If I Could Turn Back Time

“Dammit, Monroe. Get it together.”

I leaned my chair back, let my head thud against the buttery leather, and exhaled like maybe the chair would offer some emotional support.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

But at least it wasn’t demanding a polished first draft by noon. It was Wednesday morning, and I was somewhere between my second oat milk latte and the blinking cursor on my screen when it hit me: My dumb ass had rewritten the same question four different ways—and not one of them sounded like it came from a woman with a master’s degree in journalism and the title Senior Feature Writer at Cover Source Magazine.

If my mother saw what all her hard-earned money went toward, she’d flip tables, chairs—maybe the entire building. I gave myself a lazy spin, hoping inspiration would knock something loose. Nope.

I glanced around, grasping at anything that might light a creative spark. The windows in my office were massive, so I turned to see what Manhattan had to offer. Another spoiler: it offered nothing.

Manhattan was doing what Manhattan does best—speedwalking, honking, and pretending it wasn’t emotionally constipated. Honestly? Same. I guess you could say I was practically a PhD-level expert in emotional backup at this point.

Still, as uninspiring and deeply dysfunctional as it was, the city felt like a more appealing distraction than the blinking, taunting Google Doc in front of me. I glared at it like it was my number one enemy. I sighed and swiveled slightly in my chair, still searching for something-anything- that might spark an idea. Even Manhattan felt meh today.

So I turned to the next best thing: the office.

Surely the people milling around would stir something in the black hole that was my brain. Inside, it hummed with its usual low-grade symphony—clacking keyboards, the occasional off-task laugh, and the relentless buzz of a phone vibrating somewhere far from its owner.

Lauren was probably out there fixing a minor crisis I accidentally triggered and promptly forgot about. I was great at that.

Meanwhile, I was in here, locked in a silent, slow-burning standoff with a Google Doc that was starting to feel personal.

I glanced back at the screen.

Still blinking.

Still judging.

The urge to give my screen the middle finger was insatiable. I sighed and decided maybe a title would trick my brain into becoming an overflowing fountain of ideas.

Interview with Kairo Voss – Questions

Check you out, I thought. Impressive. Ok progress. That same damn question written four times in slightly different fonts was still haunting me though. If I couldn’t think of another question at least I was apparently great at picking fonts. None of those fonts held a candle to the title font though. I groaned again. Writer’s block was kicking my ass—and I wasn’t used to that. I usually had words tumbling in and out of my head all day long, my fingers struggling to keep up. But the saddest part about this particular case of writer’s block was that I didn’t even have to write anything groundbreaking—just think of questions to ask. The hard work would come later. I could’ve reused the same ones I always did. But this was different. No interview I’d ever done compared to this and I had done a lot. I mean like a shit ton of interviews.

This was supposed to be the dream assignment. A unicorn interview.

Kairo Voss didn’t do press. He didn’t believe in captions. He followed absolutely no one. The king of being mysterious. Hell, the only photos on his Instagram were an abstract album cover and one blurry shot of a microphone. The man was a recluse with a recording contract and a hefty net worth.

But the ever-discreet Kairo Voss deemed me the chosen one. I think everyone was in shock when it was announced. I damn near fell out of my chair. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that unusual for me- I’d tipped over in a couple of chairs just leaning back too far. But this moment was different. This was huge. Out of all the writers I knew who’d been knocking on his door for years, he picked the woman who once cried at Trader Joe’s because they discontinued her favorite peanut butter cups.

Iconic moment by the way.

I couldn’t help but wonder what had changed his no press mindframe. Maybe he’d read something I’d written and thought well she’s not a complete idiot. Maybe that could be a question I could ask. I typed it quickly into the google doc with a question mark next to it. I had also thought it might’ve been a prank-especially when Jan congratulated me with a smile. Trust me, Jan was not one for smiling. It was a rare occasion. Just like this. It was a win. A career defining moment some would say.

But my brain wasn’t dialed in. In fact, it didn’t even seem to be working. And to be honest, my heart wasn’t in it either. Not like it usually was. Writing had been my life for as long as I could remember, but it seemed that there was this emotional fog hanging over me, paired with a low-grade headache I’d been nursing—and ignoring—since late October. I wasn’t stupid. I knew this was the universe handing me something big. I knew this was huge. Monumental, even.

But despite all of that? I felt numb. It felt like just another day, another interview, another celebrity to try to make interesting.

I felt like I was watching my life unfold from behind a two-way mirror—except I wasn’t the one being interviewed or interrogated. I was a spectator. Front-row seat. Backstage pass. But totally disconnected. Like one of those people in a documentary insisting they’re “doing great,” while giving a half-smile and wearing a tasteful lip color that screams “please don’t ask follow-up questions.”

