The pitch rehearsal was in full swing.
Zoe stood confidently at the front of the room, gesturing to the projected deck. Her voice was calm, clear, and unshakably professional.
"Our strategy isn't just reactive—it's visionary. We're not waiting for the market to shift; we're leading it. Slide seven captures the behavioral arc. The emotional investment before the conversion moment."
Stacy sat near the head of the long table, hands steepled lightly under her chin, pretending to listen like a CEO. She nodded at the right beats. She scribbled notes in the margins of her draft. But her mind—
Her mind was on her.
Zoe.
The way she moved. Focused. Composed.
Every word was razor-sharp. No stumble, no soft edge.
God, she was good.
And distant.
So unbearably distant.
Gone were the glances they'd once exchanged between bullet points and brainstorms— that tiny smirk Zoe used to give when Stacy's feedback was harsher than necessary, the slight tilt of her head when they aligned on an idea without even speaking.
Now, Zoe didn't look her way at all.
"Slide nine transitions into projected KPIs. We're showing restraint here—underpromising so we can overdeliver. This is where we buy trust."
Zoe tapped the remote, advancing the deck without missing a beat.
And Stacy—
God, I miss her.
She used to hand me coffee with that stupid little smirk, like she knew exactly how tired I was.
Now she doesn't bother to drop one.
They used to linger after meetings, tossing ideas back and forth until it blurred into something more. Fingers brushing over shared screens. Jokes muttered under their breath.
Now? Zoe left the second her part was done.
"Any questions so far?" Zoe asked the room.
Noah nodded. "Love the shift in narrative flow. I think it's punchier."
Zoe smiled politely. "Exactly the goal. Direct, clean. Efficient."
Efficient.
Right.
That's all they were now.
Efficient.
Stacy forced herself to sit straighter. "Zoe," she said, voice smooth. "In slide eleven—maybe you lead with the client's name first. Anchor the ROI section in their language before we scale out."
Zoe nodded once. "Noted. I'll revise the header."
Nothing more.
No pause. No shared moment.
Not even a glance.
She used to hold my gaze like it meant something. Like we were building more than a pitch.
Now she won't even look at me long enough to see I'm breaking.
"Alright," Zoe said, closing the clicker. "I'll send the updated version by noon. Let me know if you have any feedback on the transitions."
She sat down across the room from Stacy. Not beside her—not like she used to.
The silence after the meeting was louder than the pitch.
One by one, the team filtered out. Noah. Jenny. Steven. But Zoe stayed, reviewing notes on her tablet, her brow furrowed in that familiar way. Stacy watched her, watched the ghost of what they used to be flicker behind her posture.
She wanted to say something.
Anything.
But all that came was the ache.
I asked for this. I set the rules. She's only playing the part I handed her.
But why does it feel like she took the light with her when she left the space between us?
Stacy gathered her things slowly. Zoe didn't look up.
"Zoe," she said, softly.
Zoe glanced her way—only barely. "Yes?"
So formal.
So clean.
Stacy hesitated. "...Good work. It's strong."
Zoe nodded. "Thanks."
She turned back to her screen.
That was it.
No smile.
No pause.
No flicker of anything left.
Stacy walked out of the room with her tablet under her arm, jaw clenched tight, throat thick.
We're still building the same campaign.
But somehow, she's not building it with me anymore.
-
**FRACTURES IN THE DARK**
The office was dark and silent hours ago. The building stood empty—save for the hum of distant city life seeping through cracked windows. But Stacy wasn't there. Not tonight.
Instead, she sat alone at the far end of a dimly lit bar, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating in her trembling hand. The amber liquid blurred the sharp edges of the day, but the ache inside her chest was relentless.
Another shot slid toward her from the bartender without a word. She didn't even flinch.
The room buzzed with laughter and clinking glasses, but Stacy felt miles away—trapped inside a quiet storm she couldn't escape.
I told myself I could handle this.
The distance. The silence.
The way Zoe disappeared without even a goodbye.
She drained her glass, eyes glassy but unfocused.
I was supposed to protect the company.
The legacy.
Dad's approval.
But what about me?
Her fingers traced the rim of the glass, trembling.
When did I become so damn alone?
A couple laughed nearby, heads bent close together, their fingers brushing lightly across the table. The warmth between them was a beacon in the dark.
Stacy's throat tightened.
That should be us.
Her eyes softened, and the edges of the bar blurred into shadows as a bittersweet daydream took hold.
I saw her laugh—light and genuine—spilling across the table as I teased her about that ridiculous font choice.
Her hand reaching across to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
That glance—the one that used to stop me cold—like she was really seeing me.
No distance. No walls.
A ghost of a smile curved Stacy's lips, bitter and aching.
But that's not our story anymore.
She blinked, shaking her head slightly to clear the imagined warmth.
The couple leaned in again, their heads touching softly.
Stacy sat back, the weight of the empty glass in her hand suddenly heavier.
This night was supposed to be just about the pitch.
But all I can think about is what I'm losing.
Her fingers curled tightly around the glass.
I want to hold her close—even just once.
To feel safe. To be soft.
But softness felt like a luxury she couldn't afford.
The couple laughed again.
