My Fix

Chapter Two

The soft hum of the coffee shop feels distant like it's happening in another world. After ending the call with Betsy, my mind is still racing at a hundred miles per second. It feels like the wind has been knocked out of me, leaving me dizzy and breathless. As I stand to pack my stuff, my legs feel shaky, my thoughts tangled in a mess of excitement and fear. Is this really happening? Or am I stuck in some elaborate dream where Rolling Stone suddenly cares about my work? I grab my laptop and shove it into my tote bag, my movements clumsy and rushed, as though getting out of this café might somehow help me process what just happened.

Imposter syndrome hits first. My brain hisses doubts in rapid-fire succession. "There's no way they actually want me. Betsy probably meant to call someone else. Maybe they'll call back and say, 'Sorry, Charli, there's been a mix-up.'"

But then another wave crashes over me—anxiety, sharp and consuming.

"Okay, maybe they do want me. But what if I mess this up? What if this is my one chance, and I blow it so badly they blacklist me forever?"

I swing my bag over my shoulder and head for the door, still reeling. The rain greets me like a cold slap to the face. I pull my hood up, trying to ignore the water slipping down the back of my neck. What did Betsy mean by, "No one else was desperate enough to take it?"

The phrase echoes in my mind like a warning. What kind of assignment scares away other journalists? And why on earth would Rolling Stone—a magazine that journalists would sell their souls to write for—be struggling to fill this spot? This doesn't feel right, something just feels wrong. Despite my mind racing as I walk quickly down the slippery sidewalk to my apartment that's just a few blocks down from the coffee shop, it hits me. This is Rolling Stone. his could change everything. Even if I'm walking into a disaster, I have to see it through.

Finally, back at my apartment, I drop my bag by the door, its contents spilling onto the floor. I should pick them up, but instead, I collapse onto the couch like a marionette whose strings just got cut and sink onto the couch. A long, heavy breath escapes me, one that I didn't even know I was holding, the kind you only release when you've been holding tension for so long that you forgot what breathing freely even feels like.

The familiar clutter of my apartment greets me like an old friend—a chaotic but comforting mess that mirrors the way my mind works. Notebooks are piled on the desk in teetering stacks, pages covered in half-baked article ideas and scratched-out sentences that felt brilliant at 3 AM but read like nonsense the next morning. Coffee mugs with rings of dried espresso litter every flat surface, each a little memorial to a night spent hustling for freelance deadlines. There's a candle on the windowsill I keep meaning to light because it's supposed to smell like lavender, and apparently lavender is good for stress. But I've never lit it. Somehow, the idea of doing something purely for myself feels like cheating when there's always another pitch to write, another gig to apply for.

Above my bed, the framed Rolling Stone cover of Stevie Nicks hangs proudly, slightly off-center because I'm too lazy to fix it. For years, that cover has been my North Star. Every time I felt like quitting, I'd look at Stevie's cool, knowing expression and tell myself: One day, that'll be me. One day, I'll be the one with a front-page feature that matters—a byline people will read, a story that matters. Now, that chance is here, just within my grasp, and instead of the elation I thought I'd feel, all I sense is the sharp, suffocating weight of uncertainty pressing down on my chest.

I sit up and open my laptop, the keys cool beneath my fingertips as they tap mindlessly on the touchpad. The blue light from the screen reflects off the walls, casting an eerie glow in the dim room. What kind of assignment takes two months of full access? I start typing into the search bar, desperately seeking answers to calm the swirling thoughts in my head. I browse Rolling Stone's latest features—profiles of indie musicians on the verge of stardom, deep dives into streaming platforms that are reshaping the music industry, political pieces on shifting pop culture trends. They're all great, but none of them scream 'two months of immersion.' Whatever this assignment is, it feels bigger, messier. Riskier. The not-knowing gnaws at me, like an itch I can't scratch.