The words fill me with something close to pride - and a little nausea - as a rush of validation warms my skin.
"People are talking about your latest piece," Dick continues, leaning forward, his elbows propped on the desk. "It’s not just the reporting they’re interested in, though."
My brow furrows, the warmth trickling slightly out of reach. "The story's got weight."
"Sure, Ellie, sure," he says, folding his hands.
How does my editor always manage to gleefully sound like Henry Potter plotting to destroy George Bailey?
I sense a shift in his gaze, a subtle ellipsis dangling between his words. "But what they're fascinated by is your… ah… discomfort."
The chill really starts seeping through now. I tilt my head, forcing a smile. "Discomfort?" I echo.
"Your vulnerability is intriguing to them," he clarifies, choosing his words with surgical precision. "The way you… well, the way your… personage… conveys fear before the… inevitable confidence kicks in."
The heat recedes completely now, replaced by a dull chilly thud inside my chest. This wasn't the recognition I craved. This wasn't about the story, the painstaking investigation, the truths unearthed in ink and paper. It was about me—me as a spectacle, a subject rather than creator.
I stand abruptly, months of meticulous work feeling suddenly weightless. "Thanks for the feedback," I mutter brusquely, turning on my heel.
"We seem to have stumbled upon a moment,” he says rather desperately to my back. “Moments are powerful, Ellie."
Oh, good lord. Now moments are apparently more important than meaning.
I couldn’t help but smile, embracing sincerity. "I don't create moments. I report on them."
He continues trying to soothe my resistance. "Maybe not intentionally, but it works. It’s relatable."
"Relatable or reductive?" I ask sharply.
"Think of it as expanding your brand," he presses. "Visibility can be your strength."
My jaw tightens. "Im not a sideshow," I say, closing my notebook.
As I step back into the office, I grasp what's been sacrificed. My profession is on hold while my presence is what they're banking on.
I have the ominous sense of a countdown. And it’s ticking away.
As I leave Dick’s office, my phone buzzes with Jess’s name. I was excited and feeling celebratory when I texted her earlier, but I’m now in no mood to talk. Still… an opportunity to vent would be nice.I hesitate another moment before picking up.
“It’s my turn to buy drinks, right?”
“Are we talking boxed wine or top-shelf?”
I chuckle. “No boxes. Promise. But plenty of venting. I just got out of a meeting with Dick and it wasn’t the best I’ve ever had.”
“That’s a start. I want to hear the entire self-pity playlist, track by track.”
“I feel like the laughing and pointing will begin any second.” My voice falters.
Jess pretends I’m not about to have a meltdown.“So drinks then?”
“Definitely.”
“See you soon.”
I hang up and head for the break room. I wish for invisibility as I approach the coffee machine, feeling the weight of curious stares.
Back at my desk, each keystroke amplifies in the newsroom's hum. Muted conversations are punctuated by smirks.