The office hummed with that particular midnight silence I had grown to love more than my own bedroom. Outside my window, Manhattan blinked back at me, indifferent and beautiful, and I sat at my desk pretending I still had work to finish. The truth was simpler. I just did not want to go home.
I had been a journalist for 22 years, and somewhere along the way, my deadlines had become my closest companions.
My phone lit up on the desk. A message from Daniel.
“When are you coming home? You missed dinner again.”
No question mark. No warmth. Just a transaction, like he was reconciling an account.
I typed back, “Working late. Don’t wait up.”
He did not reply. He never did.