The first day

Morning comes too soon. The light is thin and golden, cutting through the blinds and painting stripes across the bed. You lie there for a moment, listening to Tom breathe beside you, your pulse already quickening with the day ahead. The first day.

You move through the motions — the steam in the bathroom, the rhythm of routine. The water clears your head, but not your nerves. You pick your outfit carefully: something smart but not stiff, a cream blouse tucked into a navy skirt, flats that whisper confidence without trying too hard. You check yourself once more in the mirror, tilt your chin, and whisper, “You can do this,” to the reflection staring back.

The newsroom is louder than you imagined — phones ringing, keyboards clattering, the faint hum of printers spitting out tomorrow’s stories. You feel small, like you’ve stepped into the middle of something vast and alive.

Ophelia Jackson spots you before you spot her. She’s exactly the kind of woman who owns a room — sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, her bracelets chiming softly when she waves you over. “Northwestern girl,” she says, smiling like she’s half impressed, half warning you not to prove her wrong. “Welcome to the Star. We eat deadlines for breakfast around here.”

You laugh, too loudly, but she doesn’t seem to mind. “Thank you, Ms. Jackson. I’m excited to—”

“Don’t call me Ms. Jackson unless you’re singing it,” she interrupts, eyes glittering. “It’s Ophelia. Now, let me introduce you to your immediate boss — Mike Schein. City beat. He’ll keep you busy.”

Mike turns out to be a man in his forties with a wrinkled shirt and cold eyes that miss nothing. He shakes your hand, glances at your notebook like he can already see the stories you’ll write in it. “Welcome to the circus,” he says. “Hope you brought comfortable shoes.”

You smile, pretending to belong, even as your heart thuds hard enough to make you wonder if anyone else can hear it.

Mike leads you to a desk near the window — secondhand, scarred by coffee rings, but yours. A small thrill runs through you at the thought. He leans against the edge, arms folded, watching the newsroom bustle for a beat before speaking.

“So, we’ve got something different in mind for you,” he says. “Something long-form, human interest, maybe even a little risky.”

Your pen stills over the notebook. “Risky how?”

He smiles faintly, the kind of smile that means he’s about to drop something big. “We’re starting a new series — Heartland Hearts. Stories about dating in your twenties, modern love in Kansas City. Apps, coffee shops, ghosting, whatever the kids are doing these days.”

You nod, unsure where this is going. “Okay…”

“I think you’re the one to write it,” he continues. “Fresh voice, female perspective, you get it. But we don’t want think-pieces. We want experiences. Real ones.”

You blink. “Experiences?”

He shrugs, almost sheepish. “We’ll set you up with profiles on one of the dating apps — Love Match, maybe. You go on dates, write about what you see, who you meet, what it says about people out there trying to connect. Honest, funny, human. It could be big.”

For a moment, you just stare at him. Then, quietly, “I’m… married.”

“I know,” he says, like that’s a small detail. “That’s what makes it interesting. You’ve got the outsider’s eye. We don’t need romance — we need observation. You can disclose the marriage if it helps keep things clean. It’s not a trap. It’s just reporting.”

You **** a smile, trying to imagine explaining this to Tom. Hi, honey, I’m going to start dating for work.

Mike seems to read your hesitation. “You don’t have to say yes right now. Just think about it. This kind of piece could make your name here.”

He pats the desk, gives you an encouraging nod, and walks away, leaving you surrounded by the clatter of other people’s stories.

You stare down at the blank page in your notebook, the words Heartland Hearts circling your thoughts like something alive.