towards the stairs, her hands trembling slightly as they gripped the railing at the edge of the first step. She was on the third floor, and her car was parked in the basement. Emily knew the exact number of steps between those two locations, though she never considered them as a whole. When faced with the task of climbing them, as she was now, she mentally divided the journey into segments: the first ten steps, then the landing, followed by the next ten. Breaking it down into smaller stretches made the ordeal seem more manageable.
“Go on. You've got this,” she tried to reassure herself. Emily could do this.
She always could.
She stepped down to the first step, discreetly holding onto the handrail. However, as she placed her right leg on the next step, a sharp jolt shot through her hip from top to bottom, forcing her to grip the railing with alarming intensity, her knuckles turning white from the effort.
She stood motionless, waiting for the pain to subside. She breathed slowly until her breathing returned to normal. And then she continued, one step at a time.
Several minutes later, she finally reached her car.
She set her purse on the roof of the car and leaned slightly against the door, needing a moment to compose herself. She knew that to others, her appearance wasn’t far from her usual neatness, but Emily was all too aware of the burning in her lungs, the sweat on her forehead, and the furrow in her brow. Her right ankle was also starting to ache, so she let it rest until the electric tingles running across her skin faded.
Only then, standing on that cold, damp ground, did she realize that driving herself to the clinic would be a terrible idea.
It had nothing to do with her inability to fully move one of her legs. It was about what would happen after her session: she probably wouldn’t be able to get back into the car. This had happened to her before. The first time, she ended up waiting forty minutes inside the car until she mustered enough strength to start it. The second time, she called a taxi to take her home and returned the next day to retrieve her car. Both situations resulted in significant time wasted, and the second one was particularly humiliating for her, so she would rather not repeat either.
She took out her phone and opened her contact list.
Her finger first paused on Serena. She could call her; the makeup artist knew part of the story. She’d seen Emily limping more than once after particularly long days at work, and over the years, she’d learned to recognize that if Emily replied with “I’m perfectly fine,” it almost certainly meant the opposite.
Serena would come. No questions asked.
But now, Serena was the head of the Beauty department at Runway, and she surely wouldn’t have time for a favor like that. At least, that’s what Emily tried to convince herself as she continued searching through her contacts.
As she scrolled through the list, the next name she paused on was her ex-husband’s. The kids were with him that week, according to the visitation schedule. Emily let out a dry laugh.
No. That would only turn a miserable day into an unbearable one.
Her ex would have shown up, of course. He would have approached her with an impeccable, well-rehearsed look of concern. He would have asked questions loud enough for everyone within ten meters to clearly hear the details of her situation. And before he was done, he would have found a way to turn someone else’s crisis of pain into a story about his extraordinary generosity toward the woman who decided it was best to leave him and walk away.
Emily had once described him—half-jokingly, half-seriously—as a pathological narcissist. Right now, she didn’t think it was wise to give him another chance to prove that, in the end, she was right.
She continued swiping through her contacts until she paused at the name of her assistant at Coach.
Her assistant was an efficient, discreet young woman who would likely cancel the rest of her schedule without hesitation just to be available for Emily. Although that sounded like a reasonable option at first, Emily didn’t dial her number. Doing so would require explaining why she needed help. Following that would come the overly attentive stares every time she wore low heels to an event or took a few extra seconds to stand up at the end of a meeting.
No. Her team needed a senior executive to look up to, not someone to care for.
She just needed to get to the clinic, attend her therapy session, and return home.
Emily considered hiring a private driver, using a ride-sharing service, or even an app. All were valid options for addressing the first part of her dilemma—the trip to the clinic. However, none offered a viable solution for what came next.
The therapy left her shaking, her muscles exhausted. Occasionally, it took her several minutes just to put her shoes back on. Other times, her physical therapist insisted she remain seated for a moment before attempting to walk out of the clinic to avoid stiffness. She vividly recalled the time she ignored that advice and ended up spending 30 minutes stuck in a church parking lot because her leg wouldn’t cooperate, followed by another ten minutes explaining her situation to the elderly security guard.
Without really knowing why, she opened another contact.
Sachs
She stared at the screen. The image associated with the number was blurry, yet it often made her smile without her even realizing it.
It came from a photograph taken months earlier when they attended a Château d’Yquem wine tasting sponsored by Gucci. One of her comments had made Andy laugh so hard that she nearly spilled wine on a dress that cost more than her monthly rent. Emily had managed to avert the disaster, and a press photographer had captured the moment right after, when Andy looked at her with unexpected tenderness, filled with gratitude.
Emily hesitated. Calling her about something like that felt premature. They had been building something for months that neither of them dared to name yet. Something so delicate at its edges and so vulnerable at its core that Emily feared a revelation like that might change it beyond repair.
Until now, Andy had known the brilliant, sharp-witted Emily—the one fully capable of negotiating an international campaign or dismantling a marketing presentation with just a single comment. That executive who could enter a meeting with designers, sales managers, and brand directors and emerge with everyone aligned with her vision, silencing even the most difficult personalities.
Not the woman who calculated how long she could stand before needing to sit down. Not the one who selected her shoes based on the weather forecast. And certainly not the one who, on particularly challenging nights, slept hugging a pillow to alleviate the pressure on her hip.
Emily locked her cell phone and carefully climbed into the driver’s seat.
She turned the ignition key, and the engine roared to life. However, when she tried to shift into first gear, her foot faltered on the pedal, locking her in place. Immediately, pain radiated from her pelvis to her back with an intensity that made her feel nauseous, forcing an involuntary grimace to cross her face.
Turning off the engine, she remained motionless with both hands on the steering wheel.
It took a few seconds for the tension in her shoulders to dissipate. With a sigh, Emily realized that the thought that had been troubling her for some time had finally prevailed. She couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t exist, that the pain wasn’t a constant companion, especially in front of the only person with whom she was beginning to feel truly safe.
She took a deep breath and unlocked her phone once more.
“Don’t let this become a habit…” she murmured to herself, as if she needed to justify her actions even to the name of the contact displayed on the screen. She pressed the call button.
Andy was convinced she had already heard most of Emily’s different tones of voice. There was the “senior executive” voice—precise and sharp—reserved for those who were late to meetings or dared to question her credentials. The “social” voice—perfectly modulated—for galas and cocktail parties, the one that managed to close deals with just a few words and charm New York’s socialites. Then there was the private voice, much less common—one of the last ones Andy had had the privilege of hearing; it emerged on those nights when they chatted on the phone about anything but work or when Emily finally relaxed on the rare occasions Andy had managed to convince her to go out to dinner.
That’s why, the moment she heard Emily’s voice on the other end of the line, Andy knew she had to focus all her attention on that call.
“Andy?”
It was a tone she had never heard before. Emily didn’t sound sick or scared, but Andy had never heard her name spoken with such exhaustion behind it.
Andy saved a copy of the article she was working on and set her laptop aside.
“Em, what’s going on?” Andy mentally chided herself for her poorly concealed concern.
There was a silence—longer than Emily usually allowed. Andy found herself missing the sarcastic remark that would have come over the line on any other day—the kind where Emily would mock her noble intentions but would ultimately speak to her in a voice even sweeter than before.
“Are you busy?” Emily sounded hesitant.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Andy joked, trying to lighten the mood.
Another pause, slightly shorter this time. “I need a favor.”
“Oh,” Andy replied, a bit nervously. “Now that’s worrisome.”
“Don’t start, Sachs…”
“Miss Charlton needs my help.” Andy enunciated the words as if they were a melody. “I’m trying to remember if they mentioned on Good Morning America that the Hudson River was flowing in the opposite direction.”
From the other end, she heard a sigh that might have been a laugh—a tiny one. She realized that if she didn’t force herself to be quiet, she’d likely keep rambling out of nervousness.
“Could you come with me to an appointment?”
Andy sat up, contemplating what she’d need to reschedule in the rest of her calendar.
“What kind of appointment?”
“Physical therapy.”
Emily’s voice was barely a whisper in her ear, enough to wipe the smile off Andy’s face.
“Did you hurt yourself?” This time, Andy didn’t hide the concern in her voice.
Emily took her time answering—too long for Andy’s liking.
“No,” Emily said uncertainly, then added with a bit more conviction, “Not exactly. I just… need to go.” Another pause. “And today, I’d rather not go alone.”
Andy opened her mouth to ask another question but closed it almost immediately. Ever since she first crossed paths with Emily, Andy had learned that pressuring her when she wasn’t ready only resulted in walls going up twice as high.
“Where are you?” Andy asked, forcing herself to sound calmer.
“At home. I’m on the parking floor.”
“Are you on your way to the appointment?”
“Not yet.”
Andy glanced at her watch.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“Andy, if you have something to do—”
“Fifteen,” Andy interrupted, smiling as she heard the sigh of resignation on the other end.
“All right. See you later.”
Before hanging up, Andy noticed Emily's slow, restrained breathing, as if she had been holding her breath for the entire conversation. She still didn’t fully understand what was happening, but that didn’t matter as much as the fact that Emily had reached out to her.
Signaling to Jin that she wouldn’t be available for the rest of the day, Andy gathered her things and left Runway to find Emily.
During the taxi ride, Andy mentally ran through potential reasons why Emily might need to attend a physical therapy session. It had to be some kind of injury, but what kind?
A sports injury? No.
Emily didn’t exercise for enjoyment; in fact, Andy would argue she despised the very thought of it. If she ever did run, it would likely be to catch a plane or to prevent someone at Coach from making a foolish decision. In their younger days, they would run for Miranda, but she couldn’t envision her doing it just to break a sweat.
Back problems? A sprain? A particularly bad migraine?
She’d read that certain exercises could help with neck stiffness.
Andy let out a snort. It didn’t sound convincing at all.
She even entertained the possibility that Emily merely needed support for an awkward appointment, as if Andy were her bodyguard, a knight in a suit from The Row.
No. Nothing quite added up.
Emily wasn’t the type of person to ask for help without good reason. In fact, she did the exact opposite. Andy had witnessed it firsthand: Emily could take on more work than was reasonable, avoid mistakes even when she had a fever, and cross half the city in less than half the time it would take anyone else if the job required it. She managed to do all of this without admitting that she needed a break or assistance from others.
Andy paused for a moment longer, replaying their recent conversation in her mind.
She unlocked her phone to look at the photos of Emily she’d saved.
The only genuinely strange thing was that she’d asked for company. Emily had not asked for a ride or help with anything specific—she had only requested company. To Andy, that made a significant difference.
If Emily just needed a ride, all it would take was an app and a credit card: a driver could take her wherever she wanted, a taxi could wait for her at the door, or a private car with a chauffeur could pick her up when she was done. But Emily had called her.
“Could you come with me…?”
Andy might have been oblivious to much of what was happening, but if there was one thing she could gather from their conversation, it was that the ride itself wasn’t the problem—it was what awaited her on the other side. And that thought, for some reason, unsettled her. Much more than any explanation she’d managed to come up with along the way.
Andy found Emily exactly where she’d said she would be.
She was leaning against her car—an Aston Martin that Benji had given her, one she had adamantly refused to part with—dressed in a perfectly pressed gray coat, dark sunglasses, and immaculate hair.
To any passerby, the redhead might have appeared to be waiting for a colleague to join her for lunch; however, Andy noticed something entirely different as she approached.
Emily wasn't merely “leaning” against the car; she was putting her weight on it. It was a subtle detail, but given the reason for Andy’s visit, she couldn’t help but observe how part of Emily’s body continuously rested against the door. She wondered if maintaining a completely upright posture required more effort than usual for her.
When Emily looked up at the sound of Andy’s footsteps, she smiled—a genuine smile, full of relief. That made Andy worry even more. Emily only smiled like that when she let her guard down, a rare occurrence that usually happened in the privacy of one of their apartments. The fact that they were outside led Andy to believe that perhaps Emily no longer had the energy to keep her walls up.
“Twenty-five minutes, Sachs,” Emily chided her.
Andy raised an eyebrow, playing along.
“Were you timing me?”
“Of course.” Emily showed her the screen of her phone, displaying the exact time. “I wasn’t the one who brought up minutes in the first place.”
“I thought you were suffering,” Andy said, crossing her arms.
“Let’s not exaggerate." Emily waved her hand dismissively, and her smile lost some of its luster.
Andy walked over to her, waiting for Emily to put her glasses away.
“Hi,” Andy said, gently brushing Emily’s cheek with her knuckles.
“Hi,” Emily replied, closing her eyes for a moment to savor the softness of Andy’s fingers against her skin. On that day, the gentleness of her touch was more than welcome. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime.”
For a moment, they stood in silence—Emily staring off into the distance and Andy watching her intently. She sensed something different about the woman, but she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Then, as Emily stood up from the car and took her first step, she noticed it: a brief, almost imperceptible hesitation. Andy was sure that Emily's right leg bore her weight a moment later than her left.
The imbalance vanished as quickly as it had emerged, and Emily continued walking as if nothing had happened, circling her car to approach the passenger door.
Andy frowned slightly. “Everything okay?”
“Perfectly.”
The response was too quick—automatic. Andy recognized that behavior well.
“Should I drive?” she asked, even though it seemed obvious.
Emily realized she still held the keys. She stared at them for a few seconds, then, to Andy’s surprise, tossed them over the car toward her. Andy caught them midair, relieved she hadn’t dropped them—she knew Emily wouldn’t have appreciated it—but she almost did, considering how strange it felt that she hadn’t even made a sarcastic remark.
“Don’t make that face.”
“What face?” Andy feigned ignorance.
“The one that says you think this is super weird and worth looking into,” Emily snapped, rolling her eyes in her typical manner.
“I didn’t know I had one.”
“Don’t lie—you’ve had it ever since you started working at Runway,” Emily accused, adding jokingly, “You might even have been born with it.”
Andy let out a laugh and hurried around the car to open the door for Emily.
“I still think you’re unbearable,” the redhead muttered as she stepped aside. “You know that, right? It’s important you understand that.”
“Thanks, Em,” Andy replied simply, offering her hand to help Emily into the car.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
Emily took Andy’s hand and leaned in to get in. Then it happened—it was just a flicker, but Andy caught it in the sudden pressure of Emily’s fingers around her hand and in a fleeting expression that crossed her eyes. Her hand instinctively rested on the door frame.
Pain.
It was only a second. Emily followed the path her body was already on, finally sitting down in the seat as if nothing had happened. Andy pretended not to have noticed, but they both knew she’d seen it.
The ride passed with deliberately trivial conversation.
Neither of them mentioned how their roles seemed to have reversed. While Andy usually talked too much, now it was Emily who couldn’t seem to stop sharing the details of her week: a designer who didn’t grasp the basic differences between silk and satin, an impossible-to-please French editor, and an advertising campaign that had to be scrapped at the last minute.
Emily spoke as if nothing were out of the ordinary. Except for those moments when the car hit a pothole or Andy had to swerve suddenly because another car cut them off without signaling; Emily would pause for a fraction of a second or let out a brief whistle, then immediately pick up exactly where she’d left off.
As if those little silences were possible for Andy to ignore.
Those silences were the only thing her mind seemed to cling to.
For Andy, picking up on those tiny details was almost an involuntary process. They weren’t major clues, but they presented themselves to her one after another, compelling her to see what Emily didn’t want her to notice. She observed how the woman next to her would shift her posture slightly every few minutes, how she avoided turning her torso fully, and how she would rest a hand against her right thigh when she thought Andy was focused on the street.
