As we race away in the car, a storm of anger and fear swells inside me. How could she be so reckless? How could she risk everything like that?
When the empty road stretches before us, I slam on the brakes, my heart pounding in my chest. I throw the...
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Sometimes I feel like I'm writing the same story, over and over. Just changing a few details—the color of a dress, the name of a cocktail, the hottest new brunch spot—but the rhythm is the same. It’s like listening to a catchy tune that plays on repeat until you want to claw your ears out. This isn't what I imagined journalism would be. I thought I'd be breaking stories that mattered, exposing corruption, giving a voice to the voiceless. Instead, I’m talking about which yoga studio serves the best smoothies.
It doesn't help that I'm so far from home. My mom, Isabelle Moon runs this small diner in California, the kind of place where everyone knows each other and no one cares what you're wearing. The burgers are always juicy, and the coffee is strong enough to keep the truckers awake through the night. I miss it. I miss her. We talk almost every night, but it’s not the same as sitting at the counter, listening to her banter with the regulars.
My mom never complains about working long hours, or about the diner being old and creaky. She says there's something comforting about familiar places, and I know exactly what she means. The smell of the grill, the sound of the jukebox playing oldies, the way she always knows when I need an extra scoop of ice cream. It feels like home.
I'm deep in thought when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Amelia Collins, my colleague and partner-in-crime at "Insight City," shakes me out of my daydream. She's got that look—the one that says I've been off in my own world a bit too long.
"Chiara, you're not spacing out again, are you?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Don't forget about the interview with Gabriel Romano. The chief editor wants you in his office before you head out."
Right. The interview with the CEO of Romano SecurTech. It's supposed to be a big deal. But it’s just another tech interview to me, another opportunity for some executive to talk about innovation and profits. It’s not the kind of story that makes my heart race. Still, I can't exactly blow it off. I nod at Amelia, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
"Got it, thanks," I say, grabbing my notebook and standing up. The office is a whirlwind of activity, with people rushing from meeting to meeting, talking about deadlines and ad sales. I wish I cared about this stuff, but I don't. Not really.
As I walk toward the chief editor's office, I try to focus. I think about my mom, about how she always says that even the smallest things can make a difference if you look at them the right way. Maybe I can find a way to make this interview count, to tell a story that matters, even if it's just a glimmer of the kind of journalism I want to do.It's not easy, but I have to try. For now, it’s what keeps me going.
I walk through the maze of cubicles, trying not to bump into anyone or knock over any coffee cups. It's like an obstacle course in here, with people darting in and out of meetings, balancing laptops and paper stacks like they're auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. When I reach Andrew Smith's office, the chief editor is hunched over his desk, eyes glued to the computer screen. He doesn’t even look up as I step in.
"Ah, Chiara," he says, finally noticing I'm there. He pulls out a piece of paper from a stack on his desk and hands it to me. "These are the questions for the interview with Gabriel Romano. He's a very important person, so try not to mess it up, okay?"
"Got it, Andrew. I'll do my best," I reply, even though a part of me wants to roll my eyes at his tone. It's like he thinks I'm a rookie, someone who needs to be reminded not to trip over my own shoelaces. I guess that's the problem with being a lifestyle journalist at a magazine like "Insight City"—no one takes you seriously.
I turn on my heel and head back to my desk. The set of questions feels heavy in my hand, not because they’re particularly profound, but because they represent everything I don't want to be doing. I drop them on my desk with a bit too much force, causing a couple of pens to roll off and clatter to the floor. Amelia, looks up from her work, eyebrow raised.
"What's the matter?" she asks, her voice casual but her eyes curious.
"I don't want to do this," I reply, gesturing to the crumpled sheet of questions. "I'm supposed to be interviewing Gabriel Romano about his latest tech product, but I want to be an investigative journalist, not some lifestyle writer. I mean, who cares about the next high-tech security system? I want to write about real stories—corruption, fraud, you know, the stuff that makes a difference."
Amelia leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. "So make it a real story. You know there's talk about Romano SecurTech being involved in some shady business, right? Why not use this interview to dig a little deeper? Write an article that shows you can do more than just cover brunch spots. If you get something good, submit it to HR. Show them you've got what it takes to be an investigative journalist."
I stare at her for a moment, surprised by her suggestion. It's risky. The last thing I need is to tick off a powerful CEO and end up on the chief editor's bad side. But then again, what do I have to lose? I've been stuck in this lifestyle rut for too long. Maybe it's time to take a chance.
"Yeah, maybe I will," I say, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "Thanks, Amelia."
She grins back at me. "Just be careful, okay? You know how these guys can be."
"I will," I promise, feeling a spark of excitement. This could be my shot—the one I've been waiting for. I grab the set of questions from my desk and head toward the interview, determination in my step. It's time to find out if there's a real story hidden in all this glossy fluff. If there is, I'm going to be the one to uncover it.
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