Choosing Me

New York in May is the kind of soft that almost makes you believe in fresh starts. I walk to work with a lightness I haven't felt in years. My articles are landing, my inbox is full of praise, and Theo and I... we're steady.

Everything feels right. Finally.

Claire calls me into the corner meeting room just after lunch. Samantha Bell, the creative director, is already there, seated in that impossibly tailored white blazer she always wears like armor. Her presence fills the room even in silence.

They're talking numbers, layouts, headlines. My name comes up.

"Stassie's work has elevated the tone of the entire issue," Samantha says, flipping through the Lisbon piece. "There's heart in it, voice, and texture. Readers feel like they're sitting across from her with a glass of wine. That kind of intimacy can't be manufactured."

My cheeks flush. I thank her, trying to play it cool, even though the words land like a warm hand over my chest. It means something. It matters.

Claire smiles. "We weren't sure at first," she says, tone casual. "I mean, Alec Ottomides recommending you~well, it raised a few eyebrows. But you've more than proven you belong here."

The words hit me before I know what to do with them.

Recommended.

I blink. There's a loud buzzing in my ears. My hands feel clammy.

Samantha nods. "We were hesitant, yes, but you've earned your seat at this table."

I nod, because it's all I can manage, but something within me cracks open.

I excuse myself with some excuse about a scheduling conflict. I manage to smile and keep my voice even. I'm good at this~leaving rooms without showing the damage.

But by the time I'm on the street, I feel like I am suffocating. I walk home without hearing a single sound around me.

Inside my apartment, I drop my keys on the counter and lean against the wall like I'm holding up the ceiling.

Alec.

I thought I'd clawed my way here on merit. On sleepless nights and rewrites and deadlines. On showing up even when I didn't feel worthy.

Bur now, It feels like all of it~everything, was handed to me because a man decided I should be here. Because he spoke my name in a room I never asked him to enter.

I dial Theo's number.

He picks up on the second ring, voice warm. "Hey, beautiful."

I can't speak.

"Stassie?" he says, sharp now, alert. "What's wrong?"

My lips part, but nothing comes. Just the sound of my breath, uneven and shallow.

"I'm coming," he says. No hesitation. No asking.

And then he hangs up.

He's on his way.

I can't believe it," I whisper, voice catching. "Theo, I can't believe it."

He doesn't say anything. Just waits.

"I feel like~like everything I've worked for, everything I've become since moving to New York... it's all a lie."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his fingers still gentle on my hips. "It's not a lie, Stass."

I shake my head, chest tight. "You don't understand. I thought I got here because I was good. Because I earned it. But it was Alec. He put my name in the right ears. He opened the door. And now I don't know if any of this is mine."

Theo exhales slowly, steadying. He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear and cups the side of my face with a kind of care that makes my eyes burn.

"Stassie, listen to me." His voice is low, firm, threaded with something fierce and soft at the same time. "He may have opened a door. But you walked through it. You stayed. You delivered. You proved yourself every single damn day."

"But it still feels like cheating," I whisper. "Like the pride I carried... doesn't belong to me."

"It does," he says, without hesitation. "It belongs to you more than anyone I've ever met."

I bury my face in his neck. He holds me tighter, his heartbeat solid beneath my cheek.

"You don't owe anyone an apology for the way your light reached them," he says softly. "Especially not a man who only ever saw your shine when it served him."

I go still at that. His words settle over me like a blanket.

He holds me like he's not in a rush for me to feel better. Like he's here for the whole unraveling, however long it takes.

"What do you want to do?" he asks me gently, his thumb tracing the curve of my spine. "Do you want to move back to Portland? Or do you want to stay here and keep fighting?"

I don't answer right away. I'm still pressed against him, still half tangled in doubt, but his voice is steady~like a hand outstretched in the dark.

"Because wherever you go from here," he continues, "it'll be because of you. The effort you've put in. The talent that's yours and no one else's. This Alec dude doesn't write your articles, Stass. You do."

I lift my head, and I smile.

Because he's right.

All along, he's seen me. Not as someone made of potential, or someone to win, but as someone already whole.

"If I decide to leave," I ask quietly, "would you follow me?"

He doesn't hesitate. Not for a second.

"I can work anywhere," he says. "And I'll follow you wherever you go, as long as we're together."

That's it. No fanfare. No promises he can't keep. Just truth.

I shift closer, my hands cupping his face, and I kiss him. Slowly. Deeply. A kiss that holds no doubt, no past, no fear.

When I finally pulled back, he looked at me with that quiet intensity he always carried, the kind that didn't demand anything in return.

"I see you, Stassie," he said simply.

The way he said it, made me believe I could see myself again, too.