As a journalist, Andy couldn’t help but recognize when the clues began to form a trail.
She wondered if Emily would mind if she chose to follow it.
The clinic occupied the lower floors of a modern building. They found parking on the second basement level, which seemed to put both of them at ease.
Andy parked and turned to Emily. “Ready?”
Emily looked out the window, noting the distance between the car and the elevator. She didn’t answer right away, but when she did, a slight tremor crept into her voice. She reached for the door but hesitated, her hand still on the handle.
“Sort of,” she admitted.
Andy didn’t need to hear anything else. She got out first and walked around the car, opening the passenger door with the same smooth motion she’d seen Miranda’s driver perform hundreds of times. Emily looked up, first noticing Andy’s outstretched hand, then how charming her smile was.
“How old do you think I am, Sachs?” Emily stifled a laugh at the brief look of confusion on Andy’s face.
“Um… is this a trap?” She asked, a hint of uncertainty in her tone, which made Emily laugh again.
“I’m not in my eighties.”
Andy let out a nervous laugh and moved her still-outstretched hand a little closer.
“I never said you were.”
“I can open a door, Andy,” Emily replied, her tone more serious this time.
“I know,” Andy acknowledged, understanding the implication, but she kept her other hand on the door anyway. “Why don’t you just indulge me? I’m already here, after all.”
Emily watched her for a few moments before finally relenting. Taking Andy’s hand firmly, she stepped out of the vehicle much more slowly than Andy had ever seen her do before. She turned her body completely until both feet were on the ground, and only then did she stand upright. Once fully standing, Emily paused for a moment and took a deep breath.
Andy didn’t let go of her hand, nor did Emily release her grip. The journalist focused her gaze on a fire hose on the opposite wall, wanting to give Emily as much privacy as possible. She remained silent until Emily tugged on her hand, catching her by surprise.
“What—?” The question lingered on her lips, but almost immediately, Emily took the car keys that Andy was still holding and headed for the trunk.
“I have to get my gym bag,” Emily said, her face disappearing as the trunk lid lifted.
Andy waited for Emily, intending to walk alongside her once they were done with the car, but as soon as she saw the way the gym bag seemed to slip slightly off the other woman’s shoulder, Andy reached out her hand confidently.
“Give it to me.”
Emily raised an eyebrow, standing still.
“Excuse me?” The defiant tone didn’t go unnoticed by Andy.
“The bag, Em,” the journalist said gently, but without backing down. “Let me carry it.”
Emily stared at her, then took a couple of steps toward the elevator only to stop almost immediately. She clutched the bag a little tighter against her side, without looking back at Andy.
“It weighs less than any handbag, purse, or suitcase you’ve ever seen me carry during our time at Runway.”
“Emily,” Andy insisted, wishing she hadn’t.
“I don’t need—” Emily cut herself off, both because of her words and the slightly raised tone of her voice. She brought three of her fingers to her mouth, as if that might help her contain the turmoil she seemed to be carrying inside. She’d started speaking almost on autopilot, and that was something she disliked—the loss of control.
She looked at Andy, then at her hand tightly gripping the strap of her gym bag. She sighed.
“Just for today,” Emily said, reminding herself that she had asked Andy to be there.
Andy responded immediately, approaching Emily at a leisurely pace while being mindful of how she re-entered her personal space. It was a gesture that Emily both hated and loved simultaneously.
“Just for today,” Andy echoed, smiling at her with her distinctive gentleness, disarming Emily.
As if she were conceding during an international negotiation, Emily set her bag down slowly and cautiously. Perhaps Andy wouldn’t perceive it that way, but for Emily, it felt like loudly revealing a part of the need she desperately tried to suppress.
“Don’t get used to it,” Emily warned as she resumed her walk.
Andy chuckled softly and walked beside her.
“That’s exactly what you said the first time I invited you to dinner—remember?”
“And look how that turned out,” Emily replied, shaking her head in feigned disapproval.
“Well, I’d say it turned out well." Andy leaned in slightly to whisper in her ear. “I got a second date.”
Emily stopped suddenly, causing Andy to nearly stumble as she tried to avoid running into her.
“Your ability to exploit any situation is still alarming.”
With that, Emily continued on her way. Andy blinked, amused, before following her and adjusting the bag on her shoulder. It wasn’t too heavy. The elegant black gym bag featured clean lines and lacked flashy logos. It was spacious enough to hold a pair of sneakers, workout clothes, and a small toiletry bag. At first glance, one might mistake it for a designer travel bag.
Andy wondered why Emily was so adamant about carrying it herself. That is, until she noticed the almost imperceptible relief as Emily's right shoulder dropped a few millimeters and her stride regained some of the natural ease it had lacked when they were on the parking floor of her apartment building.
It wasn’t about the weight of the bag, Andy realized, but rather the burden Emily was accustomed to carrying alone. And how difficult it was for her to release even the smallest of burdens.
The elevator leading to the parking garage had been a later addition to the building, so it opened onto the main street. As a result, they had to walk toward the clinic’s entrance, which required climbing five steps upon getting there.
Emily stopped in front of the steps, prompting Andy to stop as well.
She began to ascend. First step, left leg, then right. Second step, left, then right. And repeat. It was always the same, starting with the same leg. This wasn’t a coincidence. Andy unconsciously slowed her pace to match Emily’s. Neither of them mentioned it.
When they reached the top, Emily exhaled a slightly deeper breath.
“See?” She said, using the irony that served as her shield. “I survived.”
Andy responded in the same tone.
“That was a memorable climb. We should inform the Alpine Club.”
Emily let out a brief but genuine laugh. It lasted only a few seconds—just long enough for her to instinctively bring a hand to her side. Even laughter seemed to cost something that day.
This time, Andy couldn’t convince herself she was imagining things. The signs were there; something had been bothering Emily for a while. It didn’t seem like a recent injury, nor like something simple to resolve—if it even had a solution at all. If it did, Emily wouldn’t have had to learn to live with it to the point of making it invisible.
She didn’t know what it could be or how long Emily had been suffering. But what Andy did know was that Emily—the woman who would have preferred to walk on glass rather than show vulnerability in front of anyone—was letting her carry her gym bag, wasn’t objecting to Andy matching her pace to hers, and was now thanking her for holding the clinic door open.
What might seem insignificant to others was, to Andy, a confession.
As they crossed the threshold of the health center, Andy felt she was gradually getting closer to the truth; she just hoped that Emily would choose to share it with her before she discovered it on her own. She would rather not contribute to the small sacrifices the other woman seemed to have been making even before her phone rang that day.
The interior of the clinic was quiet and significantly warmer than outside, where the rain continued to fall relentlessly. There were plants by the windows, artistic paintings depicting the human body in various poses, and a faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee that gave the place a less clinical atmosphere than Andy had anticipated.
Emily walked through the door with that inherent elegance that seemed to accompany her even on bad days. The receptionist looked up from her computer and smiled at Emily immediately.
“Good afternoon, Miss Charlton.”
The woman didn’t need to ask for Emily’s information, nor was she surprised to see her arrive. On the contrary, she greeted her with the calm familiarity of someone she saw often.
“Good afternoon, Lucy.”
“How did you wake up this morning?”
Emily made a slight grimace. “I could lie to you.”
Lucy laughed knowingly as she typed some information into her computer, then asked Emily if the charge would go on her usual card.
“I see it’s been one of those mornings.”
Emily nodded barely, replying curtly. “Yeah, one of those.”
The woman typed a few more details and then made a call to verify some of the information.
“Morgan will be a few minutes late. Five, at most,” the receptionist said apologetically, but Emily didn’t seem to mind. “Same treatment?”
Emily nodded in agreement. Lucy entered the remaining information and, before completing the process, handed Emily a key, which she accepted with a thank you.
“Perfect. You can wait where you always do, Miss Charlton.”
Andy had been observing the entire exchange from a few steps behind, feeling a slight tightness in her chest when she heard the receptionist's last words.
Where you always do.
So this wasn’t a special visit. On the contrary, it was part of Emily’s routine. There was the same place as always and a usual treatment. There were people there who knew a side of Emily that Andy had never encountered.
They settled in a corner of the waiting room. Emily immediately chose the chair at the far end. After a moment, Andy realized why: it was the only one left with armrests on both sides, making it easier to sit up. Emily exhaled slowly, carefully settling her back against the backrest. It was such a subtle gesture that, on any other day, Andy would have interpreted it as Emily trying to find a comfortable position, but not today.
Andy picked up an architecture magazine from the coffee table in front of them and opened it to a random page. She focused on the images of Gothic castles, knowing she wouldn’t be able to read a single word. Still, she preferred to feign interest, as it allowed Emily to have her space. She didn’t want her to feel like she was constantly analyzing her, even though Andy was eager to ask certain questions and closely observe her reactions as the redhead answered.
A silence settled between them for a couple of minutes. It wasn’t awkward; it was the kind of stillness that exists between two people who no longer feel the need to fill the space with small talk.
But Andy wasn’t the strongest of warriors when it came to Emily.
“Wow,” she finally said, closing the magazine. “I never thought there be a place where someone would greet you with a smile and you’d just accept it.”
Emily frowned slightly, then shrugged, agreeing to play along even though she knew full well that Andy just wanted to chat.
“A carefully cultivated illusion, I’d say.”
“And what about the staff at the clinic?” Andy began, intrigued by how Emily’s interactions with them might differ from her behavior at Runway, Dior, or Coach. “Have they also fallen under your sharp charms?”
A small smile danced on Emily’s lips, but she remained silent.
Andy continued, “Or do you threaten the physical therapists?”
“Only if they use the phrase ‘calm down,’” Emily admitted with a shrug.
“I can definitely picture that,” Andy said, bursting out laughing.
Emily’s smile grew wider.
“The first time Morgan asked me to take a deep breath, I told her I’d been breathing without professional help for decades.” This time, their laughter echoed—Andy’s a bit louder than Emily’s.
“Let me guess…” Andy said, managing to calm down. “She wasn’t impressed.”
“Not at all,” Emily sighed, shaking her head. “She has an annoying resistance to my charm.”
“Impossible,” Andy replied without hesitation.
Emily shot Andy a sidelong glance. “Oh, really?”
Andy turned to face Emily, the only barrier between them being a seat and the gym bag resting atop it.
“I fell for you pretty quickly.”
Emily looked down, silent, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. Andy watched her until she noticed the subtle blush creeping onto her cheeks.
A few more minutes passed before either of them spoke again.
“When I told her that, do you know what Morgan did?” Emily paused for a moment, ensuring she had Andy’s full attention. “She laughed.”
“No,” Andy feigned indignation. “Did she really dare to laugh at you?”
“Right to my face.”
“A lawsuit would be the least of it.”
Emily crossed her arms, finally settling back into her chair.
“I considered it for about five minutes,” she said, amusement evident in her voice.
“And then?” Andy asked in a low, calm tone. If it were up to her, she’d listen to Emily share everything about this place.
Emily’s expression shifted to one reflecting the tedium that the mere memory of that day brought her.
“Then Morgan made me do thirty glute bridges in a row.” Emily shuddered slightly, as if shaking off a chill. “That day, she forfeited any right to a fair trial.”
Andy laughed again, her laughter infectious enough that Emily joined in, albeit briefly. For a moment, the waiting room transformed from a place associated with something being wrong into a somewhat more welcoming atmosphere—akin to that of a coffee shop, though much quieter.
Once they both calmed down, Andy took the plunge and asked a more direct question.
“Do you come here often?”
Emily’s smile gradually faded.
“Enough.”
It was a measured response, perfectly polite in tone but revealing nothing in substance. Andy understood that her answer could imply a multitude of things and thus meant nothing at all—apart from the walls going up around Emily once more. She realized immediately that pressing her for more would not yield results, so she decided to alter her approach.
“Does Morgan always get her way?”
Emily let out an amused snort. “She has this annoying habit of asking questions.”
Andy wanted to laugh but held it back by biting her lower lip. Emily looked at her curiously. “That’s what healthcare professionals usually do, Em,” the journalist explained.
Emily made a small sound of indignation, glancing down at her hands, unsure of what to do with them. “Yeah, but she expects answers,” Emily complained, as if that wasn’t the most normal thing in the world during a health appointment. “Sometimes I wish she’d take the hint when I’m not in the mood.”
Andy stared at her, smiling involuntarily. That sounded exactly like the Emily she knew. She imagined her in those early sessions, responding in monosyllables, deflecting any questions that were too personal, and trying to guide the conversation where she wanted it to go—even when she was clearly not the one in control.
Andy had no trouble believing Emily would argue with her physical therapist.
In fact, she was more surprised by the idea that Morgan kept pushing. Perhaps that spoke to the therapist’s character; for better or worse, she hadn’t given up on Emily.
“It must be exhausting to get an answer out of you,” she teased, a crooked smile forming on her face.
Emily let out a slight snort that could be interpreted as either confirmation or protest. But Andy's mind had fixated on that last comment.
“When I’m not in the mood.”
It hadn’t sounded like a joke or a sarcastic remark. There was something different in Emily’s voice as she recalled those moments—something subdued, something exhausting. Emily always seemed to possess the energy to respond, to argue, to correct, and to deliver a perfectly calculated and witty retort. Andy marveled at it.
That’s why it seemed strange to her to imagine that there were days when that force of nature lacked her usual fervor. Andy wanted to press her, but she understood it wasn’t her place. If Emily wanted to share something, she would do it in her own way. She simply had to be there and receive her veiled confessions as they came—whether like a hurricane or drop by drop like rain.
Faced with her silence, Emily finally broke the tension.
“Are you implying that I’m a difficult patient?”
“Emily…” Andy met her gaze with a knowing smile. “I think you’d even go so far as to negotiate with the anesthesiologist before admitting you need sedation for an operation.”
It was a joke, but Emily didn’t laugh; she held Andy's gaze for two long seconds before looking down at her hands again. She didn’t respond, but her silence spoke louder than any joke.
Andy felt a knot of discomfort in her stomach. Somehow, she had hit the nail on the head.
Unsure how to proceed, Andy decided to change the subject completely.
“You know what? I’m actually pretty proud of myself.”
Emily rolled her eyes, but as some of the tension faded, she looked up at Andy.
“That’s the most amateurish change of subject I’ve ever seen,” she said, bemusedly scolding her attempt. “And you’re supposed to be the one with the gift of gab here.”
“Come on, Em,” Andy urged, smiling at her, just for her. “Give me a break.”
Emily let out a small sigh, almost a laugh. “All right. Why, exactly?”
Satisfied, Andy grabbed her jacket by the lapel and opened it slightly.
“We’ve been together all this time, and you hadn't told me I'm badly dressed.”
Emily scrutinized her with the seriousness of someone evaluating a collection at Fashion Week, a gesture reminiscent of Miranda’s.
“I’ve been making a conscious effort, Sachs.”
Andy let go of her jacket, feigning distress at the criticism.
“I suspected as much.”
Emily shook her head, a slightly more relaxed smile returning to her face—small, but entirely genuine. Andy stared at her, stunned, for a moment longer than she intended. But how could she not, when it was one of those rare smiles? Not the one she showed the rest of the world—sharp like the one she used at Coach, or smug when she knew she was right. It was serene, almost shy.
And it vanished when Emily noticed that Andy was still watching her.
“What?” Emily asked, blushing slightly.
Andy smiled without breaking eye contact. “Nothing.”
Emily narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“I know that ‘nothing.’ It couldn’t be further from the truth.”