Was this what I’d worked my ass off for all these years?

Yeah. Minus the blood there was a whole lot of tears and sweat. Well, maybe a little blood. I have to consider all the paper cuts.

Did it carry me through one of the most chaotic, volatile, soul-pulverizing moments of my life?

Also yes.

But the truth? I was tired.

And no not a “need-a-nap” tired—bone tired. Soul tired. Tired of writing everyone else’s story while mine sat neglected in the margins, collecting dust. I wanted to write from the bottom of my heart. About plenty of things. Hell I even had a folder named the Musings of Monroe on my computer. The topics were a little wild sometimes-but they were mine. And no they weren’t all just about me—but definitely not just about celebrities who, for the most part, were so out of touch they thought “being real” meant posting a no-makeup selfie with perfect lighting, a filter and retouched pores.

Before I sound like I am ungrateful let me just say:

Was the paycheck great? Absolutely.

Did I have a corner office with a skyline view that made younger me squeal every time I walked in? Yes.

Did I have the best assistant in the business—Lauren, who could probably run this entire magazine with one AirPod in and a cold brew in hand? Without question.

But lately, I’d been watching it creep in again—that thing I swore I’d never let happen after everything fell apart. The quiet erosion. The slow, silent shift of becoming what other people needed me to be instead of who I actually was. I couldn’t let that happen. I owed it to myself. Hell, I owed it to the world. They needed to know what they were missing out on. And let me tell you- I might be a little biased but Monroe Vaughn was pretty fucking cool.

But I was putting out her little flame. It was the same pattern that played out in my almost-marriage. That slow, subtle erasure of self, all wrapped in the soft language of “compromise.” Thank God for failed engagements am I right? A blessing in disguise—well, kind of. The blessing didn’t feel like a blessing at that moment in time. The blessing came with heartache. With pain. I could’ve skipped that part. But without it, I might never have noticed it happening again—right here, right now, in the middle of what was supposed to be my dream life.

It had been eighteen long, hard months. I was somewhat healing? The bandaid was off. The wound had scabbed over. But if you pressed too hard, it would still bleed. It didn’t take much to make it bleed.

It was crazy to think that it had been eighteen months since I called it quits. Since I gave back the ring, the key, and the Netflix password. (In hindsight, I should’ve kept the password. He should at least be paying for that.)

Eighteen months since I walked away from the man I once thought I’d have children with—or at least a dog. Someone to grow old with. Share memories and inside jokes with. Someone to sit with on a wraparound porch, sipping sweet tea, pretending life was simpler than it really was.

And no—before anyone asks—I didn’t leave with style and grace.

I tried. God, I tried. But I’m not Gwyneth Paltrow with her post-breakup, candle-scented declaration of emotional evolution. There was no conscious uncoupling.I wish I could also say I left with fire and fury—Bernadine-style, gasoline in one hand, match in the other.

But it wasn’t that dramatic.

It was quieter.

Sharper. Instead, I left with a bag packed so efficiently it should’ve earned me a MasterClass deal, a locked jaw, and a silence so sharp it sliced through the web of lies he kept trying to spin.

From the outside, it probably looks like I’ve healed. Like I’ve processed. Moved on. I’ve gotten really good at making it look that way.

The reality?

I threw myself into work like it was a lifeboat.

Without it, I don’t know what I would’ve done, honestly.

It saved me. Gave me structure. Purpose.

Something to pour myself into when I didn’t even recognize my own reflection.

I became productive. High-functioning.

An expert in compartmentalization and emotional redirection.

Instead of wasting my days away, I channeled every ounce of heartbreak, rage, and leftover love straight into my work.

And Jan—hawk-eyed, high-heeled, terrifying Jan—noticed.

She saw the fire and rewarded the flames: an office upgrade, a salary bump so big I almost cried, and Lauren—the assistant of my actual dreams.

Therapists might’ve called it avoidance.

I called it survival.

What did they know, anyway?

Because here’s what people don’t tell you: When your fairytale ends before the third act, it doesn’t just hurt—it turns grotesque. The original fairytales? They were dark. Bloody. Unforgiving.

That’s where I found myself.

In the shadows. No compass. No glass slipper. Just grief in a power suit.

I didn’t talk about the details. Still don’t. Probably never will.

Why bother? People always fill in the blanks however they want.

Once someone writes a version of you in their mind, it’s nearly impossible to edit.

It’s been that way since the dawn of time.

There were always whispered theories and sympathy-laced gossip disguised as concern.

I wasn’t stupid.

