Behind the headline

Olivia I wake up before my alarm because my phone won’t stop vibrating. Emails. Messages. An editor who doesn’t believe in weekends. I roll onto my side, squinting at the cracked screen of my phone, already tired, and the day hasn’t even started. My apartment is quiet—too quiet. One bedroom, one window, furniture that matches only because I bought it second-hand in batches. Nothing fancy. Nothing fragile. Just simple. SUBJECT: URGENT — Need photos + write-up by noon. FROM: Martin I sigh and sit up, pushing my hair out of my face. Noon. Of course. Everything is always urgent when you’re expendable. I swing my legs off the bed and stand, stretching the stiffness out of my back. Last night I came home past midnight, a camera bag cutting into my shoulder, fingers numb from the cold. I didn’t even bother cooking. Just showered, ate crackers, and fell into bed. This isn’t the life I imagined when I was younger. But it’s the one that pays the bills. I pad into the kitchen, start the kettle, and open the email properly. High-profile sighting tonight. We’re expecting movement. Celebrity-heavy. Paparazzi already circling. I want clean shots and a concise report. No fluff. Clean shots. No fluff. That’s my entire career summarized in one sentence. I lean against the counter while the kettle heats, staring at the blank wall. I used to think being close to stories meant being close to the truth. Turns out, most days, it just means being close to chaos. I didn’t plan to become paparazzi. I don't think anyone does. I had always wanted to cover stories that speaks to humanity, something passionate or even become a newscaster. But life hands you a live you have to make something, you learn quickly that plans are luxuries. You take what’s available. You survive. You move forward. I pour hot water into a mug, add instant coffee, and drink it standing up. There’s no time to sit. By the time I’m dressed—black jeans, boots, jacket with too many pockets—my phone buzzes again. LOCATION: Westbrook Hotel. SUBJECT: Noah Roberts rumoured to appear. I freeze. Noah Roberts. Of course, it’s him. Hollywood’s favorite cautionary tale. The charming disaster. The man whose name guarantees clicks whether he’s breathing or blinking. I’ve photographed him before—from a distance, usually. Leaving clubs. Entering parties. Head down, jaw tight, eyes empty. The internet calls him a playboy. Msrtins calls him reliable content. I call him… complicated. Not that it matters. Complications don’t pay rent. I grab my camera bag and keys and head out. The Westbrook is already buzzing when I arrive. Black SUVs. Security. A cluster of photographers hovering like vultures dressed in designer jackets. I nod at a few familiar faces, find a spot that gives me a clean angle without being too obvious. I don’t shout names. I don’t shove. I don’t fight for attention. I wait. That’s how I’ve always worked. Quiet observation. Timing. Precision. I lift my camera and scan the entrance. When Noah steps out, the atmosphere shifts. You can feel it—like the air tightening. He looks different tonight. Cleaner. More composed. No reckless grin. No glassy eyes. He’s dressed simply, dark coat, hair slightly longer than usual. His face is calm in that practiced way celebrities master, but there’s tension beneath it. Like he’s holding himself together with sheer will. Cameras explode. I lift mine and shoot. Click. Click. Click. He pauses, says something to someone beside him, then takes a step forward— And that’s when it happens. Someone bumps into me from behind. I lose my footing. For half a second, the world tilts. I slip. There’s a flash of panic—sharp, instinctive—and I brace for impact. But I don’t fall all the way. A hand grips my arm, steady but not tight. Not possessive. Just… there. I look up. And for one suspended moment, everything goes quiet. Noah Roberts is looking at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me. His brows pull together slightly, like he’s surprised. Like he wasn’t supposed to catch me. The cameras are still flashing, but I don’t hear them anymore. I’m too aware of the warmth of his hand through my sleeve. The steadiness of it. The way his gaze lingers a second longer than it should. Then security steps in. The moment breaks. He lets go. I straighten, nod once—out of habit more than anything—and step back into the crowd, heart beating too fast for no good reason. I raise my camera again, professional instinct snapping back into place. But I don’t take another photo of him. I don’t need to. I capture a few shots of other celebrities, just enough to justify the assignment, then head back to the office. ************ The newsroom is in a full buzz when I arrive. I say hello to Liam—my favorite colleague —and head straight to my desk to draft my report. Martin appears beside me moments later, clipboard in hand, impatience written all over his face. “Olivia,” he says, “I hope you got what I wanted. I need it on my table before the end of the day.” I nod. “Yes. I’m working on it.” And for some reason I can’t explain, Noah Roberts’ face flashes through my mind—his grip, his eyes, the way the world paused. I shake it off and continue with work. I round up my report and send it off, attaching the photos Martin will dissect for headlines and clicks. My shoulders sag the moment the email disappears from my outbox. Done. For now. I shut down my computer and slip my bag over my shoulder, already craving the silence of my apartment. I’m more than ready to be home—ready to rest, to breathe without a deadline pressing against my ribs. As I step outside, the city lights up around me, loud and relentless. I pull my coat tighter and start walking, my feet moving on autopilot. I dial my mom’s number. I haven’t spoken to her in days. The phone rings once. Twice. She’s my favorite person in the world—the one constant I’ve had my entire life. But love doesn’t mean ease. We’ve always been close, and somehow always complicated too. “Olivia,” she says when she picks up, her voice warm and familiar. “I was just thinking about you.” I smile despite myself. “That makes one of us.” She chuckles softly. “You sound tired.” “I am.” “Working too hard again?” I don’t answer right away. There’s no point pretending. “Same as always.” She sighs, the sound heavy with concern. “You need rest, Liv. You can’t keep running like this.” I watch my breath fog in the cool air. “I know.” She pauses, then asks the question she always asks, the one that carries more weight than it should. “Are you eating properly?” I laugh under my breath. “Define properly.” “Olivia.” “I’m fine, Mom.” Another sigh. “You always say that.” We walk through very familiar territory—her worry, my deflection, our back and forth. It’s been like this since Dad left. Just the two of us. Since I learned love doesn’t always stay. “How was work today?” she asks. I hesitate. “Busy,” I say finally. “Same old chaos.” “I’m proud of you,” she says softly, as if sensing something unsaid. “Even when I nag.” “I know,” I reply, my throat tightening just a little. “I’m proud of you too.” We talk a bit longer—about nothing and everything. The weather. Her neighbor. The groceries she forgot to buy. Normal things. Safe things. By the time we hang up, I’m standing outside my apartment building. Home. I climb the stairs, unlock my door, and step into the quiet. I drop my bag, kick off my shoes, and lean against the door for a moment, closing my eyes. Exhaustion settles deep in my bones, I was able to drag myself up to my bed and soon after drifted off to sleep.