Andy sighed and shrugged, as if she weren't concerned about being caught red-handed.
“I was just thinking about how much I enjoy seeing you smile,” she admitted.
Emily let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “Oh my God.”
The journalist tilted her head, feigning innocence. “What?”
“If someone had told me years ago that Andrea Sachs would be sitting with me in a waiting room, trying to convince me to smile more…” Emily shook her head slowly. “I would have questioned their sanity.”
Andy burst out laughing, and this time, Emily couldn’t hold back for long, joining in. For a moment, the atmosphere lightened, and they both nearly forgot why they were there.
They were both still smiling when, at the end of the hallway, a door opened.
“Emily?”
The woman who stepped out wore a dark blue uniform and carried a tablet under her arm. She appeared to be around forty years old, her expression a blend of warmth and firmness typical of someone who had spent years guiding people through lengthy processes.
“Good afternoon, Morgan.”
Emily’s relaxed expression shifted almost immediately, although it didn’t vanish entirely. The lightheartedness that had characterized her laughter just moments before now carefully concealed itself behind the practiced composure she always maintained during these sessions.
The two exchanged a brief side-by-side hug, so natural that Andy realized their relationship must have spanned many years.
Morgan then turned her attention to the journalist.
“You must be Andy,” she stated confidently.
Andy blinked. “How—?”
“Emily talks about you,” the physical therapist explained. After Emily cleared her throat, she added, “Just enough so you’re not a complete mystery.”
Morgan smiled with professional discretion and extended a hand to Andy, who shook it firmly, trying to mask her nervousness.
“Nice to meet you,” was all Andy managed to say.
Morgan then turned to Emily. “Do you want her to come in with you?”
In that brief moment, Andy sensed something stirring silently within Emily. It wasn’t merely because Morgan knew her name. Emily had mentioned Andy. That alone could mean anything; but for Andy, it was the naturalness with which Morgan had brought her up. It felt as if she were already woven into conversations that had taken place long before that day.
What could Emily have shared? Runway? Paris? The dinners? The endless phone calls?
An unexpected warmth filled Andy's chest.
Emily didn’t easily share details of her life—of that, Andy was certain. If Morgan knew her name, it was because Emily had chosen to mention it at least once—more than once, if Andy were to trust the physical therapist’s words.
It was then that Andy took a moment to observe the pause they were in.
It was brief yet striking because Emily rarely hesitated. She made decisions in an instant, steadfastly accepting their consequences. Morgan, in contrast, simply waited for an answer, neither pressing nor attempting to fill the silence, demonstrating that she, too, understood Emily’s pace.
At last, Andy felt Emily’s gaze on her.
For the first time since their arrival, the journalist sensed she was standing at the threshold of a world that Emily had meticulously guarded for years. There was no irony in Emily’s eyes, only a vulnerability so subtle it resonated deeply within Andy.
“Would you mind?” Emily asked softly, her simplicity causing Andy to tremble.
“Of course not.”
Morgan nodded, as if that decision were more solemn and significant than anyone would dare articulate.
“Come with me, please.”
Emily followed Morgan down the hallway, with Andy trailing a few steps behind, still carrying her gym bag.
The sounds of the waiting room gradually faded behind them. Only when the door closed did Emily exhale slowly, releasing the tension she had been holding.
“The locker rooms are empty. I’ll wait for you inside,” Morgan said. She then turned to Andy and added, “Come with me; I’ll grab a chair so you can join us.”
Emily nodded and gestured for Andy to hand her the gym bag. Andy carefully passed it over before following Morgan into the main exercise room. Emily stayed silent, and only when she saw them disappear through another door did she make her way to the locker rooms.
As she entered, a blanket of silence enveloped her, and Emily felt a wave of relief wash over her, grateful for the solitude. She placed her bag on a bench in front of the locker assigned to her by Lucy, then walked toward the restroom area.
Resting both hands on the edge of the sink, Emily gazed into her reflection.
Her makeup was still flawless, as was her hair. Her usual appearance remained pristine and untouched. Yet, in a few minutes, that would change. The redhead’s eyes in her reflection stared back at her, mirroring the same disapproval she often felt in her daily life whenever something bothered her. Emily took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then exhaled slowly. She looked at her reflection again, and the harshness in her expression had faded.
Carefully, she sat down in front of her locker and began to change with precise, almost automatic movements. Each piece of clothing had been selected to enhance her workouts while still reflecting her personal style.
Her form-fitting black Lululemon jacket allowed Morgan to observe her posture during exercises, as it clearly outlined every line of her shoulders and back. Underneath, the fabric of her top and leggings, also from the same brand, was incredibly soft and stretchy, allowing her to move freely without compressing her pelvis or restricting the mobility of her hips—something Emily had come to value more than any seasonal trend over the years. Finally, her slip-on APL sneakers enabled her to slide her feet in and out effortlessly, without needing to bend down when her hip muscles protested even the slightest movement.
Living with pain had taught her to make these kinds of choices.
Simple, functional clothing—that was the key.
Nothing like the perfectly tailored suit she had just carefully stowed away in her locker.
Sitting on that bench struck her as curious. For years, she had learned to shed her authority with the same precision with which she donned it each morning. It no longer bothered her to do so in front of Morgan. The physical therapist had witnessed her struggle to walk, her anger after exercises, and her tears of frustration after setbacks and had been there to celebrate each of her improvements, no matter how insignificant they might seem.
With Morgan, there was nothing left to prove. But with Andy…
She closed her eyes for a moment. Andy was an entirely different matter.
She still had time to change her mind. She could walk out of the locker room, smile with the impeccable calm she had perfected over decades, and say she’d rather do the session alone. It would be the easiest thing in the world.
But she also knew Andy well enough to anticipate what would come next. Andy wouldn’t argue or try to convince her otherwise. She’d just nod with that almost painful understanding reflected in her eyes—those same eyes that took on the unbearable look of an abandoned puppy, the kind that apologizes even when it hasn’t done anything wrong.
And Emily wasn’t sure which was harder for her to bear: letting Andy in or watching her walk away with that expression, knowing that it was she who had once again put up walls around herself.
Yes, it might be the simplest thing to do, but at the end of the day, it would be a lie.
Emily had called Andy precisely because she wanted her there. Even if Emily finds it hard to admit, she wanted Andy there. For the first time in a long while, she hadn’t wanted to be alone as she walked through the clinic’s door. That truth disarmed her more than any rehabilitation exercise ever could. And her feet itched from how much she wanted to run away.
The tightness in her chest was palpable, and the stinging in her eyes from welling tears was irritating. Emily refused to reapply her makeup just because she’d allowed herself to be overcome by that primal fear—one whose origin she couldn’t even remember, one that had always been there.
It was easier to endure the pain than to admit she needed someone—Andy.
Yet, ignoring the unease that circulated like poison in her mind was equally challenging.
Nothing could remain unchanged after this day. But Emily feared it would be a reality she couldn’t live with. She wasn’t overly concerned about pity; she believed she could manage that. However, if she caught even a hint of disappointment in Andy’s eyes upon seeing her there, Emily didn’t think she could survive that.
If Andy began to see her solely as someone who constantly needed help, it would destroy her. Emily pressed her lips together slightly.
She shook her head. She was being ridiculous.
Andy had never given her any reason to think that way. On the contrary, ever since they had arrived at the clinic, she hadn’t asked a single uncomfortable question or tried to rush Emily’s timeline. She simply walked beside her, seeing her need not as mere fragility but as the humanity behind her request.
She was waiting for her—without demanding explanations or intruding on her silences. Andy exhibited a patience that Emily would never have attributed to her years ago.
A small smile slipped onto her face before she could stop it. They had indeed changed over all that time.
Andrea Sachs.
The same woman Emily once believed incapable of surviving a week at Runway. The same woman who was now waiting, seated—surely nervous and somewhat confused—in the therapy room a couple of doors down. All because Emily had uttered, almost in a whisper, the words she found hardest to say.
“Could you come with me?”
She sat up slowly, her hip protesting immediately. She took a deep breath, just as Morgan had taught her. When she regained her balance, she finally made her way to her session.
Emily was still afraid. Afraid that Andy would see too much. Afraid that she would finally grasp the significant role pain played in her life and how many aspects of her existence revolved around managing it. Yet, alongside that fear, there was something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time: relief.
She wouldn’t have to pretend to be perfectly fine for the next hour. For the first time in a long while, that thought brought her a sense of peace.
The main room was spacious, well-lit, and organized into various stations to treat multiple patients simultaneously. Treatment tables lined one side, with curtains that could be drawn for privacy when necessary. In the central area, there was ample space to move around, practice balance exercises, and work on walking. A large mirror almost entirely covered one wall, allowing Andy to observe as some patients received assistance in correcting their posture with each movement.
Elastic bands of different colors hung neatly from holders, along with therapy balls, balance discs, rehabilitation steps, light dumbbells, and wooden bars mounted on the wall. The variety left Andy speechless; some patients were working on their fingers with small elastic bands, while others used resistance bands to target larger muscle groups. In another corner, various professionals supervised other patients as they exercised on stationary bikes and a treadmill.
Morgan noticed Andy’s gaze drifting around the room.
“Don’t worry,” the woman said as she patted Andy on the back and pulled up a small stool for her to sit on. “It looks more chaotic than it really is.”
Andy thanked her and took a seat. “It’s bigger than I imagined.”
Morgan smiled while preparing the materials for the session.
“We need the space,” Morgan explained, her focus unwavering from the tasks at hand. “We rarely treat problems here that require just one type of therapy.”
Andy surveyed the people scattered among the treatment tables, parallel bars, and exercise area. The atmosphere was surprisingly calm. She could hear hushed conversations, the scrape of sneakers on the polished wooden floor, the occasional technical instruction, and the steady breathing of those repeating exercises. Nothing seemed particularly intimidating, but Andy recognized that her perspective was limited. She recalled attending physical therapy sessions as a child after breaking her arm from a fall, but this setting was unlike anything she had experienced.
“I guess you just get used to it,” Andy said, attempting to bridge the silence.
“To the space, yes,” Morgan replied with a serene smile. “To witness the progress of those who come to us… hopefully, never.”
A few moments later, Andy looked up at the sound of the door opening.
It took her a while to recognize Emily. Without the elegant ensembles she typically wore, Emily appeared different. Her black athletic attire was still impeccable, perfectly coordinated, and distinctive, but the protective armor that usually kept her at a distance from the world was absent.
Emily avoided making eye contact as she approached.
She entered the room with a studied nonchalance, as if this were just another session and not the first time she had allowed someone to glimpse that part of her life. Andy understood the message immediately; she didn’t need Emily to articulate it.
If Emily was making such a significant effort to act normal, the least Andy could do was mirror her behavior. So she offered a small smile, remained seated, and waited for Emily to set the tone in this space that she clearly felt was as much her own as it was vulnerable.
Morgan placed her tablet at the foot of the treatment table.
“How was your week?” The physical therapist inquired out of routine, though based on Emily’s appearance, she likely already had an idea of what might be troubling her.
Emily let out a hollow laugh.
“I’ve been averaging less than five hours of sleep each day,” Emily began to list, and from the corner of her eye, she noticed Andy’s eyes widening with every new detail. “I took two international flights, attended a gala, endured long meetings in uncomfortable chairs, and yesterday spent about twelve hours on my feet. It rained today, and the elevators in my building were out of service.”
Morgan crossed her arms. “Emily.”
“Yes?”
Andy had a fleeting flashback as she watched Emily look away. She clearly recalled the young assistant’s restrained expression when she realized that Miranda had read her like an open book. With her piercing blue gaze and velvety voice, Miranda stated the harshest truths without allowing Emily time to formulate even a halfway satisfactory response. Any attempt to maintain her composure was completely futile.
“That wasn’t a question. You worked too hard.”
Emily nodded ever so slightly. Morgan picked up her tablet to take notes.
“On a pain scale of one to ten, what’s your highest pain level since we last saw each other?”
“Eight this morning.”
“And now?”
“Six.”
“Have you ever felt less than that?”
“On other days, the usual. Two.”
Andy registered it immediately.
The usual: two. The nonexistent: the absence of pain.
“Electric shock sensations?"
Emily nodded. “A couple times. When I've moved my ankle.” Morgan remained silent, waiting for her to elaborate. “It feels like an electric current—quick, just a few seconds.”
“Do you feel it in your foot?” The physical therapist asked, observing Emily's gestures indicating the most affected areas.
“No, it’s mainly in my thigh, on the back and the side. I don’t think it goes past the knee.” Morgan nodded as she jotted down a brief note. “It hasn’t changed since last week. Same intensity.”
“Did it subside on its own?”
Emily sighed, and Andy noticed a slight movement in her right foot, as if merely discussing her ankle prompted her to move it—despite knowing the discomfort involved. But she held back.
“Yes, after that, all that was left was the usual feeling of tightness.”
Morgan made a few more notes on the tablet and then set it back on the treatment table.
“That suggests the irritation is still localized and not persistent.”
Emily exhaled slowly.
“Is that your long-winded way of saying I’m still the same as always?”
Morgan smiled at her, dismissing the sarcasm.
“It’s the professional way of saying you haven’t gotten any worse in that regard.”
With a slight nod, Emily acknowledged the explanation. Whether the moment was a personal victory for her, Andy wasn’t sure, but judging by the subtle curve of her lips, she sensed there was something positive about it.
“Okay. Let’s see how you’re walking,” Morgan announced, gesturing for Emily to move toward the center of the room, where a large, clearly marked space awaited her.
She began to walk across the room at a leisurely pace. Each step was carefully calculated before it touched the floor, her body instinctively aware of how much she could push her hip without triggering an immediate response of pain.
Andy felt a knot in her stomach. The difference, to her eyes, was obvious.
Outside that room, Emily had concealed every step with almost extraordinary skill—keeping her back straight, her pace steady, and her expression neatly collected. The only reason Andy had even noticed anything was that this day had been worse than others, but when she tried to recall previous occasions, she couldn’t remember a single instance where Emily’s gait had particularly drawn her attention. Yet there, in the middle of the therapy room, they both understood that it no longer made sense to pretend in front of someone like Morgan, who was familiar with every compensatory movement the redhead employed.
The limp was subtle, but it was there.
Just as Andy had noticed before, the amount of time Emily placed her weight on her right leg was slightly less than on her left. However, the way her leg swung with each step was now more evident—the manner in which Emily sought to ease the strain on her injured joint by moving it as little as possible without sacrificing too much functionality. To most people, it would go unnoticed. But from the notes Morgan seemed to be taking, Andy concluded that every variation told a story.
The physical therapist observed the walk in silence, paying attention to the alignment of the knees, the swing of the arms, the stride length, and the way Emily shifted her weight from one side to the other. Only when Emily completed the walk and returned to the starting point did Morgan stop jotting down her notes.
“A little better than two weeks ago,” she informed Emily.
The redhead wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her jacket.
“That’s something.”
“Let’s head to the treatment table.”
Emily obeyed. Sitting down already required some effort; lying down, even more so. She did it slowly, first leaning on her elbows before allowing her back to rest completely on the flat surface. Morgan placed a small pillow under her head, ensuring her neck was correctly positioned, and another under her left knee to relieve pressure on her pelvis.
She then positioned herself next to Emily's right hip.
“Watch closely, okay?” She whispered to Andy, who jumped slightly in surprise at being addressed directly but nodded vigorously in response. “Alright, Emily. I’m going to start slowly.”
