Chapter Text
Nothing.
No answer.
Emily set the phone down on the nightstand more carefully than necessary, as if even the slightest noise might crack something inside her. After a few seconds, the screen went dark, taking with it that last stupid hope that Andrea might call her back.
She stayed still, eyes fixed on the wall across from the bed. Her apartment was drowned in unbearable silence.
The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Somewhere beyond the window, a siren tore through the silence of Manhattan before fading into the distance. Everything kept moving normally. Only she seemed frozen in place.
How had she ended up like this?
Just a few weeks earlier, she had felt like the luckiest woman in the world. She had the job she wanted. No, the job she had sacrificed everything for. She had Runway. She had Miranda Priestly. She had finally stopped being one of those desperate girls begging to be noticed.
She was winning.
She had learned to survive on four hours of sleep.
To ignore hunger until she couldn’t feel it anymore.
She had lost the necessary weight. The right weight. The kind of weight that made people stop looking at her critically. The kind that let her fit into sample sizes without holding her breath.
Perfect. Or at least close enough to convince herself she was.
Even the voices in her head had quieted down.
The old teasing. The jokes about her appearance. The times she had been judged for being too loud, too ambitious, too irritating.
All that noise had started losing its power the moment Miranda began trusting her.
She, Emily Charlton, had finally become someone.
Then came the fall.
At first it was only exhaustion. A cough. A little fever. Nothing she couldn’t manage. She kept working even as her body slowly began giving out.
She took medicine without even reading the labels, hid used tissues in her bag, retouched her makeup in the Runway bathrooms to erase the paleness from her face.
But Miranda noticed everything.
She noticed the muffled coughing during phone calls. The delays of just a few minutes. She noticed the bloodshot eyes and trembling hands every time Emily handed her coffee.
And Emily had watched that light slowly die in the woman’s gaze.
The trust. The interest. The certainty that she was indispensable.
Then she was hit by a car.
She still remembered the sound of tires against wet asphalt. The sudden pain. The confusion. The ambulance lights reflected in puddles. After that, everything became muffled. Disordered.
Her leg wrapped in bandages. Nurses speaking too slowly. Her phone vibrating endlessly while she lacked the strength to even look at it.
And then Andrea.
The first person to walk into the room. Also the only one who visited during her recovery.
Emily still remembered the way she stood there, awkward but composed, wearing a borrowed Chanel outfit, desperately searching for the right words.
And above all, she remembered the exact moment she understood.
Paris.
Andrea was going to Paris in her place.
Emily couldn’t even remember what she replied. Maybe she smiled. Maybe she made some cruel joke. That was always what she did whenever something hurt badly enough to threaten to destroy her.
Within fortyeight hours, she had lost everything she had spent years building.
Her health.
Her control.
The dream she had allowed herself exactly once in her life.
And the worst part came afterward.
Andrea left.
Nigel came back from Paris carrying that elegant exhaustion everyone had after Fashion Week and mentioned it almost casually while organizing clothes in Miranda’s closet. Andrea had quit Runway. Just like that.
Emily remembered staring at him without truly understanding the words. As if her brain refused to process them.
Andy had just… left.
Without saying goodbye.
Without a message.
Without even looking back.
As if it had been easy.
That was the part Emily simply could not understand.
She had given everything to that place. Her sleep. Her body. Her dignity. Every single piece of herself. And Andy, who at first couldn’t even tell Galliano from Gaultier, had simply decided to leave.
And somehow, she had managed it.
Emily returned to work too early.
With crutches slowing every movement and a stabbing pain in her leg at every step. No one openly told her she should stay home.
At Runway, weakness had never been forbidden.
It was simply disgusting.
So she kept going.
She kept going while the painkillers turned her stomach inside out. Kept going while her head hurt so hard her eyes watered in front of the computer screen.
Kept going while she started forgetting little things: names, appointments, phone calls.
Then came that phone call. Brief. Kind. Almost normal.
Andrea asked how she was doing. She spoke as if there wasn’t an entire ocean of unsaid things between them.
A few days later, the clothes arrived too.
Beautiful, obviously. Expensive. Perfect.
Emily had never found the courage to wear them.
They were still folded inside the box, untouched, like something too precious to ruin.
