Back to work.

By the time you get to the newsroom, the air is already humming — phones ringing, printers coughing, the low buzz of people who’ve been awake too long chasing a deadline. You slip into your desk, the one by the window, and try to look like you belong there.

Mike appears a few minutes later, two coffees in hand. He sets one down beside you without asking how you take it. “You think about the assignment?”

You nod. “A lot.”

He grins. “Good sign. Most reporters who hate an idea forget it fast.”

“I don’t hate it,” you say carefully. “It’s just… complicated.”

Before he can answer, Ophelia Jackson strides past, sharp heels on tile, a flash of gold jewelry catching the overhead light. She’s holding a printout and waves it like a flag. “Complicated is good,” she says, sliding the paper onto your desk. “Readers eat complicated for breakfast. Especially if it’s got heart.”

Mike gives her a look. “She’s not sold yet.”

Ophelia folds her arms. “What’s holding you back, Northwestern?”

You swallow. “I’m married. It just feels… strange to be the face of a dating column.”

Ophelia tilts her head, studying you. “Married, single, divorced — doesn’t matter. What matters is honesty. People don’t want perfect, they want truth. You give them that, they’ll follow you anywhere.”

Mike adds, “We’re not asking you to flirt your way through town. Just listen. Observe. Tell the stories that only you could tell.”

You glance at the printout: a mock header — Heartland Hearts — and a list of questions scribbled underneath in Mike’s quick handwriting. What’s everyone really searching for? Does love still mean the same thing here as it did back home?

Something about it catches at you — the scale of it, the chance to write about people and loneliness and hope. The kind of piece that could make you more than the new girl from Chicago.

Ophelia smiles when she sees the flicker in your eyes. “There it is,” she says. “That look. You’re already writing it in your head.”

You don’t deny it.

“Then start with yourself,” Mike says. “Set up the profile. Keep notes. Don’t worry about where it goes yet.”

As they walk off, the newsroom noise swells around you again — typewriters clacking, phones trilling — and you sit there with the printout in your hands, feeling the weight of the story settling over you like a dare.

You stare at the blank profile form on your screen, the empty boxes blinking back like questions you’re not ready to answer. Name. Age. Occupation. The basics are easy enough — facts, not confessions. But then comes the harder part: Describe yourself.

You rest your hands on the keyboard and wait, as if the right words might arrive on their own. What do you even say? You’ve been in love with one person since you were seventeen. You’ve written essays, features, obituaries, but never a paragraph that was supposed to make someone want to meet you.

You type, Curious. Midwest transplant. Journalist. Still figuring it out. Then you delete the last sentence. Too honest. Too close.

You try again. Likes coffee, bookstores, late-night drives. True, but hollow. It sounds like everyone else. You erase it, and sit back, watching the cursor blink in quiet impatience.

Maybe that’s the point, you think. Maybe this isn’t about pretending to be someone else. Maybe it’s about seeing who you might be, if you weren’t already written into someone’s story.

Tom’s face flickers across your mind — his easy smile, the way he steadies you without ever realizing it. You love him. You do. But sometimes love feels like a room you know too well, every corner mapped, every light switch familiar.

You’ve always been cautious, careful with people, especially men. Even Tom had to find his way through that — your shyness, your instinct to keep part of yourself untouched. But this assignment, strange as it feels, might be a way to grow past that. To learn people, their patterns, their tenderness. To learn yourself.

You type again, slower this time:

I write for a living. I ask too many questions. I believe everyone’s got a story worth hearing.

You read it once, twice. It feels honest enough. You upload a photo — one where you’re smiling, caught mid-laugh, sunlight glancing off your hair — and for a moment, you see yourself as someone else might: open, alive, maybe even a little brave.

When you hit Save, your heart gives a small, quick flutter.

You tell yourself it’s just work. But a part of you already knows it’s going to be more than that.