Emily nodded, taking a deep breath. Morgan slid one hand under her thigh, just above the knee, while the other hand stabilized the top of the hip bone to prevent the pelvis from compensating for the movement. She continued by gently flexing the hip, bringing the thigh toward the torso just a few degrees, without trying to force the range of motion. Her goal was simply to find the point where the joint began to tense up.
“Let me know before it hurts.”
Emily kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Morgan increased the flexion by a few more degrees, making a very slight outward movement, seeking a small opening of the hip. Andy observed the delicacy with which she worked and noted how Emily’s body responded, especially her expression. No jerking, no sudden movements. It was as if they were solving a three-dimensional puzzle.
Emily’s fingers began to grip the edge of the table tightly. “Now.”
Morgan halted her movement immediately.
“What kind of characteristics?”
“Sharp.”
“In the groin?”
Emily nodded. “And a little toward the back.”
Morgan slightly adjusted the angle, moving the leg a few degrees toward the mid-line and reducing the flexion. She repeated the movement, and this time, Emily’s breathing remained steady. Emily nodded in response to the question about whether that felt better, so Morgan continued with several slow mobilizations, alternating between flexion, slight external rotation, and small glides of the joint. Each movement was precise and measured, maintaining a constant dialogue with Emily’s pain. When she finished, she lowered the leg just as slowly as she had raised it.
“Let’s move on to the bridges.”
Emily immediately obeyed, bending her knees and resting the soles of her feet on the treatment table. Morgan ensured that Emily's knees were aligned with her hips and slid a hand beneath her lower back.
“Engage your core first,” she instructed, pausing for a moment. “Now squeeze your glutes.”
Emily followed the guidance, and only then did she slowly lift her pelvis. The movement elevated her slender body just a few centimeters off the table, forming an almost straight line between her shoulders, pelvis, and knees.
It was an exercise in precision; the goal wasn’t to lift her body as high as possible but to maintain that specific position. Morgan aimed for each muscle to perform its role without Emily's back bearing any strain or her pelvis tilting to one side.
“Hold it for three seconds.”
Morgan counted using the colloquial “Mississippi” method—something that Emily seemed to question. The physical therapist responded with a smile, ensuring Emily lowered her body carefully once she completed the hold.
Emily descended vertebra by vertebra, with meticulous slowness.
Andy observed from her position, speechless as the revelations unfolded before her. An exercise she would have previously labeled as a warm-up now revealed its complexity. In just a few minutes, she learned to be wary of small movements, as those seemed to demand the most from Emily.
The first four repetitions passed with apparent ease. The fifth was noticeably slower. By the sixth, Andy noticed a slight tremor begin to ripple through Emily's thighs and glutes, barely visible beneath the black fabric of her leggings. It was fatigue. Morgan noticed it too but chose not to intervene.
“Those are exactly the muscles she needs to work,” Morgan murmured to Andy, who could only nod in response.
A knot formed in the journalist’s stomach. She had never seen Emily push herself like that outside of feats, such as running across Manhattan in impossibly high heels or carrying numerous garment bags as if they were feathers. Andy had always associated Emily with absolute control, even in those youthful moments when it seemed that control was on the verge of slipping away.
This was a different kind of strength Andy was discovering in that moment.
Silent, yet powerful. Like the eye of a hurricane. And incredibly personal.
“Ten seconds’ rest,” Morgan said.
Emily lowered her pelvis onto the stretcher with the same care as before and closed her eyes for just a moment.
“Is this really what you call a break, Morgan?”
The physical therapist didn’t even look up from the notes on her tablet.
“Enough to get through the next five reps,” the woman declared.
A grimace spread across Emily’s face, dangerously close to a smile.
“I’m starting to suspect you enjoy this.”
“Oh,” Morgan set her tablet aside and looked at Emily, showing no sign that the comments bothered her. “And I thought you’d come to that conclusion during our first session.”
Andy let out a soft laugh. It was a strange contrast. Emily kept joking, not to downplay what they were doing but as a way to cope with the exertion of the exercise without letting it overwhelm her.
Morgan waited a few more seconds. “Again.”
Emily raised her pelvis again, and the tremor set in more quickly this time. Each repetition required visibly greater effort to maintain alignment, yet Emily kept her pelvis steady, her knees stable, and the descent slow and controlled.
Andy found herself admiring something she had never thought possible: the very stubbornness that had often placed her and Emily on opposite sides of a situation was now what allowed her to refuse to perform a sloppy repetition.
After completing the last one, Emily let her back rest on the bench. There were no complaints, no drama—just a small look of satisfaction on her face.
Morgan took a closed resistance band and slid it around both of Emily’s legs, just above the knees. She quickly checked the tension, then placed a hand on Emily’s pelvis. After weighing an idea for a few seconds, the physical therapist looked up at Andy.
“Would you like to help?”
Andy immediately stepped up to the side of the stretcher. Her eyes sought Emily’s, and she granted her permission with a slight nod, unable to look at Andy fully.
“Sure,” Andy replied, raising her hands in front of her, ready for instructions.
Morgan pointed to Emily’s right hip.
“Place one hand here,” she said, pointing to the exact spot she meant. “Press down—can you feel it?” she asked. Andy nodded as she felt the solid bone beneath her fingers. The physical therapist gave a nod of approval. “That’s the iliac crest. Just go with it. If you notice her trying to rotate her pelvis or lean to one side, let me know. Got it?”
Andy obeyed with care, resting her palm on the edge of Emily’s pelvis. Her hand exerted barely any pressure; it served more as a point of reference than a force intended to immobilize her. Her expression of concentration was evident. Watching Andy from the corner of her eye, Emily chuckled to herself.
Morgan nodded.
“Perfect, that’s right. The idea is for all the movement to come from the hips, not the torso.” She turned her full attention to Emily before adding, “Engage your core… and now, slowly spread your knees apart.”
The band began to tighten immediately. Emily spread her legs just a few centimeters, overcoming the resistance of the rubber without allowing her pelvis to move beneath Andy’s hand. It wasn’t a wide gap—barely five centimeters, Andy estimated. However, keeping her pelvis completely stable while her hip muscles did the work required extraordinary control.
Andy sensed a slight tendency for the pelvis to follow the movement, and, almost without realizing it, she kept her hand firmly in the spot Morgan indicated. This offered Emily a point of support without preventing her from moving—one where her torso didn’t compensate for the effort.
“Don’t let your pelvis rotate,” Morgan remarked, and Emily corrected it immediately. “That’s it. All the movement comes from the hip.”
Morgan sought Andy’s eyes and, without making a sound—hoping the journalist could read her lips—murmured, “You’re doing it right, exactly like that,” finishing with a kind smile.
Emily repeated the exercise. Andy noticed how the muscles in the redhead's thighs and hips began to define themselves beneath the black fabric of her leggings, every millimeter a silent negotiation between them and the pain.
“Hold it for two seconds,” Morgan instructed, keeping her eyes on Emily's pelvis. When she detected the slightest tendency to lean to one side—so subtle that not even Andy noticed it—the physical therapist placed one of her hands on Andy’s and spoke to Emily. “Straighten up, no rotation.”
Emily corrected her position immediately, without any protest.
The difference was barely noticeable, but Morgan smiled. “Much better.”
Andy remained focused on her role. Initially, she believed her part would be nearly symbolic, but she now recognized that her hand allowed Emily to make an early correction, thus preventing a change in resistance. Neither of them wanted the exercise to deviate from Morgan's intent: to strengthen the muscles responsible for stabilizing the pelvis every time Emily took a step.
Emily’s face showed no signs of discomfort, even though Andy was observing her with a level of attention that other situations didn’t permit. Although the redhead's expression remained neutral, Andy noted how Emily’s breathing had deepened and become more measured, along with the subtle tension building in her jaw.
That impressed her more than any indication of pain.
Emily was exerting tremendous effort to complete a movement that, just a few minutes prior, Andy would have deemed almost insignificant.
“Five more reps.”
Emily exhaled slowly.
“What entity decided that a few simple centimeters could be so exhausting?”
Morgan shook her head in amusement. “No entity—those are your gluteus medius muscles. They’re pretty demanding.”
Andy smiled without moving her hand, a chuckle already playing on her lips.
“Noted. I’ll never underestimate five centimeters again.”
Emily turned her head toward Andy, moving with a speed she hadn’t seen from her all day.
“Sachs!” Emily exclaimed, feigning indignation as she gently poked the journalist in the stomach.
Andy and Morgan laughed heartily, and a brief smile finally appeared at the corner of Emily’s lips.
For the next exercise, Morgan placed a high-density foam pad in front of a section of the main mirror in the room.
“Now, balance,” he announced.
Emily let out a theatrical sigh as she stepped down from the table.
“I knew the fun part couldn’t last.”
Morgan watched her from her crouched position beside the cushion.
“We haven’t even started with blind exercises yet,” she reminded her with absolute calm.
“What a relief.”
Andy smiled, staying a few steps behind.
Emily stepped carefully onto the cushion, first placing one foot and then the other. The surface yielded slightly under her weight, requiring her ankles to make quick, subtle adjustments to maintain her balance. Andy observed how the exercise showcased the body’s ability to adapt to instability.
Each small movement of Emily's ankles elicited responses from her knees, hips, and abdomen, all working together to prevent her body from tipping to one side. Just a few more centimeters, and she would have fallen.
Morgan stood on one side, while Andy took the opposite side, both without needing direction.
“Just to be safe,” Andy said, though her reassurance fell flat.
Emily raised an eyebrow. “How thoughtful of you.”
Morgan, amused by the situation, quickly defended Andy. “Here, we like to ensure our patients don’t fall during their sessions,” she shrugged. “It’s a pretty popular policy.”
Andy smiled, and Emily discreetly rolled her eyes, though the tension in her shoulders revealed that any lightheartedness was appreciated.
Regaining her seriousness, Morgan began to give instructions.
“Try to distribute your weight evenly between both legs,” she instructed, pointing to one foot and then the other. “Don’t lock your knees. Remember to look straight ahead, not at the floor.”
Emily nodded, focusing her gaze on her own reflection. Andy followed suit.
For the first time, Andy could clearly observe the effort Emily was exerting without her being able to mask it with an impeccable outfit or a witty remark. The muscles around her hips worked tirelessly, making tiny adjustments that rippled through the rest of her body. Andy could no longer ignore them, even if she tried.
Emily’s arms extended slightly to the sides, attempting to compensate for the twist. Her back assumed certain angles to facilitate their work. Gradually, Andy was learning to interpret the silent language of Emily’s body: she recognized when Emily was holding her breath, when her jaw tensed from the effort, and when a minor movement required an inordinate amount of exertion.
That’s why, on the third attempt, when the cushion unexpectedly gave way under Emily's right foot, Andy reacted instinctively upon seeing the redhead lose her balance. Her hand reached out to catch her, purely by reflex. Their hands met before either of them fully recognized the gesture. Andy's fingers closed around Emily's, while her other hand gently rested on her lower back—not to hold her tightly, but just enough to provide a stable point of support for her to regain her balance.
Emily steadied herself on both feet, and the swaying subsided for the most part. However, neither of them withdrew their hands immediately.
A few silent seconds passed until their eyes met in the mirror’s reflection. Andy felt Emily gradually relax her grip, as if she were just now becoming aware of their contact. When Andy finally released her hold, Emily’s uncertain gaze sought a place to hide, settling on her feet as an escape.
“I hope that doesn’t incur an extra charge,” Emily joked, trying to lighten the mood.
Andy smiled—what else could she do?—and exhaled the breath she had been holding.
“I think we’ll have to ask Morgan.”
The physical therapist noted something down on her tablet without looking up.
“As long as they don’t ask me to bill it as couples therapy, everything’s fine,” she said, glancing at the silence that followed and letting out a lighthearted laugh when she noticed the other two women were completely flushed.
Emily shook her head, feeling resigned.
“I knew you were enjoying this way too much.”
“So much—you have no idea,” Morgan replied with unwavering composure. “Now, focus. We still have two reps left.”
The final exercises were, as always, the most challenging.
Morgan slipped an elastic band around Emily’s ankles, checking the tension.
“Last exercise: partial squats and side lunges.”
With her hands on her hips, Emily let her head fall back for a moment. She took a deep breath and braced herself for what was coming. Even Andy sensed that she would struggle with that exercise if she attempted it.
“I knew that ‘we’re almost done’ came with fine print,” Emily remarked, her tone lacking sharpness.
She snorted with a hint of resignation but assumed the proper position, placing her feet hip-width apart to establish a stable stance.
“Remember: only go as far as you can control,” Morgan instructed, crouching beside her and placing one hand on Emily’s right knee. “Don’t focus on depth; it’s all about stability.”
Emily slowly bent her knees, lowering herself a few centimeters until the band began to provide the necessary resistance, causing the muscles in her hips to tense.
“Perfect. Hold that height,” Morgan said, only moving on to the next step when she felt Emily’s posture was correct. “Now, take three steps to the right.”
Emily took the first step—small and controlled. The second required more effort. When it came time for the third, Andy caught a glimpse of that split second when Emily seemed to have to convince her body to obey. Silently, the journalist witnessed that quiet determination with which she was becoming increasingly familiar. Her heart pounded in response.
“Now turn back.”
The first step to the left was a bit slower, as was the second. The strap continued to pull at her ankles with indifferent persistence, forcing the rest of her muscles—especially those in her pelvis—to stabilize with each shift in weight. An indescribable emotion washed over Andy as she recognized Emily’s struggle to maintain something most people took for granted: walking normally.
Without thinking too much about it, Andy began to count.
“Two… three… four…” Each number marked a repetition.
From her vantage point, Emily observed the journalist’s reflection in the mirror. Even with her back turned, the tension in Andy’s shoulders was palpable, along with her slightly quicker, shallower breaths. Emily also noticed that every step she took was accompanied by a tap from one of Andy’s index fingers on her thigh.
“Who decided that counting out loud motivates people?”
Andy didn’t respond; instead, Morgan chimed in.
“I haven’t met that person yet, but I like them.” The physical therapist smiled, keeping her focus on the alignment of the knees. “If I ever run into them, I’ll suggest they come work for us.”
Emily let out a brief, incredulous laugh. “That explains a lot.”
“Seven… eight…”
By then, fatigue was already apparent.
A faint, persistent tremor had gripped Emily’s legs, making each step require a little more effort than the last. Nevertheless, she continued to adjust the position of her knees and maintain the tension of the band with stubborn meticulousness.
Andy felt a growing admiration, tinged with sadness. She remembered all the times she had seen Emily glide through an office, a showroom, or an event with absolute confidence, convinced that such elegance came as naturally to her as breathing. Now she understood the truth—behind every step lay hours of unseen effort.
Emily frowned. “I’m not doing ten,” she muttered.
Andy smiled, beaming.
“You already did.”
Emily stopped abruptly, looking up.
“What…?”
“You just finished,” Andy confirmed.
Emily quickly turned to Morgan, seeking reassurance that the comment wasn’t just another of Andy’s jokes, however honest the journalist might sound. The physical therapist simply nodded.
For a moment, Emily stood completely still. Then she let the tension leave her shoulders and carefully stood up, mindful of her still-trembling legs. A weary laugh escaped her lips before she could hold it back.
“What a cheap psychological trick, Andy.”
“But it worked,” the journalist replied, unable to hide the satisfaction in her voice.
Emily brought her legs together and took a few steps out of the elastic band, careful not to get tangled in it. Once she was clear, Morgan picked it up off the floor.