Stacy swallowed hard, the sound a quiet, desperate echo in the hollow of her chest.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow, I have to be strong.
But tonight, I'm just broken.
The glass tipped back again, the burn a fleeting balm for a loneliness no drink could erase.
-
The whiskey buzz thickened Stacy's thoughts, making her head spin and her chest ache all at once. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone, the screen blurring slightly. There was only one person she could call in this state—Lesley.
She tapped the contact and held the phone to her ear. It rang twice.
"Hello babe," Stacy's voice came through "Come over to Eclipse. Let's drink."
"Hey, Stace? Everything okay?" Lesley picked up, her voice calm but cautious.
Stacy tried to sound casual, but her voice slurred just enough to betray her. "Just felt like having a drink with my best friend. No big deal. Come over?"
There was a pause. Then Lesley's tone shifted—gentle, but firm. "You don't call me for drinks in the middle of the week unless something's wrong. I'm coming."
-
Lesley arrived twenty minutes later. The bar was dimly lit, pulsing with low music and the quiet hum of midweek patrons. She spotted Stacy immediately—sitting alone at a corner booth, swaying slightly, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy and distant.
Lesley slid into the seat across from her, setting her bag down with a quiet thud. "So," she said softly, "what's going on, really?"
Stacy forced a laugh, lifting her glass with a shaky hand. "Nothing. Just wanted to hang out. You know, relax."
Lesley didn't smile. She leaned forward, her eyes searching Stacy's face. "Relax? Stacy, you're slurring. You don't invite me for drinks unless you're barely holding it together. So… talk."
Stacy's bravado cracked. Her hand trembled as she set the glass down. Her voice came out in a whisper, raw and uneven. "It's everything, Les. Zoe. The pitch. Dad. I can't… I can't hold it together anymore."
Lesley's expression softened instantly. She reached across the table, her fingers wrapping around Stacy's. "Okay. Start wherever you need to. I've got you."
Stacy blinked hard, trying to keep the tears at bay, but they came anyway—hot and fast. "I pushed Zoe away. I told myself it was better that way. That I needed to focus. That feelings were a distraction. But now I'm scared I've lost her. And I'm scared I'm not enough—for her, for this company, for my father. I'm just… tired."
Lesley squeezed her hand. "You don't have to be everything to everyone. You're allowed to fall apart. You're allowed to need help."
"I thought being cold made me strong," Stacy whispered. "I thought if I kept everything locked up, I'd be safe. But it's just… breaking me."
Lesley's voice was quiet but steady. "Strength isn't about shutting people out. It's about letting the right ones in. You've been carrying too much alone."
Stacy let out a shaky breath, her tears flowing freely now. "I never thought you'd see me like this. Crying over a girl I won't even let myself have."
Lesley didn't flinch. She only tightened her grip.
"Then maybe that's exactly why you needed someone here."
Stacy let out a broken laugh. "I'm supposed to be the one who has it together. The one everyone leans on." Her shoulders shook. "What happens when I'm the weak link?"
Lesley shook her head gently. "You're not weak. You're exhausted. There's a difference."
Stacy stared down at their joined hands, her voice barely there.
"I don't know how to choose, Les. Every choice feels like a loss."
"Then stop treating it like a battlefield," Lesley said softly. "You're allowed to want more than survival."
Stacy swallowed. "What if I let her back in… and everything collapses?"
Lesley met her eyes. "And what if you don't—and this is the version of you that survives?"
The question hung between them.
Stacy closed her eyes, a tear slipping free. "She looks at me like I'm human. Not a title. Not an expectation. Just… me."
"That terrifies you," Lesley said gently.
"Yes." Stacy nodded, a breath hitching. "Because if she sees me that way… and I lose her anyway—I don't know if I recover from that."
Lesley brushed her thumb over Stacy's knuckles.
"You don't have to decide tonight. You just have to stop punishing yourself for wanting her."
Stacy exhaled, shaky and long. "I don't know how to be soft without breaking."
"You learn," Lesley said simply. "One person. One truth. One moment at a time."
Stacy nodded, wiping at her face, her voice steadier now—but still fragile.
"I just want to feel like I'm not failing at everything."
Lesley gave her a small, unwavering smile.
"Then let this be the moment you stop doing it alone."
Stacy leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, breathing uneven but real. For the first time all night, the weight on her chest eased—just enough to remind her she was still standing.
Lesley smiled, her eyes warm and unwavering. "I see you. All of you. And trust me—Zoe does too. Even now. She's not gone, Stacy. She's waiting for you to stop running."
Stacy looked down at her glass, then back at Lesley. "I don't know how to fix it."
"You don't have to fix everything tonight," Lesley said. "Just start by being honest—with her, with yourself. That's enough."
They clinked glasses softly.
"To not pretending anymore," Stacy said, her voice steadier.
"To being real," Lesley replied. "Even when it hurts."
For the first time in weeks, Stacy felt a sliver of peace—held safe by the friend who knew her best, who never asked her to be anything but herself.
And then, the night blurred into laughter and tears, music and more drinks. Two best friends, tangled in their own heartbreaks, letting the pain fall away with each glass, holding on to each other through the dark.