The newsroom buzzed around Theo in its usual, familiar rhythm: the clacking of keys, the distant murmur of phone calls, the soft laughter between colleagues trading headlines and coffee stains. It was comforting in theory—predictable, even—but today the soundscape only made the air feel heavier.
There was tension under the surface, something he couldn't name.
He sat motionless at his desk, the glow of his laptop reflecting in tired eyes. An unfinished article blinked back at him. The title alone made his stomach twist:
"Laughing Through the Pain: The Cost of Comedy."
He had spent weeks on it—months, really. Interviewing open mic comedians, trailing club owners, digging into canceled sets and careers sabotaged by rumors and whispers. It was supposed to be his breakout piece. A searing exposé on the dark underbelly of the comedy circuit.
But now, the words on the screen wouldn't focus.
They blurred, melted into nonsense, and behind them swelled a voice he'd tried to ignore for too long.
Eden.
She crept into his thoughts like smoke through a crack in the door. Her voice, low and uncertain, from their last real conversation. Her laugh, broken at the edges. The way she'd asked—not begged, but almost—for help. And the way he had sidestepped it, deflecting her pain with professional detachment.
He had told himself the article was more important.
And maybe it had been. Back then.
Now?
Now, he wasn't so sure.
A low whine vibrated from the laptop.
Theo blinked, leaning in. "What the hell…"
The screen flickered.
Then glitched.
Words twisted into alien symbols. Letters stretched and curled like limbs in pain. The document blinked out. Static replaced the cursor. A high-pitched frequency rang in his ears.
He barely had time to flinch before sparks shot from the keyboard.
A bright pop.
Then fire.
The screen erupted in flames.
Theo shoved his chair back, heart slamming against his ribs. The flames crackled and danced up the edges of the monitor like eager hands.
He grabbed his water bottle and hurled its contents over the desk. But instead of extinguishing the fire, the flames hissed and grew. Smoke spilled from the vents like ink.
The newsroom around him faded.
The sounds of colleagues vanished.
All that remained was fire.
And then—
"Theo."
The voice sliced through the smoke.
His head snapped up.
She was there.
Eden.
Or something that looked like her.
She stood beyond the flames, unchanged by the heat. Her figure shimmered at the edges like a reflection in water. Her eyes were dark, knowing, and impossible to escape.
"You've been avoiding me," she said softly, like she was stating the weather. There was no anger in her voice—only certainty.
Theo's throat constricted. His pulse throbbed in his ears.
"I—I didn't know—"
But the words died in his mouth.
He couldn't lie here.
He couldn't even speak.
The flames roared louder behind him, but she didn't flinch. She stepped forward, unfazed by the inferno.
"Do you see it now?" she asked. "The story you wrote. The one you thought would save you?"
She gestured toward the laptop, now fully engulfed. Its screen had turned to molten black. The fire no longer looked random—it moved with intention. Shapes curled in the smoke. Faces. Eyes. Letters that melted into her name.
"This isn't what you were meant to write," Eden continued. "This isn't the story that matters."
He tried to step back, but the fire had spread. His exit routes were gone. He was encircled.
The heat pressed in, suffocating.
"What do you want from me?" he rasped, coughing against the ash in his lungs.
Eden smiled. Not gently. It was a knowing, sorrowful smile. The kind you give someone right before they realize they're the villain in their own narrative.
"Would you like the truth now?" she asked.
The flames flared behind her.
Theo didn't need to ask what she meant.
The story.
The real one.
The one he hadn't written.
He looked down at the twisted mess of notes on his desk—crossed-out drafts, names of anonymous sources, scraps of quotes he'd trimmed to protect his angle. He'd buried the lead, the raw truth of Eden's pain, under glib observations and ironic detachment.
And now the cost was burning all around him.
"You want me to rewrite it," he whispered.
Eden nodded, her gaze unflinching.
"Rewrite it," she echoed. "But know this—you can't fix the past and protect your image. You can't have both."
Theo's hands trembled. The heat made his skin feel like it was boiling, but it wasn't just the flames. It was everything—every missed call, every unanswered message, every laugh he'd edited out of her life.
"I thought I was doing the right thing," he said.
"You were doing the easy thing."
He looked at her, searching for some shred of forgiveness.
There was none.
Only the flickering outline of someone who had once trusted him.
The article—he could see it clearly now. What it could have been. Not an exposé. Not a career move. But a memorial. A confession. A reckoning. A story that honored what Eden had lived through instead of exploiting what she left behind.
The flames began to rise again, climbing toward the ceiling like a wave about to crash.
Theo turned back to the laptop.
A miracle—somehow, it was still there.
Barely holding on, screen cracked and smoking.
But functional.
His fingers hovered above the keys.
He didn't know what he would write.
Only that it had to start now.
He typed.
The words came slowly at first—halting, unsure. Then faster.
Not facts. Not stats.
Feelings.
Moments.
Memories.
He wrote about Eden. Not just her stage persona or her spiral, but the quiet strength she carried when no one clapped. The kindness she gave freely. The loneliness behind her punchlines.
The fire began to shrink.
Ash floated in the air like snowflakes.
He kept typing.
The truth burned on the page. The ugly parts. The complicity. The silence.
And the guilt.
Eden watched him, her expression unreadable.
When the last word was typed, the flames vanished completely.
The newsroom returned.
Flickering monitors.
Muted conversations.
Time had passed—but it also hadn't.
Theo sat in his chair, blinking at the screen.
One sentence stared back at him, still glowing on the final line:
It was never about the story. It was about the people we leave behind.
He exhaled.
Not relief—something deeper.
A surrender.
He clicked Send.
And as he did, a soft wind moved through the room.
A whisper.
Gone before it could be caught.