“I’m starting to think you two planned this before I even got here,” Emily accused, crossing her arms. “Are you planning an intervention?”
“Not yet,” Morgan said, putting away her equipment as if Emily hadn’t just accused her of conspiracy. “We’d need more people for that.”
Emily shot Andy a sidelong glance before turning back to Morgan.
“Don’t recruit any volunteers.”
Andy offered a warm but restrained smile. She stepped closer to Emily, standing beside her. “In my case, there’s no need to recruit me; I'm already in,” she said quietly.
Emily turned to face her, holding Andy's gaze long enough to grasp the journalist's implication. Her cheeks were already flushed from the physical exertion, but she could feel her ears starting to burn as well. After a moment, Emily looked away, a slight grimace of resignation on her face.
“That was exactly what I was worried about.”
Andy chuckled softly.
When the series of exercises ended, Morgan retrieved a bottle of water from a small cooler at the back of the room and handed it to Emily.
Emily took it with both hands, her fingers still trembling from the cumulative effort of the session. She settled into the seat that Andy had previously occupied, resting the bottle on her lap for a few moments before unscrewing the cap and taking a couple of long sips.
She sighed after drinking, feeling as though she had exhausted almost all her energy on the last repetition. Her muscles felt heavy, while her bones were made of wool. She had yet to slip into the usual post-workout daze; her muscles were still burning from the effort.
Andy watched Emily in silence, noting how her exhaustion manifested. There was something about the way she sat, shoulders slightly slumped and gaze unfocused, that made her realize this exhaustion was unlike that of a grueling day’s work—much deeper and more complex.
Morgan reviewed her latest notes before closing the medical record. She moved on to another section, checked a couple of boxes, and nodded to herself.
“Mobility has improved slightly since the previous evaluation,” she reported, her attention still on the tablet. “Strength as well.”
Andy smiled, even though it wasn’t her positive news to celebrate. But she couldn’t help it. After everything she’d witnessed during that hour, hearing that Emily’s efforts were paying off filled her with joy.
“That sounds good,” she said.
Morgan returned a discreet smile. “It is.”
After a few seconds, the physical therapist turned to Emily. Her voice conveyed the serene satisfaction of someone who has spent years observing every step a patient takes—steps filled with small but significant progress, the kind that, when added together, creates major turning points.
“Especially considering where we started.”
Emily stared at Morgan with a neutral expression. A split second later, she realized the direction of the conversation and attempted to intervene, but time was against her.
Morgan continued with the same natural ease she displayed while discussing any other aspect of clinical progress.
“After a car accident like the one you experienced so many years ago,” the physical therapist’s face momentarily grew serious as she recalled her first session with Emily, “and given the pelvic and knee injuries it left you with, maintaining this level of functionality is no small feat. The fact that we’re still able to gain mobility today, twenty years later, speaks volumes about both your treatment and your perseverance.”
Time seemed to freeze.
The smile faded from Andy’s face, as if it had never existed.
Her gaze shifted slowly from Morgan to Emily almost instinctively, searching for any sign on the redhead's face that she had misheard, that part of the story was missing, or that Morgan was misremembering the details—that she couldn’t possibly be talking about Emily.
All she received in response was silence. Emily didn’t look up.
The slight tension in her jaw was enough for Andy; she realized immediately that this conversation should never have taken place in front of her, and Emily would have given anything to spare her that truth.
But now, all the cards were on the table.
The pieces Andy had been putting together ever since she answered Emily’s call suddenly clicked into place, so abruptly that the impact of it all stung in her chest. The physical therapy, the regular sessions, the stairs, the gym bag, the lower heels, the way she sat, the pause before each first step, the fact that humidity and cold weren’t welcome—everything pointed to one undeniable truth.
Andy had ruled out from the start that it was a recent injury, and as the day progressed, she had begun to doubt it was merely a relapse. Now it all made sense.
The pain plaguing Emily was a consequence of that accident.
She could still recall the crash that echoed in her mind, the sound she’d carried deep within her being for years. Andy remembered that moment with startling clarity: their conversation had ended abruptly with the sound of traffic, a deafening screech of brakes, a sharp crash, shattering glass, voices turning into screams, and Emily’s sudden silence. Above all, that damned silence.
Andy didn’t remember how many times she had called out Emily’s name without receiving a response.
She was left in a state of uncertainty, not knowing if Emily was even alive and having no idea how to reach her.
All she could do was hold the receiver to her ear, listening as time seemed to freeze for Emily, leaving her with no way to intervene.
That feeling of utter helplessness lingered deep within her.
Eventually, Emily was discharged from the hospital. She returned to work, regaining her sense of humor, her impeccable style, and that confident way of walking that convinced everyone that she had left everything behind. And Andy, like everyone else, ended up believing that the horrible memory was a thing of the past.
Unbeknownst to them, Emily was still paying the price.
The journalist felt nauseous as she realized how the world had moved on around Emily—including Andy herself.
Emily still wouldn’t meet her gaze. Her eyes were locked on the water bottle in her hands. There was no resentment or shame on her face, not even a trace of understandable anger—just a dull resignation.
There stood the redhead, the fashionista, the woman who had reinvented herself countless times, the fragile young woman who had weathered this storm alone, now surrounded by crumbling walls. Staring at the ruins, unsure whether to leave that place or begin rebuilding.
Andy remained silent.
Anything she could say in that moment would feel trivial compared to the weight of what she had just uncovered. Instead, she chose to do the one thing she sensed Emily might need from her since the start of the day.
She approached quietly, and without any flair or intention of making the gesture an act of pity, Andy gently placed one of her hands on Emily’s shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.
Emily didn’t pull away.
The trip back was spent almost entirely in silence.
It wasn’t an awkward silence; it had been months since there had been one like that between them. It was a pause amid all those emotions—a moment to breathe, to be themselves, both separately and in the comfort of their shared space. At the same time, Andy compared it to a roller coaster, that moment just before plummeting into the void, when you reach the top of the ride and know an avalanche of emotions awaits you ahead. That’s how Andy felt, aware that they would eventually have to talk, but not wanting to do so while the world continued to exist around them.
Andy drove with both hands on the steering wheel. The rain fell with hypnotic consistency, tracing lines across the wet windshield before the wipers made them disappear, again and again.
Every now and then, when traffic allowed, she would glance over at Emily.
What she saw hadn’t changed since they’d left the clinic. Her head rested against the headrest, her eyes closed, one hand limp on the seat belt, the other resting in her lap, and her breathing was calm—perhaps too calm. She wasn’t asleep; Andy knew that.
“Is there a lot of traffic?” Emily asked without opening her eyes.
“Less than I expected,” Andy replied in a low voice.
Emily gave a slight nod. “Good. Drive carefully.”
“Sure.”
The sound of rain tapping against the windows and the soft hum of the engine filled the silence in the car once again. Andy noticed the pallor of her knuckles and made an effort to relax her grip on the steering wheel.
Her mind couldn’t stop dwelling on the events of less than an hour ago—Emily losing her balance on the mat, trembling as she held a bridge pose, putting all her effort into moving just five centimeters without making a mistake, the shaking of her legs every time they reached the halfway point of the exercises, and, above all, Morgan’s words.
“After a car accident like the one you experienced...”
The next traffic light turned red, and Andy braked gently. Without taking her eyes off the road, she spoke in a deliberately casual tone—one she knew wouldn’t fool Emily, but she didn’t have the capacity to worry about that at the moment.
“Do you want me to stop at a pharmacy on the way?”
Emily shook her head slowly. “No need. I have everything I need at home.”
Andy nodded, not pressing the issue right away. However, they had only driven one more block when the journalist could no longer contain herself, choosing to ask questions that distracted her from the ones truly gnawing at her.
“Is anyone going to be with you this afternoon?”
Emily opened one eye to glance at her before shutting it again, sensing the barely concealed nervousness radiating from the woman beside her.
“Is that your subtle way of asking if you can stay?” Emily asked, offering a smile tinged with pity for the journalist.
Andy let out a small laugh—brief and nearly inaudible, infused with a mix of nervousness and relief.
“I’m working on it,” she replied simply, her voice unexpectedly light.
“You need to practice more.”
“If you say so.” Andy glanced sideways and noticed Emily staring at her, which startled her a bit. “Okay, you’re probably right.”
Emily returned to her previous position, releasing a weary sigh.
“You’re surprisingly persistent, you know that?” It was more of a comment than a question, and Andy chose to take it as such.
“I adapt to the circumstances,” she replied defensively.
A soft smile flickered at the corners of Emily’s lips.
“We agree on that.”
But the smile was fleeting, disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared. Glancing sideways, Andy sensed it. She felt an overwhelming, almost crude urge to release the feelings that threatened to engulf her, as well as a strong desire to ask Emily why she had chosen to bear that burden alone. Why had she never mentioned that the accident continued to haunt her present? Why had she waited until this moment to share that part of her life?
The questions swarmed her mind, one after another, yet none felt quite right.
Then she recalled Emily’s expression when Morgan mentioned the phrase “car accident." The shock of that revelation had frozen her, and the dejection on her face revealed the weight of a secret she had guarded for decades, now carelessly taken from her grasp.
At the next traffic light, Andy released the steering wheel for the first time since leaving the clinic.
She glanced at Emily, resting beside her, and the weight of time struck her painfully. She wished fervently that their paths had crossed much sooner than just a few months ago, but she understood that dwelling on that impossibility would serve no purpose.
She could wait. After two decades of not knowing the truth, a little longer wouldn’t hurt. It had been less than a year since Emily had reentered her life; prior to that, she had been just like everyone else, oblivious to what had occurred. She had lived half a lifetime without knowing—waiting a bit longer to hear from Emily herself, whatever she wanted to say, was manageable.
Andy resolved that when Emily was ready to talk, she would be there to listen.
When the car pulled into the underground parking floor, Andy turned off the engine, but neither of them moved to get out right away. For the first time in an eternity, they felt far enough away from the hustle and bustle outside to breathe a little more freely.
Silence settled between them once more. Emily stared at the windshield for a few moments before unbuckling her seat belt.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Andy turned her head toward Emily, unbuckling her seat belt as well. “You don’t have to thank me for anything.”
“I know,” Emily replied with a faint smile, pausing briefly before adding, “But I’m still grateful. I want you to know that.”
Andy nodded, saying nothing. She simply returned a smile that conveyed far more than either of them was ready to articulate. When Emily made a move to get out, Andy rushed around the car to open the passenger door.
Emily shook her head from side to side, amused.
“You’re getting used to this way too fast,” she teased.
“I haven’t heard any complaints about it,” Andy replied, extending one hand toward Emily.
“I’m too tired to draft a formal protest.”
“Perfect. For now, you can just indulge me.”
Emily let out a soft laugh as she took Andy’s hand to help herself up. Their fingers intertwined just enough for Andy to gently pull her up. The touch was firm, warm, and surprisingly natural.
It wasn’t that she strictly needed it—Emily could have stood on her own, despite her exhaustion, and they both knew it. But after those past couple of hours, she felt vulnerable, and deep down, she could admit to herself that she wanted that touch.
The moment they lingered closer than usual lasted no longer than the space of a breath, until Emily had fully regained her balance. Andy let go of her hand at that moment, unhurried, wanting to respect her space.
Despite the brevity of the contact, Emily sensed the care with which Andy moderated her touch, always mindful not to do more than necessary. It was just the right amount of support that allowed her to navigate between excessive help and false indifference. Against all odds, Emily found that harder to ignore than the actual effort of standing.
For her part, Andy felt an unexpected sense of relief when Emily didn’t reject her. After a morning where she had so zealously guarded her self-sufficiency and privacy, the tenderness of that gesture filled her heart with joy.
Neither of them said a word. They took the gym bag out of the trunk and simply set off toward the elevators, with only the echo of their footsteps for company.
Almost out of habit, Andy looked up. The metal doors were closed, but they no longer displayed any signs warning of service suspensions or repairs. On the contrary, the illuminated panel above each door indicated that every elevator was back in operation.
Emily automatically followed the direction of Andy’s gaze, then turned back to her. A fleeting but unmistakable look of disappointment flashed across the journalist's face.
“Don’t tell me…” Emily said, her curiosity piqued.
Andy cleared her throat, trying to maintain a dignity that didn’t quite convince any of them.
“You just realized that the elevators are working again,” Emily observed, attempting to make sense of Andy’s behavior. “And that disappoints you because…?”
Her effort to keep her composure lasted only a few seconds under Emily’s scrutiny; Andy ended up laughing at her own feeble attempt to hide her feelings.
“I had a plan,” she admitted.
Emily crossed her arms. “Oh, really?”
Andy shifted her weight from side to side a few times, briefly closing her eyes and tilting her head, as if she were still unsure whether to confess or play dumb. But finally, with a sigh of resignation, she spoke.
“I’d considered picking you up,” she said a bit quicker than necessary, shrugging.
“Excuse me?” Emily couldn’t conceal her genuine surprise.
Andy made a vague gesture with her hands, blushing slightly. “You know, Em. Like in the movies.”
It took Emily a moment to grasp what Andy meant. When she did, an almost gleeful laugh escaped her lips, causing Andy to smile despite her embarrassment. It was brief, due to her exhaustion, but Emily could hardly contain it.
“Like a husband stepping over the threshold with his wife?”
Heat rushed to Andy's face, prompting her to try to hide her blush with one hand while struggling to find the elevator button with the other, taking three tries.
“I hadn’t thought of that comparison until you said it out loud,” the journalist admitted.
Emily raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Of course not.”
“It sounded better in my head,” Andy said, adjusting the bag and unsure of what to do with her hands other than clasping them around the strap.
“What a relief that the elevators are fixed. Is that it, then?”
The doors of one of the elevators opened with a soft metallic sound. Andy quickly placed her hand on the door to prevent it from closing prematurely; Emily followed at a more leisurely pace, stepping inside first. Andy stepped in behind her, standing by her side. A moment later, the elevator doors closed, and Andy pressed the button marked “3” to begin their ascent.
“Maybe someday,” Andy finally said, her voice so soft that, had it not been for the silence in the elevator, Emily surely wouldn’t have heard her.
Emily remained silent but shifted slightly to stand a bit closer to the journalist.
The apartment exuded a sense of balance that was quintessentially Emily. Clean lines, light wood, stone, and glass were harmoniously combined with a palette of natural, warm colors. Indirect lighting gently softened the space, while the large windows revealed a view of a city still cloaked in rain.
At first glance, everything appeared meticulously curated and elegant. However, as Andy examined the details more closely, subtle exceptions began to emerge, telling their own story: children’s sneakers lined up by the entryway, a cartoon-themed backpack still hanging from the back of a chair, and several pastel pencil drawings showcasing a range of artistic skills. On a designer bookshelf, art and photography books shared space with two well-loved illustrated storybooks. Several fashion books, a volume on London architecture, and a culinary atlas stood out, with various dinosaur figurines neatly arranged in front of them.
Next to the large window, several houseplants thrived, a testament to dedicated care. None were particularly eye-catching; they were unassuming, healthy, and meticulously tended. Andy could easily picture Emily amidst that greenery, nurturing her own little garden.
Nothing seemed out of place, yet the apartment didn’t have the sterile look of a space staged for an interior design magazine. On the few occasions Andy had visited, she had always appreciated how lived-in and inviting the space felt.
