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5

"They gave us three days to leave. Three. Where am I supposed to go with my kids?"

Jake filmed in silence. I could feel his eyes on me. The questions I'd prepared on the subway crowded my mind, but my hands were shaking. The woman broke down, sobbing openly, and the children stopped playing to watch her with wide, uneasy eyes. Without thinking, I stopped the recorder and wrapped my arms around her. I didn't have much else to give. She could push me away, refuse me, and she'd be right to.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my throat tight, my own tears hot on my cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

She didn't push me away. If anything, I caught a flicker of relief in her eyes I hadn't expected. And as if that moment had unlatched something inside her, she began to tell me everything, not just the evictions but all of it, the bad choices, the good ones, the exact point where it all began to unravel. The children came closer, unafraid, told me their names, played with me. The baby, in my arms now, grabbed my hair with that clumsy innocence that makes you smile without meaning to.

Still, when we stepped outside, the fresh air did nothing to wash away the bitter taste left behind, as if something had clung to my skin and refused to let go.

We walked back in silence. I could feel Jake's stare burning between my shoulder blades until I stopped, fed up, and turned to face him.

"What? I know, I went too far." I folded my arms, more as armor than defiance. "If you've got something to say, just say it."

"Mia, you're not bad at writing. I've read your stuff." He stood in front of me, steady, and while his words sounded like a compliment, there was a sharpness in his eyes I didn't like. "But tell me, do you really think this is for you?"

I stared at him, not entirely sure what he meant.

"Journalism is about telling stories, not living them for the people you're writing about," he said, his tone harder now. "You fell apart in there. What do you think the professors would say if they saw that first take?"

"And what did you expect me to do?" I shot back, defensive. "Record her like she was just an interesting case? Some training exercise? You wanted me to be shallow?"

Jake let out a breath and looked away for a moment before fixing his gaze on me again.

"That's not what I'm saying, but what you did was pathetic, Mia." His words cut straight through me. "You cried with a stranger. That's a line you can't cross. You have to keep your distance. You tell the story so others can empathize, not so you get dragged in that deep. Which is why I'm not going to say maybe this isn't for you... because after what I saw, I'm sure it's not."

I stood there, the hit of his words like a bucket of ice water. Old voices, the ones that whispered I was never enough, stirred in the back of my mind. I couldn't be detached, not in the face of real suffering, not when people's lives were bleeding out in front of me.

"If you don't learn to keep that distance, you'll be a mediocre journalist, and this will eat you alive."

I dropped my gaze and stayed quiet, the knot in my throat matched by the one twisting in my stomach. I swallowed whatever answer I wanted to give. We walked to the subway without another word, though I could still feel him glancing at me from the side. Better that way. I needed to think about something else, to cling to the distraction of the movie John, Rhonda, and I had planned to see.

"I'll delete that part. No need to thank me," he said as we split ways.

I clenched my jaw as I watched him walk off and, instead of heading into the subway, I caught a bus straight home. I didn't have the energy for another round with him. I slipped inside quietly, avoiding anyone I might run into. In the bathroom, I let the hot shower carry away at least some of the weight pressing down on me. I pulled on soft clothes and didn't bother with makeup. The sooner the day ended, the sooner I could stop worrying that someone might come back and see me like this.