But that phone call had left her with something dangerous: Hope.
So when the headaches came back… when the silence of the apartment started crushing her chest again… when her thoughts crowded together so quickly they nearly left her breathless, Emily picked up the phone without thinking too much about it.
She only wanted to hear her voice.
Maybe they could still be friends.
For the first time in her life, maybe she could afford to trust someone. Just one person.
Voicemail answered on the fourth ring.
Emily closed her eyes for a moment, the phone still pressed against her ear.
She no longer had Paris.
She no longer had control.
She didn’t even know who she was without Runway.
And now she didn’t even have Andy anymore.
*
Emily returned to work as if nothing had happened.
Always punctual. Always immaculate. Sleek hair, flawless makeup, heels high enough to make her forget the pain in her leg for at least a few hours. She kept filling schedules, booking flights, anticipating Miranda’s requests before they were spoken aloud.
It worked. And that was exactly the problem.
It worked so well that nobody seemed to notice right away that Emily Charlton was gone.
Her body kept moving on its own.
She answered calls without hesitation. Solved crises. Fired interns with the same surgical precision as always.
Sometimes she even heard herself speaking from across the room, as if the voice belonged to someone else.
In the morning she dressed without remembering what she had chosen.
At night she came home without remembering the journey.
She slept little. Eating had become even more irrelevant than before.
She wasn’t sad the way people expected sadness to look. She didn’t cry.
She didn’t collapse. She didn’t throw phones against walls.
She had simply stopped feeling almost everything.
And somehow, that part was even worse.
“So, Charlton,” Nigel said one morning without looking up from a rack of clothes. A new seamstress had just run away in tears after one of Emily’s criticisms. “I see the accident failed to make you human.”
Emily typed something into her BlackBerry.
“A tragedy for everyone, I know.”
“Mm.” Nigel tilted his head slightly. “Some of us were at least hoping for a little character development.”
Normally Emily would have answered immediately. Something quick. Sharp. Precise.
Instead, she took a few seconds too long.
“Unfortunately, I’m still gorgeous.”
Nigel finally looked at her.
“That joke sounded like it came out of a voicemail recording.”
Emily gave an automatic smile. “Thank you.”
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then she went back to sorting clothes.
At first it was almost imperceptible.
Emily still did everything correctly. Maybe even better than before. She never forgot anything truly important. Miranda never had to repeat an order twice. The younger assistants were still terrified of her.
But something had hollowed out inside her.
Before, Emily filled every room she entered.
Now she seemed to pass through them without leaving a trace.
She no longer complained. No longer muttered insults under her breath about incompetent designers.
She no longer corrected interns’ French pronunciation in that exasperated aristocratic tone Nigel found unbearably entertaining.
Even her sarcasm had begun to sound automatic. A memorized response.
One evening Nigel found her sitting alone in Miranda’s closet in front of a pile of accessories that still needed cataloging.
“Emily.”
She slowly looked up.
“Mm?”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“I know.”
“Why are you still here?”
Emily lowered her eyes back to the papers. “I have work.”
Nigel leaned against the doorframe.
“No. You finished your work three hours ago.”
Silence.
She kept staring at the list without really reading it.
Nigel watched her for a few seconds. She looked exhausted in a way that felt different from usual. Not the nervous exhaustion everyone at Runway was accustomed to. Not adrenaline. Not stress.
Emptiness.
“Charlton,” he said more quietly, “when was the last time you slept?”
“I sleep.”
“That answer means absolutely nothing, and you know it.”
Emily inhaled slowly, still not looking at him.
“I’m fine, Nigel.”
He scoffed.
“Oh, certainly. And I’m a promising young heterosexual.”
Nothing. Not even a real smile.
That was the first time Nigel felt something tighten in his stomach.
Because Emily should have reacted. She should have rolled her eyes. Told him nobody wanted to imagine his sex life.
Instead she said nothing at all, as though every conversation had to travel miles before reaching her.
Nigel slowly straightened.
“Go home.”
Emily nodded immediately. Obedient. Distracted.
And that was almost frightening.
The following weeks got worse without anyone saying it out loud.
Emily started forgetting insignificant appointments. Let tea grow cold without touching it. Stared at her computer screen for entire minutes as though she had lost the thread of her thoughts.