Emily’s coat ended up draped over the back of a dining room chair. Her keys, meanwhile, fell with a soft jingle into a porcelain bowl by the entrance. While Andy hung her jacket in the closet next to the entryway, Emily stood still for a moment, raising her hands toward the ceiling to stretch, slowly lowering another layer of the guard she maintained when she was outside.
The redhead let out a long sigh, and Andy felt a strong urge to wrap her arms around Emily's waist and hold her, allowing the tension that had accompanied her every movement since they left the clinic to ease, bit by bit.
“You can help yourself to coffee or tea,” Emily said as she gradually removed her jacket. “There’s juice, bottled water… whatever you find in the fridge.” She glanced quickly toward the kitchen. “You know where everything is.”
Andy walked past her to set the bag down next to one of the sofas. She had been there enough times to navigate without asking, but that afternoon, the place felt different to her. Not because it had changed drastically since her last visit, but because she now understood the woman who inhabited its nooks and crannies more deeply.
“And you?” Andy asked softly, like a child afraid of being alone.
Emily paused for a few seconds before responding, as if she were weighing her options.
“I’m going to take a shower.” She placed a hand on her hip, absentmindedly massaging the area until she realized what she was doing and let her hand drop to her side. “I need to loosen up all… this a little.”
Emily didn’t clarify whether she meant the pain, the exhaustion that had built up during the session, or the emotional weight of the past few hours. Her hands made a vague gesture, indicating her body from head to toe. Andy suspected it was a combination of all three.
The journalist nodded slowly. “Take as much time as you need.”
Emily held her gaze for a moment, as if she wanted to say more. In the end, she simply nodded slightly.
“I won’t be long.”
She turned and disappeared down the main hallway. Andy settled onto the main sofa, beside a console table where a record player rested alongside a small collection of carefully arranged vinyl records—mostly British bands she had never heard of. Sinking into the comfortable cushions, she waited for the sound of the bathroom door closing before releasing the breath she had been holding for what felt like forever.
The muffled sound of the shower filled the room a few minutes later. Andy headed to the kitchen to prepare two cups of tea. She set the water to boil while rummaging through the cabinets for the necessary items. Every utensil and ingredient was precisely where Emily had indicated they would be.
She smiled at the sight of the tea tins perfectly lined up.
Minutes passed, and Andy was enjoying a cup of tea sweetened with honey when the sound of the shower stopped. She was about to take her cup to the living room to continue her distracted reading of a book about Vivienne Westwood that was resting on the coffee table when she heard her name, very softly.
She looked up, unsure if she had heard clearly.
Then, again. This time a little clearer.
“Andy…?”
“Emily?” There was no answer.
The journalist immediately put down her cup and hurried down the hallway. She stopped in front of the bathroom door and knocked gently a few times to let Emily know she was on the other side.
“Are you okay?” She tried to sound calmer than she was, with questionable results.
“Yes,” came the reply right away—too quickly. There was a brief silence. Then, in a somewhat calmer tone, “Could you come in for a moment?”
Andy turned the doorknob and pushed the door open just a few centimeters. Steam still hung in the air, softening the bathroom’s contours and completely fogging up the large mirror above the sink. One glance was all it took for her to understand the situation.
Emily had just stepped out of the shower. She had remained motionless at the entrance to the shower, one hand resting on the glass door. Her reddish hair fell dripping against her damp, naked skin, as a towel lay on the floor, too far away for her to pick up without forcing herself to turn and bend over more than she should have. Her body wasn’t ready to do that just yet.
Andy immediately looked away, focusing on the pattern of the floor tiles, but she remained standing with her back almost touching the closed door behind her. She waited for instructions, feeling a bit lost in the moment.
“Andy,” Emily called in a low voice.
“Yes?” Andy kept her eyes down.
“Look at me.”
Obeying only half-heartedly, Andy's eyes met Emily's and remained locked there. Emily watched her with a weary serenity, her eyes smiling along with the slight curve of her lips. Andy noticed the faint blush on Emily's cheeks and wondered if it mirrored her own or was merely a result of the shower's temperature.
"You don't have to pretend that the rest of the bathroom has suddenly become fascinating," Emily chided, catching Andy in the act. This made Andy let out a nervous laugh.
"I'm trying not to invade your space any more than necessary," the journalist apologized.
"You already are," Emily reminded her. Andy blinked, unsure of how to respond. Sensing the confusion she had caused, Emily clarified by gesturing toward the towels on the floor with a slight movement of her chin. "Because I asked you to come in, silly. The towel slipped when I tried to grab it to get out. And I can't bend down to pick it up without making a fool of myself."
Andy felt the tension ease slightly from her shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief. With a simple gesture, she picked up the towel and placed it on the wooden bench near the shower, within Emily’s reach. Then she took another towel from the rack and offered it to her, all while displaying an almost comical level of concentration. Emily couldn’t help but laugh at the scene—it wasn’t a full burst of laughter, but it was clear and sincere.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth to stifle the last remnants of her laughter.
Andy looked at her again, determined not to let her gaze wander anywhere but Emily’s eyes.
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You’re trying to look at anything but me.”
Andy opened her mouth to respond but closed it almost immediately, at a loss for words. Emily shook her head, continuing to watch her with no trace of discomfort—just a calm, almost curious attention.
“Andy,” Emily called again, trying to get her attention. “I didn’t call you because I needed to preserve my modesty. I did it because I needed help.”
Andy held her gaze. “I know.”
Emily shook her head. “No, you don’t.”
The steam around them was gradually settling, but the temperature didn’t seem to be dropping. Andy tried to protest again, but Emily silenced her with a gentle wave of her hand before continuing.
“You’re trying to protect my modesty, but the reality is far less dramatic,” Emily finally took the towel Andy was offering her. “I just couldn’t pick up a towel without aggravating half my pelvis.”
Andy smiled a little more freely. “That sounds just like you.”
“What exactly?”
“Downplaying even this,” she murmured barely audibly, in an almost childlike tone. Andy looked away to the side, bringing one hand to the back of her neck and massaging it restlessly.
Emily let the seconds tick by, searching for the right words, while her eyes traced the lines that formed the journalist’s face, marveling at the subtle—and not-so-subtle—changes when she compared her to the memory she had from twenty years ago. The irony gradually faded from her own face.
“It’s not that it doesn’t matter,” she said—there was no particular solemnity in her words, yet they struck a much deeper chord than either of them would have expected.
Andy felt an unexpected lump in her throat, her emotions welling up in her chest and leaving her unsure which one to prioritize. She glanced at the ceiling, trying to fight the overwhelming feelings the situation evoked.
“Andy,” Emily’s voice reached her ears with a disarming fragility. “Come back.”
It was easy to obey when you felt lost. Andy looked at Emily again with such tenderness that it drew a small gasp from the redhead’s lips.
“I’m not really sure when it started,” Emily whispered, a mixture of weariness and longing in her tone.
“What?”
“This. Us.”
The unspoken question hung between them, neither daring to voice even a first answer.
“Maybe it was the first time I called you and you didn’t answer,” Emily ventured, her words seeming to emerge from the depths of her memory. Her deep voice drew Andy in closer, making her attentive to every sound that came from Emily's lips. “Maybe it was the second time I called… and you answered. Just like now.”
A smile broke across Andy’s face, a lightness that made Emily tremble.
There was a brief silence, now devoid of nerves, just calm. Andy waited without asking what to do or making any assumptions. If she were to describe that moment, she’d say it was a sigh shared between two people learning a new way to be close.
After a moment, Emily pointed to the wooden bench. “Will you help me sit down?”
Andy nodded. She lifted the towel from the bench and placed it on the sink countertop. Then, she approached Emily carefully, resting one hand on her upper back and the other on her forearm, waiting for Emily to move when she was ready. She held her firmly as she guided her over the edge of the shower and through the next steps to the seat, allowing her to set the pace the entire time.
As she sat down, Emily rested her forearms on her thighs and closed her eyes for a moment. Andy took the opportunity to grab the towel from the sink, covering Emily’s back with it. Immediately, she gently ran her hand down Emily's nape, freeing the strands of reddish hair that had become caught under the fabric. Finally, without saying a word, Andy took the towel that Emily still held in her hands and began drying her hair with a tenderness that moved the redhead.
Neither of them knew how much time had passed in that room. Some steam had already begun to condense and drip down the mirror when Andy paused, feeling a tug on her shirt. Emily wasn’t looking at her—her head was half-hidden beneath the cream-colored towel—but with her fingers, she pulled at Andy’s shirt with more force than a mere gesture seeking attention.
It took Andy only a few seconds to respond, and without knowing if that was what Emily wanted, she knelt down in front of her. Helpful, present.
It felt as if an eternity had passed since their paths first crossed, setting the stage for this moment. Once its purpose was fulfilled, time seemed to lose all interest in lingering, and the seconds rushed by around them both.
Emily reached out one hand, trembling slightly, until it touched Andy’s shoulder. She immediately leaned toward her, and Andy reacted almost in unison, wrapping her arms around Emily’s naked body to hold her close and prevent her from falling or hurting herself. One of Andy’s hands rested open on Emily’s mid-back, while the other traced the space between her shoulder blades until it grasped one of her shoulders.
The towel lay abandoned on the floor at their feet as Emily sat in Andy’s lap, her legs wrapped tightly around her. Their foreheads touched, and then Emily buried her face in the journalist’s hair, clinging to her shoulders. Meanwhile, Andy remained still, focused on the way their bodies molded together, on the sensation of Emily’s damp hair against her face, and on how little she cared that her clothes were getting soaked.
Emily stayed that way for a long time, her breathing becoming steadier and calmer. She wasn’t crying; she was simply resting in Andy’s arms.
“I’m here,” the journalist whispered, the only words that felt right in that moment. Emily responded by clinging to her even tighter.
Andy sensed that this embrace transcended mere physical pain or exhaustion; it embodied relief in its purest form. She noticed it in the fragility of Emily's body, in its lightness, and in her slow, steady breathing. It was the comfort of knowing she was accepted—without her armor, without the need to appear invulnerable, and without concealing an essential part of herself.
Andy closed her eyes and waited.
The storm had finally settled over the city. Rain pounded against the windows in a steady rhythm, and the living room was lit only by the floor lamp beside the sofa. The warm light barely reached the far corners of the room, leaving the rest shrouded in a gentle twilight.
They chose not to turn on the TV or play the record player. Instead, they were content with the incessant murmur of the rain and, occasionally, the deep rumble of thunder fading over the city.
Andy wore a charcoal-gray cotton T-shirt from an English band whose logo she didn’t recognize—it was visibly too big for her—and black sweatpants rolled up several times at the ankles. The clothes carried a faint scent of Emily’s laundry detergent, a clean aroma she had gradually grown accustomed to.
Emily, on the other hand, had returned in soft, cream-colored knit pants and a thin, long-sleeved navy blue sweater with a slightly altered neckline. Her hair was still a bit damp, falling loosely over her shoulders.
It was she who had insisted that Andy change.
“I’m not going to let you catch pneumonia in my home.”
Andy had accepted the T-shirt with a smile, but the rest of the outfit had piqued her curiosity—after all, she’d never seen Emily wear those pants on any occasion.
“They’re from back when I was still pretending I was going to do yoga,” she admitted. “I bought them to motivate myself.”
“And did it work?”
Emily paused to think about the question. “I convinced quite a few people.”
Andy laughed. “What about you? Did you ever convince yourself?”
“Not a single day.”
Now, they were both on the main couch in the living room. Emily sat between Andy’s legs, leaning against her chest as if the journalist had unwittingly become the most comfortable spot in the entire apartment.
Andy kept one arm gently wrapped around Emily’s waist while she absentmindedly played with her fingers, intertwining and releasing them in no particular pattern. Occasionally, she would let go of Emily’s fingers to stroke the back of her hand or brush aside a damp strand of hair that kept slipping over her shoulder.
None of these gestures seemed premeditated; they just happened. To both of their surprise, Emily didn’t feel the slightest need to pull away. She discovered that leaning completely against Andy required less effort than standing upright and brought with it an unexpected benefit: a simple sense of security, linked to the slow rhythm of the breathing behind her, the almost imperceptible movement of Andy’s chest with each inhale, and the warmth of her arms.
Andy, too, couldn’t quite pinpoint when that closeness had begun to feel so natural. Just a few hours ago, she would have given anything to share the same space with Emily, knowing that her personal space was off-limits. Now it was Emily who sought—unbeknownst to her—closer contact every time she shifted her position. Andy could only hope that this trust wouldn’t vanish once the day was over.
Emily let out a long sigh, and Andy felt her body relax a little more against hers. Without much thought, the journalist began absentmindedly twirling a strand of Emily’s hair between her fingers. The other woman said nothing, merely tilting her head enough to make the gesture easier. That small concession touched Andy more deeply than she was willing to admit.
Several quiet minutes passed like that until Emily spoke.
“This is very unlike us,” she remarked thoughtfully.
Andy smiled. “The silence?”
“No. All of this,” Emily said, moving her hand slightly to gesture at their position. “If someone had suggested a year ago that I’d end up sitting like this with you…”
Andy finished her thought. “You would have fired them. Or torn them to shreds with your sharp tongue.”
Emily let out a low laugh that echoed against Andy’s chest. “At the very least.”
“As for me, I would’ve thought you were up to something,” Andy admitted.
“See? That sounds more like me.”
Andy gently rested her chin atop Emily’s head.
“Right now… I don’t think you’re up to anything at all.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Emily warned her, though her tone held no real threat.
Silence enveloped them again. Andy smiled as she intertwined her fingers with Emily’s, her thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles. After a moment, she sensed Emily fully relax against her. She didn’t say anything, but she understood the significant trust that this gesture represented coming from her.
“I never thought Morgan would talk about the accident in front of you.”
Emily’s voice was so soft it nearly blended with the constant murmur of the rain. Andy felt her words vibrate against her chest even before she fully registered them.
“I don’t think she did either,” she replied calmly.
“She’s used to me going alone,” Emily said with a slight snort. “It was a slip-up.”
Andy let a few seconds pass. With her free hand, she absentmindedly stroked Emily’s fingers, which no longer attempted to pull away from her.
“Did it bother you?” Andy finally asked.
Emily shook her head slowly. “No,” she replied too quickly, then corrected herself, speaking more slowly. “It scared me.”
Andy felt her heart grow heavy. She slid the hand wrapped around Emily’s waist a little higher, resting it gently on her ribs—a silent way of asserting her presence.
“Why?”
Emily remained silent.
Andy didn’t press her. She had learned that Emily wasn’t the type to be pushed; she just needed time. When the redhead's voice reached her again, it felt as if she were speaking with her mind lost in memories.
“Until this morning… you’d never seen that part of my life.”
The phrase hung between them, almost tangible, weighing heavily on their hearts. The weight Andy had felt before now seemed enough to drag her heart down with it. She thought of their youthful runs through Manhattan, how they would chase after Miranda at the office or at events, and Emily's imposing figure when they met again at Dior headquarters. Then she thought of the clinic. How Emily watched her every move. Her hand resting on the shower door and the embrace they shared.
Those weren’t two different people—they were the same person—only, one had spent decades protecting the other without a second thought for what that might mean.
“No,” Andy said softly. “I hadn’t seen her.”
Emily smiled without joy. “That was the original plan.”
Another silence followed. The redhead sank a little deeper into the refuge Andy offered her. It was a small gesture, but each time Emily sought more of her touch without questioning it, something inside Andy softened and gave way.
Emily took a deep breath.
“I’ve spent years ensuring no one has any reason to question my abilities.”