One day Miranda had to say her name twice during a meeting.
Only twice.
But Emily still felt the blood freeze in her veins.
“Emily.”
She immediately lifted her head.
“Yes, Miranda?”
Miranda’s gaze lingered on her a second too long.
Cold. Analytical. Emily felt something tighten violently in her chest.
“Nothing,” Miranda finally said. “Try to remain present.”
Emily lowered her eyes to the documents, trying to ignore the sudden trembling in her hands.
For the rest of the day she worked without stopping for a single second.
As if speed alone could prevent her from thinking.
As if continuing to move might somehow stop her from collapsing completely.
*
The days began blurring together.
Emily still arrived at the office before almost everyone else. Miranda’s coffee was always the correct temperature. International calls were arranged flawlessly. Last minute emergencies, impossible celebrity requests, everything still passed through her hands with the same impeccable efficiency as always.
And that was probably why nobody noticed anything.
At Runway, suffering was acceptable only if it remained elegant.
And Emily had always been exceptionally good at making every form of selfdestruction look elegant.
So nobody noticed she had almost completely stopped talking about herself.
Nobody noticed she spent lunch breaks sitting at her desk pretending to work while staring at the black computer screen.
Nobody noticed she had started wearing the same colors every day: black, gray, navy blue. As if even choosing something different required too much energy.
Only Nigel noticed.
Nigel noticed she no longer corrected people. No longer argued. Had stopped becoming outraged over ridiculous color combinations.
One day an assistant spilled coffee all over one of Miranda’s important folders directly in front of her. The old Emily would have psychologically destroyed that girl within thirty seconds.
The new one simply grabbed tissues and said, “Blot from the center or you’ll spread the stain.”
Nigel slowly looked up.
Emily didn’t even seem to notice.
“You’re becoming disturbing,” he said quietly a few days later.
They were alone in the closet.
Emily was checking clothing inventory with the same distant expression that now seemed permanent.
“Incredible,” Nigel continued. “I actually miss when you were unbearable.”
“Thank you.”
“See? That’s exactly the problem. You said thank you like a woman who’s already decided to die in a Russian novel.”
Emily blinked slowly.
“I don’t think I have enough repressed personality to be Russian.”
Nigel stared at her.
For a moment he glimpsed the old Emily.
Then it vanished instantly.
“My God,” he murmured softly. “You’re actually making me worry.”
She lowered her eyes again.
“There’s no need.”
And that was exactly the problem.
Even Miranda had started watching her more often.
Never enough for anyone else to notice. Never openly.
But Emily noticed anyway.
Miranda noticed the pauses stretching too long before answers.
The dark circles poorly concealed beneath her eyes.
The way Emily sometimes seemed to lose track of conversations for a few seconds before immediately recovering.
One morning Emily entered the main office carrying a stack of confirmations for Milan.
Fashion Week.
Normally she would have been electrified with anticipation. Anxious, aggressive, hyperactive.
Now she just felt tired.
As she approached Miranda’s office door, she heard voices inside.
“…you can’t do this to her again.” Nigel.
Emily slowed slightly.
A brief, tense silence followed.
Then Miranda, glacial: “I do not require your advice on how to manage my staff.”
Emily knocked immediately before she could hear anything else.
“Come in.”
When she entered, Nigel was leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. He looked irritated.
Miranda, meanwhile, was perfectly composed, her eyes already fixed on the documents before her.
Neither of them explained anything.
Emily handed over the confirmations.
“The final Milan contracts have been confirmed.”
Miranda took the papers without looking at her.
“Good.”
Silence
Then: “Luisa will go to Milan in your place.”
Emily went still.
Not long enough to make it obvious. Just one second.
A few months earlier, those words would have torn her apart. She would have felt rage.
Now it was different.
The blow arrived muffled. As if through very deep water.
“Oh.”
Miranda finally looked up.
“This is not a discussion.”
“Of course.”
“Your focus is beginning to decline.”
Emily immediately lowered her eyes.
“It won’t happen again.”
“I know.”
That answer confused her more than any reprimand could have.
Miranda slowly removed her glasses.
“You will take a week off.”