Andy frowned slightly. “That would never cross my mind…”
Emily let out a small laugh, gently stroking Andy’s fingers to soothe her.
“I never gave you a chance.”
“What if I had asked you about it?”
Emily pondered the question for a moment before responding seriously.
“I would have lied to you.”
Andy wasn’t surprised; she could envision it all too easily. That was the reality.
“Not because I didn’t trust you,” Emily quickly added. “But I wouldn’t have known what else to do.”
Neither of them spoke. Silence enveloped them once more. They both understood they were in this situation only because Morgan had inadvertently pulled the bandage off a wound that had yet to heal. For her part, Andy struggled against the urge to dwell on “what ifs,” despite the pain they caused her.
“What scared me…” Emily continued, placing a hand over the one Andy had resting on her ribs. “It wasn’t that you knew about the accident.” She interlaced her fingers with Andy’s, holding them firmly. “It was that, after seeing it all—after seeing me at my worst—you'd decide to keep treating me exactly the same.”
Andy felt her breath catch abruptly; she sat up for a moment to rest her cheek against the side of Emily’s face.
“No,” her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I don’t see you the same way.”
Emily remained motionless. “No?”
Andy kissed Emily’s cheek before returning to her original position.
“Now I admire you even more.”
Emily gave her hand a light tap, and Andy smiled against the nape of her neck.
Andy’s mind wandered to the feeling of Emily’s calm breathing against her arm as they settled back down. It felt very different from what she’d noticed at the clinic or later in the bathroom. She would say it was lighter.
“When the accident happened,” Emily spoke again, “everyone talked about it for a few weeks. And with the whole Paris thing, it was even worse.” She paused briefly as the rain continued to beat against the window, relentlessly. “Then it stopped being news.”
“I remember the chaos of those days, but I don’t know what it was like after Paris…” Andy murmured, her voice almost trailing off.
“Most people assumed I’d recovered. That I left the hospital and… that was the end of the story.” Andy sensed Emily take a somewhat labored breath before continuing. “And I let them believe that.”
There was no guilt in her words; too many years had passed, too much water had flowed under the bridge. What remained was a lingering heaviness. Andy traced random patterns with her fingers on the back of Emily’s hand.
“Was it easier that way?”
Upon hearing her question, Emily let out a laugh so soft it was barely audible.
“No,” she replied gently. “It was necessary.”
Her fingers began to absently play with Andy’s, slowly twirling the ring she wore on one of her fingers. It was an unconscious gesture, the kind that emerged when Emily’s mind was overwhelmed with too many thoughts.
“Do you know what the worst part of all that was?”
Andy didn’t respond, as Emily didn’t expect her to. She smiled wryly as she continued.
“For weeks, I stopped being Emily Charlton.”
The redhead frowned, her body tensing as she recalled those days.
“I was ‘the one who got hit by a car,’ ‘the one who showed up in Page Six,’ 'Is she back already?' 'Is she fit to work?' 'Poor girl.’” Emily paused to look at her hands, remembering the small cuts that had covered them in the days immediately following the accident. “The worst part is that no one meant any harm. It’s just… whatever I did stopped mattering.”
After a moment, Andy asked, confused, “Page Six?”
Emily sighed in her arms.
“Of course, with all the Fashion Week stuff, you probably didn’t even hear about it,” she said with a sarcastic smile, recalling the article’s content and the photo of her on crutches. “They turned my car accident into yet another article about how monstrous Miranda was as a boss.”
Andy could easily imagine the kind of headline they would have used—and surely a dozen other blogs thrived on that sort of gossip. Emily didn’t seem particularly surprised.
“It didn’t last long,” she continued in a low voice. “At Runway, there’s always something new happening. A designer who doesn’t meet expectations, a photo shoot that needs to be redone—then the next issue comes out, and the results are scrutinized. People just move on.”
That was precisely the pace of life at that magazine, making it both a grueling and exciting job.
“But I couldn’t afford to wait for the gossip to die down,” Emily added, absentmindedly playing with Andy’s rings as she spoke. “If anyone was going to talk about me, I wanted it to be because I’d pulled off the impossible before noon, not because I’d been hit by a car.”
Those words aligned perfectly with what little Andy had heard about Emily after leaving Runway. She could easily imagine it: the endless workdays, the necessity to keep everything under control, the way she’d strive to be everywhere at once just to get the job done. It had never been merely about ambition.
Emily sighed. “I guess I just became absurdly excellent at my job.”
“Absurdly?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “You mean obsessively competent?”
Emily sat up—carefully, but as quickly as she could—and turned to face Andy.
“Don’t ruin the moment,” she warned her with a playful tone.
Andy chuckled and followed Emily, leaning in to apologize with a kiss on her cheek as she wrapped her arms around her once more.
“Sorry,” she whispered in her ear before pulling back slightly to meet her gaze. “I just wanted to make sure we’re still talking about the same Emily.”
Her words brought a genuine, albeit small, smile to the redhead’s face. After a brief pause, they settled back onto the couch, nearly in the same position as before. However, when Emily spoke again, some of the earlier lightness had faded.
“When everyone finally stopped asking questions, offering to help me every five minutes, or treating me like I was going to break for no reason…” She paused, pressing a gentle kiss to Andy’s knuckles. “I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t want to explain the physical therapy, or why I started wearing lower heels, or why I needed certain accommodations when we traveled outside New York. I just wanted to be Emily Charlton again.”
Andy still had questions, and the storm was lashing down harder and harder.
“Did you never tell anyone?”
Emily stared at the ceiling, as if there were a list up there she hadn’t compiled in years.
“To very few people, actually.”
The answer came without hesitation. However, once she’d spoken, Emily remained silent for a few more seconds. Andy didn’t press her. She felt curiosity welling up in her throat, but she focused on stroking the back of Emily’s hand with her thumb. A small, steady gesture—something to use as an anchor if necessary. Emily noticed the movement and intertwined her fingers a little more tightly with Andy’s before speaking again.
Her voice remained steady, though slightly lower than before. Each new confession required a different kind of effort than the one before it. Each one was rooted too deeply within her.
“Nigel knew I was still having medical checkups.” Emily smiled slightly as she recalled what followed. “He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough to stop asking why I’d disappear some afternoons or to cover for me so I could go.”
Emily fell silent again, but this time she didn’t seem to be searching for words; rather, she was deciding where to begin. When she spoke again, there was something different in her voice—warmer, more intimate. Emily spoke with a gentleness that Andy had rarely heard her use when mentioning her past.
“Serena eventually figured it out.”
It came as a surprise to Andy, though it shouldn’t have been entirely unexpected. She remembered the name, the face, and the closeness between the two of them. But what caught her attention wasn’t that—it was the way Emily had said that name. There was affection there. A quiet, unpretentious affection, typical of someone who had shared countless hours, flights, and moments of silence with another person.
Emily sensed the difference in Andy's reaction without even turning around.
“What?” she asked, curiously.
Andy smiled slightly. “Nothing. I just… didn’t know you cared so much about her.”
Resting her head on Andy’s shoulder with a little more confidence, Emily let out a little laugh, a bit more cheerful than usual.
“I wouldn’t have admitted it a few years ago either.”
That response made Andy smile. It was so typical of the redhead to express affection as if it were a minor defeat to be accepted nobly.
“We worked together a lot. It was hard to hide certain things around her.” She paused to listen to the rain for a moment before continuing. “One night we left the office really late. I’d been pretending all day that I was perfectly fine. Until she saw me step down a curb.” She gave a resigned smile. “I came out limping as if I’d aged twenty years in an instant.”
Andy barely managed to stifle a little laugh. “Let me guess. Did you tell her you’d sprained your ankle?”
Emily nodded. “With quite a bit of conviction, I’d say.”
“And?”
“She didn’t believe it for a second.”
They both laughed. The scene played out vividly in Andy’s mind: Serena, with her arms crossed and her gaze leaving no room for excuses, using her height to her advantage. On the other hand, Emily defending an impossible lie with absolute confidence. The image was almost endearing to her.
Then another thought emerged, one that was quieter, more insidious in its progression. Andy imagined Serena slowing her pace to match Emily’s, without making it obvious. Offering to drive her. Helping Emily with some heavy lifting or accompanying her on long trips, trying to lighten her load. Sharing small, everyday moments that Andy had never gotten to know.
She felt a slight tightness beneath her breastbone. At first, she thought it might be jealousy, but then she realized that this unexpected pain wasn’t because Serena was so beautiful or because Emily cared for her, but because of all those years Andy hadn’t been able to be there for Emily, either. A longing for those versions of the woman beside her that she hadn’t had the chance to know.
“Andy,” Emily called, noticing she’d drifted off. “Serena… she didn’t know much more.”
Andy looked down. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t need to.” Emily smiled slightly. “You have a very distinctive look on your face when you start overthinking something.”
“That’s completely untrue,” she protested, hiding her face in Emily’s hair.
“Trust me." Emily almost laughed. “It’s a trademark of Andy Sachs.”
Andy planted a kiss in the redhead’s hair. “And you never thought to let me know?”
Emily pretended to think for a moment. “I considered it, but I was having too much fun watching you think you were unpredictable.”
Andy threw her head back and burst out laughing. The tension melted away almost instantly. Emily smiled too, snuggling even closer to Andy. They allowed a minute or two to pass in peaceful silence before Emily continued with her list.
“There’s Morgan, obviously. When it comes to my injuries, she knows them better than anyone.”
Andy nodded; that was clear.
Emily took a deep breath before saying the last name.
“And, well… there’s Miranda.”
The name lingered in the air between them. Both took a deep breath in an almost instinctive gesture. At this stage in their lives, they recognized it as an automatic response to the mere memory of that significant figure in their lives, for better or worse.
“So, Miranda,” was all Andy said, because even though the circumstances might be unclear, it made sense to her that the woman's name would be on the list.
Emily sighed. Her tone lacked the depth she had displayed when speaking of Serena, as well as the sadness that surfaced when recalling memories from the most vulnerable corners of her mind. Instead, her voice held a recognition—the kind that comes from knowing someone for nearly half a lifetime or more.
“I never explained it to her. We never had that conversation.”
If anyone had asked her, Andy would have pointed out that this was perfectly in line with Miranda’s behavior. The editor-in-chief would never ask a direct question; if she did, Emily would likely struggle to provide an answer.
“But… it was Miranda.” Emily exhaled, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “Nothing happens in her kingdom without her knowing about it. She’s far too observant.”
Andy couldn’t help but smile. Yes, that was Miranda Priestly through and through. They both understood exactly what that phrase meant. Miranda always perceived more than she revealed. And when she chose to act, she rarely announced her intentions. She simply altered the circumstances around her, as if fate were shaped by her every whim and caprice.
“She stopped assigning me fashion shows at venues with those endless staircases.” Emily managed a smile so faint she was sure only she noticed it. “She didn’t say a single word. One day they were on my schedule. The next, they weren’t.” The words flowed from her lips slowly and distantly. “A few months later, they started assigning me cars for trips I used to make on foot. My first thought was that Elias-Clarke had increased Runway’s budget, which seems ridiculous in hindsight.”
Andy chuckled at the mere idea that Runway had the funds for that.
“Exactly,” Emily sighed, somewhat exasperated. “It took me far too long to realize it.”
It felt strange to articulate something she had accepted without question for years. She had always viewed those gestures as part of Miranda’s meticulous control over everything related to Runway—just another method of keeping everything under her strict supervision. Only now, as she spoke them aloud and heard her own words, did she recognize that it had never been about curiosity, misguided compassion, or persistence.
Miranda had seen enough to understand that part of the issue lingered, yet she had chosen not to force Emily to confront a wound she was determined to conceal. Of all the ways to help her, she had selected precisely the one that Emily could accept without difficulty.
“She never asked me about the pain, nor did she mention that she knew about it. She didn’t pressure me to discuss the accident, nor did she make me feel like a subject of pity.” A bittersweet expression—one that wasn’t quite a smile, despite her efforts—settled on Emily’s lips as she remembered Miranda. “She simply rearranged the little world around me so that the pain would be more bearable.”
Andy brushed a few strands of hair away from Emily’s face and hugged her, still reflecting on what she’d just heard. They had all changed over the years, but Andy still recognized elements of that person in Miranda—a woman who had never been one for grand gestures, preferring instead to let her decisions and actions speak for her. Miranda would never openly admit to having done any of those things; Emily had likely never expressed her gratitude except through her work.
“That sounds like Miranda.”
Emily nodded, her expression lacking bitterness; instead, it radiated a serene acceptance.
Andy chuckled as a thought crossed her mind. “Em, would you say actions like that might be seen as a kind of declaration of affection?”
In response, Emily playfully jabbed Andy in the stomach with her elbow.
“Don’t exaggerate,” the redhead chided her. “If that’s a declaration of affection, it’s very… Miranda.”
Andy paused for a moment, deep in thought. “Well, if you say it turned your world upside down…”
Emily focused on their hands, still intertwined.
“When you don’t receive any explanations, it can feel exhausting too.”
“I understand.” Andy gently stroked Emily’s cheek with her knuckles.
Emily smiled, tinged with bitterness. “And yet…”
“And yet…” repeated Andy.
The silence enveloping them was heavy with unspoken experiences.
“I think…” Andy began cautiously. “I think she still cares about you.”
Emily’s first instinct was to deny it right away, but her denial felt feeble and less convincing.
Without a trace of irony, she whispered, “Maybe… Or maybe there was a time when that was true.”
Andy felt the urge to argue that point. Miranda didn’t waste gestures on those she was indifferent to; even the way she dismissed someone could conceal an intention that only she understood. But the journalist recognized that this conversation was for another day and that spending more energy on it wouldn’t change anything that night. Instead, she gently squeezed Emily’s hand, and Emily immediately returned the gesture.
“Anyway…” The redhead said with a half-smile. “I think I’ve already used up my lifetime quota of favors from Miranda Priestly.”
Andy sighed. “Probably.”
“Thanks for thinking of me.”
“You’ll always have my support,” she said aloud, then added almost in a whisper, “Even when I think you’re talking nonsense.”
Emily snorted, but this time she smiled at Andy’s mere suggestion.
“You’re so unbearably optimistic.”
“And you’re…” Andy paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “Unbearably British.”
Emily responded with a single laugh. “That’s not even an insult.”
“How do the Brits say it?” Andy teased her in return. “Ah! Thank you. My point exactly. It was a compliment.”
Emily rolled her eyes dramatically, a gesture that would have made anyone familiar with her smile. They chose not to discuss Miranda any further; there was no need. Some people leave a lingering presence, felt even in their absence. Miranda Priestly was undoubtedly one of those people.
Andy took a deep breath, catching Emily’s attention.
She’d been holding back a specific question for hours, ever since that moment at the clinic when Morgan had uttered that fateful word. Now, Emily was letting her into a world she had kept hidden for twenty years.
Unsure if this was the right moment, Andy wondered if Emily had already shared enough for a single day. They had been enjoying the comfortable silence for a few minutes. Andy wasn’t even sure she had the right to ask—not yet, anyway.
Yet the question persisted.
It didn’t stem from wounded pride; it was a concern that was much harder to fully acknowledge. Andy wanted—needed—to understand why Emily had borne that burden alone for all those years and why, of all people, she had chosen to keep Andy in the dark.
Emily had already offered part of the answer, but there were also Andy’s own fears—her insecurities that surfaced at moments like these. She knew she could let the question go, continuing to hold Emily close, letting the rain dominate the silence, and allowing that night to end without stirring anything else up. But she also knew Emily would urge her to set her doubts aside and ask away with conviction.