Emily almost laughed.
A week?
As if the problem were exhaustion.
“That isn’t necessary.”
"Emily.” Her name, spoken that quietly, still managed to immobilize her.
“Runway will continue functioning without you for a few days.”
Something moved painfully in Emily’s chest.
For years she had built her entire existence around the opposite idea.
Indispensable. She had to be indispensable.
And yet, no. Runway had always survived. Even without her.
Emily felt the old instinct to react, to defend herself, to promise she would do better. But that part of her now felt unreachable.
So she simply nodded.
“I understand.”
Nigel looked away first. Miranda continued watching her for another moment.
And yet Emily had the strange feeling that this was the closest thing to pity Miranda was capable of.
*
The apartment was too quiet.
Emily noticed immediately the moment she closed the door behind her.
Usually she came home so exhausted she barely had time to think. Runway left a constant noise clinging to her: phones, heels, orders, fabrics, voices, still vibrating in her head hours later.
Now there was nothing. Only the click of the lock.
The soft rain against the windows.
Emily dropped her bag onto the table without even removing her coat.
A week.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had an entire week without work. The idea felt almost obscene.
She moved slowly through the apartment, turning on lights that still failed to make the place feel less empty. Magazines still lay open on the couch. A cup abandoned in the sink since morning. The box of clothes Andrea had sent was still there untouched in the corner of the living room.
Emily stared at it for a few seconds before immediately looking away.
No.
She didn’t want to think about Andy.
She didn’t want to think about anything.
She changed clothes mechanically, leaving them on the floor instead of putting them away immediately like she always did. Even that felt strange. Like watching someone else use her body.
She tried turning on the television.
Ten minutes later she realized she hadn’t heard a single word.
She tried reading emails.
The lines began blurring together. Eventually she sat motionless on the edge of the bed.
And realized an entire day had passed and maybe she hadn’t slept.
Or maybe she simply hadn’t noticed.
And slowly, without the noise of Runway drowning everything else out, the thoughts returned.
At first they were small.
Fragments.
Her mother’s voice: “You never should have been born.”
Classmates laughing every time she raised her hand too often.
Parties she was never invited to. The way her father lowered his newspaper without truly looking at her whenever she tried telling him something about her day.
Too much.
She had always been too much.
Too intense.
Too ambitious.
Too loud.
Too emotional.
At least Runway had made those qualities useful.
There, her obsession had become competence. Hunger had become discipline. Cruelty had become efficiency. Miranda had never asked to be loved. Only perfection.
And Emily had known how to provide it. Or at least she thought she had.
She inhaled slowly, feeling the pressure in her chest grow tighter and tighter.
Because the truth was she had no one outside that place. No one who truly called her. No one who would notice her absence for more than a few days.
Even Andy…
Emily immediately shut her eyes.
No.
But by then her mind was already moving too fast.
Andrea laughing behind the desk at one of her vicious jokes during long nights at the office.
Andrea looking at her in the hospital with that guilty expression, genuinely devastated.
Andrea leaving anyway.
Because everyone leaves anyway.
Always.
Emily bent forward slightly, hands clenched so tightly they hurt.
Her breathing became uneven.
Too fast. Too shallow.
She couldn’t stop the thoughts anymore.
“You are nothing outside Runway.” Even Miranda doesn’t trust you anymore. “They replaced you again.”
You’re not even important enough to be truly hated.
If you disappeared, how long would it take them to move on?
One day?
Two?
A week.
The moment they stopped seeing her arrive on time carrying Miranda’s coffee, Runway would already continue without her.
Miranda would find another assistant.
Nigel would make cynical jokes during fittings with her replacement.
Andrea probably wouldn’t even know right away.
That was the part that hurt most.
Emily stood too quickly, feeling her head spin.
She crossed the apartment almost without noticing and stopped in front of the bathroom cabinet.
The pills were there.
Painkillers. Anti-anxiety medication prescribed months earlier. Sleeping pills she had never taken. She stared at them for a long time.
The silence of the apartment now felt enormous.
It would take so little.
No voices.
No phone calls.
No expectations.
Finally silence.
Emily slowly picked up one of the bottles.
Her fingers weren’t even trembling.
“So little,” she whispered softly.