"Come on, then. Just say it."
With a slightly trembling voice, Andy asked, “What about me, Em?”
Emily opened her eyes, blinking rapidly a couple of times, yet she remained nestled in the refuge of the journalist's arms.
“What do you mean?”
“Why was it different with me?” The question came out much quieter than she had expected. Andy fell silent for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Why was it so hard to let me in?”
The question struck Emily with unexpected force. Not because she hadn’t considered it before, but because, until that moment, she had always managed to keep it at a safe distance. Now she couldn’t anymore—not when Andy was pleading for an answer.
Emily stood up. Andy didn’t restrain her, but her hands traced Emily’s body until she created enough space between them that Andy’s arms couldn’t reach her without more effort. Emily sat down—not exactly at the other end of the couch, but nearly. Meanwhile, Andy remained where she was, simply bending her legs to give Emily even more room.
Amid the silence, Emily stared for a few seconds at a random spot in the living room, feeling as if all the air were escaping from her lungs. She wondered if Andy thought she was stalling for time to come up with an answer, when in reality, the opposite was true. Emily had known the answer for a long time, but the difficult part was saying it without doing Andy an injustice.
When she finally gathered the courage to look at the other woman, a hint of sadness appeared on her lips, reflecting the emotion in Andy’s eyes.
“You knew the Emily who competed against you,” the redhead said, lowering her gaze to her hands clasped in her lap. “The one who never needed help.”
Andy frowned slightly. She understood what Emily meant, but it wasn’t the answer she sought.
“That explains who you were. Not why you shut the door on me.”
Emily let out a fragile sigh. “When we started getting close again… I was afraid.”
Something tightened inside Andy’s chest. Leaning to one side, she tried to meet Emily’s gaze, but the woman was avoiding it.
“Of what, Em?”
“Of making a mistake.”
For a moment, Andy felt the weight of her words like a physical blow. She instinctively tried to pull back against the arm of the sofa, but it was already pressed firmly against her. Noticing her reaction, Emily quickly shook her head, tempted to seek refuge in Andy's arms, but her body stayed still.
“Not with you, Andrea. With me,” she confessed, bringing both hands to her face. Her lips trembled slightly, and Emily bit them to hold back the quiver in her voice. “Because part of me knew exactly what you’re like. I knew you wouldn’t look at me with pity. I knew you’d keep seeing me as… well, as Emily." A small, fleeting smile appeared on her face. “That was always the problem.”
Andy listened intently, waiting for her to continue.
“There was another, much less reasonable part of my thoughts,” Emily said, lowering her hands to examine them. “One part of me was convinced that, as soon as you saw all of my scars, you would start to be careful around me because you would notice the pain I experience before anything else. Even before me."
Emily closed her eyes, as if voicing those thoughts made them more tangible. Simultaneously, a knot formed in the pit of her stomach. Andy remained silent, making no attempt to correct her or offer reassurance. She understood that some confessions needed space before they could be addressed.
When she spoke again, Emily’s voice was softer, more vulnerable than Andy had probably ever heard it before.
“I didn’t want to become someone you felt you had to take care of. Someone, you'd let an argument slide because you assumed I was having a bad day. Someone who’d make you think about choosing every word in advance for fear of hurting me.” Emily took a slow breath, and her next confession came out as a barely audible whisper. “And I didn’t want… for you to kiss me while wondering if you were going to break me.”
Andy closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. That image sank into her chest, sharp and painful, as if its edges were bleeding. Emily continued without allowing her a moment to respond.
“The rational part of me knew it probably would never happen. But fear rarely feeds on logic.”
“Emily…” Andy called to her, but the redhead didn’t move, subtly shaking her head.
“Precisely because I know you…” Emily said in a choked whisper. “I knew you’d try to make everything easier for me. And I didn’t feel ready yet to let anyone carry that burden.”
Still silent, Andy felt a tightness in her chest at the redhead’s words. Each twist in Emily’s story stirred a strange mix of sadness and tenderness within her, because now she understood that Emily had never distrusted her; she had only feared where their fear might lead.
She watched Emily carefully, seated at a distance just far enough apart that neither could lean on the other without a conscious decision. Andy felt an almost irresistible urge to close the gap between them, to take Emily's hand again and wrap her arms around her. Her body already ached for that closeness.
But she didn’t.
After everything Emily had just shared, responding too quickly—as if nothing had happened—would feel disrespectful to her courage. Andy breathed slowly, searching for the right words, but none felt adequate.
“I see a problem with your theory,” she said finally, trying to inject a bit of lightness into her voice.
Emily looked up slightly, daring to turn a little toward Andy. “What is it?”
Andy made an effort to meet Emily’s gaze, and when she did, she smiled at her. She noticed the genuine surprise in the redhead's eyes, followed by a small smile in response.
“That you decided for both of us.” She held Emily's gaze as she spoke. “You chose to protect me from a reaction I never got to have.”
Emily let out the nervous breath she had been holding. Andy continued, closing the distance between them a little.
“You thought I’d feel sorry for you. That, in my attempt to be by your side, I’d start treating you as if you were made of glass, that I’d stop arguing with you, that every time I saw you make an effort, I’d think of the accident before I thought of you.” Andy shook her head absentmindedly. “You thought I’d stop seeing you as the woman I—”
She paused, surprised by how close she had come to expressing something neither of them was prepared to confront.
Emily raised an eyebrow, equally taken aback. “The woman you—?”
Andy cleared her throat, an almost endearing awkwardness showing through.
“The woman I’m constantly arguing with.”
Emily sighed. “What a correction.”
“It was brilliant,” Andy replied, still trying to regain her composure.
“It was cowardly," Emily countered.
Andy smiled weakly, feeling unexpectedly caught off guard. “A little.”
“Quite a bit.”
The smile on Andy’s face lingered for a few more seconds before gradually fading. The journalist continued to watch Emily, and Emily sensed that there was still something behind those eyes—something Andy still needed to express. She felt it immediately, so she waited.
After a moment, Andy seemed to find the words.
“You never gave me the chance to prove to you that you might be wrong, Em.”
Emily nodded, breathing a little heavily. “I know.”
Her response felt more like an admission than a defense, as if she were finally starting to believe what she was hearing.
Even so, Andy pressed, “Do you know it now, or did you know it back then?”
Emily turned her head to meet her gaze, and Andy smiled, as if that had been her intention all along. Still, she waited for Emily’s response.
“Don’t take advantage of the fact that I’m being emotionally responsible,” the redhead snapped in her usual sharp tone.
That provoked a low chuckle from Andy, who concluded, “I’ll take that as a ‘now.’”
Emily snorted in protest but smiled back at Andy.
The minutes began to slip by with a calmness that surprised them both—a stark contrast to how they had felt at the start of the evening. Time seemed to move at the leisurely pace of the rain against the windows and their breaths.
Andy absentmindedly twirled a strand of Emily’s hair between her fingers again, unaware of when she had leaned in to do so. She only became conscious of the gesture once she was already doing it, and she smiled to herself.
She released the strand to get a better look at Emily before continuing.
“Can I tell you something else?”
Emily regarded her as if it were a trick question.
“Will I regret it if I say yes?” she responded, prompting a laugh from Andy.
“You have no way of knowing,” the journalist teased.
While she didn’t receive a verbal answer, Emily leaned back against the sofa, feeling somewhat more relaxed, and prepared to listen with her full attention.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so determined to prove she can handle everything.” Andy paused briefly, noticing the slightly confused look on Emily’s face. "And, at the same time, so creative when it comes to avoiding asking for help."
Emily stared at her, weighing what Andy had just said. The journalist noticed the exact moment when the redhead thought of a perfect, sarcastic reply—and she also realized when Emily chose to let it go. After a few more seconds, Emily shook her head and smiled at her again.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you called me for help today.”
A new warmth emerged in Emily’s expression.
“Yes. I did.”
Andy’s heart skipped a beat. Those were just a few simple words, but they carried all of Emily’s feelings. They didn’t merely encompass the phone call, the session at the clinic, the hug in the bathroom, and the conversation on this couch—every single time Emily had decided to let her guard down a little throughout the day; no, they also held a promise for the future. Andy could feel it.
Neither of them commented on the moment as they drew closer again.
Andy was the first to move. She did so slowly, almost cautiously, afraid she might disturb something delicate. Leaning back against the length of the sofa, she settled her side fully against it, stretching her legs out onto the cushion after slipping off her slippers. Her legs, still slightly drawn up, brushed against Emily's nearest leg.
She said nothing. Her only message was the space between her body and the back of the sofa—enough room for another person. Emily noticed it immediately, her gaze drifting down to that small empty space. It wasn’t a verbal invitation, which was typical of Andy.
She could ignore it, remain where she was, and revel in Andy’s reaction. However, she realized she didn’t want to do that. She missed the warmth of Andy’s embrace.
Emily turned her body toward Andy’s. She placed a hand on the sofa to push herself forward, careful not to make any sudden movements that might aggravate the residual stiffness in her hip. The journalist observed every part of that movement closely, holding back the urge to offer assistance. She recalled their recent conversation and remained still.
Lifting just the corner of her lips, Emily noticed how hard Andy was trying to stay exactly where she was.
“You’re doing good,” she told her, making no attempt to hide the tenderness in her words.
Andy raised an eyebrow but continued smiling. “Am I being evaluated?”
“Constantly.”
“I should have guessed.”
Emily’s reply brought a broader smile to her face.
Without losing focus on her slow movements, the redhead finished settling in on her side, sliding her back until she filled the space Andy had left for her. The closeness felt entirely different.
It was a new, strange, and exciting sensation. Now Emily was resting between the backrest and Andy, protected by the curve of her body. Her shoulder brushed against the journalist’s chest almost by accident, and for a moment, they both held their breath, remaining still as they adjusted to this new intimacy.
Andy waited. Only when Emily let out a long breath, signaling she had finished settling in, did she raise her nearest arm to rest around the redhead's waist. Her other arm gently rested just above Emily's head, offering a place for her to rest if she wished. Without thinking, Emily leaned back a few centimeters, finding the warmth of Andy’s body.
The difference was minimal. But for Andy, it felt as if kilometers had been shortened.
Both of them felt the weight of their bodies—pressing against the edges of the sofa and against each other’s contours. Their breathing began to fall into rhythm with one another until it became synchronized. Emily’s head rested under Andy’s chin, her slightly damp strands of hair brushing against her exposed neck.
Andy closed her eyes, wanting to commit that moment to memory. She never would have imagined that the woman she’d met arguing in the hallways of Runway—always poised, always ready for the next battle—would end up resting so comfortably in her arms.
Emily, too, silently savored the sensation. For years, she had associated seeking comfort in others with a loss of control. Yet there, leaning against Andy, she didn’t feel as if she was giving anything up.
As time passed, they discovered new ways to settle into the sofa. Emily relaxed, completely enveloped by Andy, their legs partially intertwined. One of Andy's hands, almost in a trance, caressed Emily's hair, gently running her fingers through soft locks.
Andy breathed slowly, kissing Emily's forehead before whispering, "I can't promise you that I'll always understand how you feel."
Emily opened her eyes slightly but said nothing; she simply listened without interrupting.
“That would be a lie.” Andy instinctively pulled the redhead closer as she continued. “I’ll never truly know what it’s like to wake up feeling this kind of pain or to wonder if climbing the stairs will be more difficult today than it was yesterday.”
She offered a small smile, and Emily waited for her to elaborate.
“But I can promise you this: I’ll be there. Every time you call for me.”
Emily smiled, burying her face in the crook of Andy’s neck.
“When you’re having a bad day… please, tell me.”
Andy’s voice grew soft, fragile at the edges, allowing Emily to sense the raw vulnerability beneath it. So stripped of all pretense, the redhead had to pull away from Andy slightly to ensure she wasn’t crying.
She wasn’t, but Emily was captivated by the journalist’s gaze, filled with a kind of affection she had never seen directed at her before—raw and boundless.
“I don’t want to find out by chance,” Andy continued in a whisper, speaking only to Emily. “I don’t want to discover that you’ve been pretending to be okay for days, months, or years.”
Emily brought one of her hands to Andy’s cheek, and the journalist pressed her face against the palm, seeking to deepen their touch immediately.
“I want you to call me. Even for things you consider small.”
“Okay,” was Emily’s only reply.
Andy smiled, satisfied.
A few more minutes passed, and then it was Emily who spoke.
“Andy?” she called, timidly.
The journalist sensed that something was changing, like an axis slowly tilting until it completely reversed direction. She could see it in the way Emily breathed, in the way her fingers caressed Andy's face with tender affection, and in the absolute absence of distance between them.
With unexpected clarity, she realized there was nothing left to protect behind mere words. Emily had allowed her into the part of her life she had most feared revealing. And Andy, almost unintentionally, had been responding the same way for hours: by simply staying.
Emily raised her head slowly, just enough to meet Andy's gaze. Their faces were separated by mere centimeters, and neither made the slightest move to break their eye contact, which felt electric.
In Emily’s eyes, Andy saw something she had never noticed before: a question.
“Yes?”
Emily slid her fingers from Andy’s cheek to her nape, tangling them in the brown hair, careful not to tug on any strands, at least not yet.
“Do you remember what I told you almost at the beginning?”
Andy swallowed. Emily’s warm breath brushed against her lips, slipping partially into her half-open mouth. Without realizing it, Andy licked her lips.
“About what…?”
Emily applied light pressure to the back of Andy's neck with her fingers, just enough to emphasize her next words—a barely audible whisper mere centimeters from Andy’s mouth.
“About wanting you to kiss me without wondering if you were going to break me.”
Emily’s eyes held both a question and an answer. Andy didn’t need anything more.
The kiss began with a tenderness neither of them could have imagined possible. Tentative brushing of lips that had spent far too long engaged in conversations, silences, and disagreements—but never like this.
Andy sighed against Emily’s mouth as a single brush of her tongue prompted the redhead to grant her greater access. Although it had been Andy who chose to close the distance between them, it was Emily who controlled every move. This didn’t bother the journalist at all.
She relished the way Emily might or might not grant her requests, never knowing when or for how long. If Andy sought to savor more of her mouth, Emily might bite her lip with a smile, making her wait just one more breath. If she leaned in to deepen the kiss, the redhead might gently tug at her hair, stopping her just millimeters from her lips.
As they pulled apart briefly to catch their breath, Andy laughed against Emily’s lips, and Emily smiled at the contact, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. They pressed their foreheads together, and Andy kissed Emily’s nose lightly before playfully brushing hers against Emily’s a couple of times.
“You’re being silly,” Emily said with a sigh.
“Sue me,” Andy replied, leaning in to kiss her again, this time much more slowly.
Emily let out a soft moan in the midst of that kiss. Their lips barely parted, their tongues exploring without restraint. The redhead couldn’t recall the last time someone had taken the time to kiss her so slowly.
Her life had always been defined by haste—by tight schedules, flights, meetings, and decisions made in seconds. Even her marriage and its abrupt end felt rushed. Everything seemed to fly by her. The only exception was Andy, who held her gently as she kissed her, needing to prove nothing more than the devotion that radiated from her every action.
It was a game of discovery, just as their conversations were.
The world seemed to shrink to that couch, sheltered from the rain.
They couldn’t change what had happened twenty years ago. Nor could they make up for all the time they’d spent living apart. But they could build a future beyond the silences and be there for each other. And for now, that was enough.