But at that point? I didn’t give two fucks anymore.

I was tired.

Tired of trying to be okay.

And truthfully? I’d exhausted myself trying to heal the “right” way.

Because what’s right for one person isn’t right for everyone.

And I’d been trying to heal the way everyone else told me to.

Who even decided what counts as the “right” or “wrong” way to heal?

Hell—if you managed to keep it together at all, you were doing it the right way.

I kept it together by staying busy—keeping the tears out of the workplace and the wine glass full at home.

But I had a secret of my own about the whole ordeal with my failed almost marriage. Something that I never wanted to say out loud. I was in denial the entire time. The flags were there. I just thought if I ignored them enough they would go away. Until I couldn’t anymore.

I had found the messages.

I had smelled perfume I knew wasn’t mine.

I knew.

I just refused to accept it. I mean—who would?

Who wants to realize that the person you’d dedicated almost your entire twenties to was a two-timing asshole?

Who wants to admit they were played?

Who wants to watch the world they built with someone else crumble?

So I pushed those flags to the back of my mind.

Yeah, I recognized the scent. I made excuses.

I saw the withdrawal. The late nights that became a daily thing.

I knew.

Mama didn’t raise no fool.

But I also knew what was waiting for me if I acknowledged it—and feigning ignorance, for a while, felt like bliss.

Until it didn’t.

It got so bad that I considered putting my dreams and ambitions on hold.

Hell, I nearly tossed my dreams—my dreams—everything I’d spent years building, just to fit into his narrow, fragile little idea of what a wife should be.

Did I dodge a bullet?

Absolutely.

But try telling that to my heart.

That bullet still went straight through.

And the hole was still there.

And even now, after everything, I still caught myself remembering the good times.

There had been so many of them.

I can’t even lie and say it was a horrible relationship in the beginning—because it wasn’t.

It only got ugly toward the end.

Before it all unraveled, I really believed we were building something together. A partnership. A future.

But the bitter truth?

I thought we were building a life. I thought we were each other’s everything. Because he was mine.

But it turned out, he was already stepping out of the one we were building—and into someone else’s.

When I finally confronted him, you guessed it—he said the things all cheaters say:

“It was a mistake.”

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“I was drunk.”

“She initiated it.”

Just spewing all the bullshit they say when they realize you’ve finally stopped listening—and all their business has been aired out.

If you’re going to betray me, at least be original.

I haven’t seen him since.

Thank the old gods and the new for that particular blessing.

And now?

Thanks to Jan—who most people at Cover Source consider a stylish harbinger of doom—I lived in a Pinterest-worthy brownstone with exposed brick, a juicer I never used, and a kitchen I mostly walked through on the way to the living room to park my ass on the couch and watch rom-coms.

Yes, I am that girl.

I was twenty-nine.

I had a stellar wardrobe. A shoe collection to die for.

A lucrative career people would trade their best lash extensions for.

And yet...

There was still something missing.

Something I couldn’t quite name.

Something ambition couldn’t buy. Something success hadn’t fixed.

It wasn’t love.

Well—not exactly.

I had people who loved me.

My mom. My best friends.

Okay—mostly my mom and my best friends. But love is love. Don’t judge.

What I craved was quieter. Softer.

A kind of presence that didn’t need to be earned, explained, or dressed up.

The safety of being known. Really known. And still chosen.

Someone who looked at me and didn’t just see the job title, the curated confidence, or the Instagrammable townhouse.

Someone who saw me.

The whole damn mess of me.

I was a bitch in the morning before coffee. I slept like I was auditioning for the U.S. gymnastics team.

I was sarcastic by default. A homebody—until I wasn’t, and then I was the last one on the dance floor.

I cried easily. Like, full-sob-during-a-commercial easily.

Those ASPCA ads? Ruthless.

But I loved hard.

I was loyal. Honest—sometimes to a fault.

And yeah, I cussed like a sailor. I got insecure. I pulled back when things got too real.

Self-preservation was a skill I’d mastered early.

But at the end of the day, I wanted someone who wouldn’t flinch at any of it.

Someone who saw Monroe Camille Vaughn.

No polish. No performance. Just me. Unapologetically me.

I exhaled, leaned forward, and finally typed something:

Unapologetically yourself.

And it lingered.

I sat up a little straighter, staring at the blinking cursor like it might blink back.

My hands hovered over the keyboard.

For once, I didn’t overthink it. I just let the words come.

Who are you when no one’s watching—and do you like him?

I blinked.

Then exhaled—slow and deep—like I’d just released something I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

Because that was the question, wasn’t it?

The one I’d been circling. Not just for Kairo—for me.

Who are we when we’re not performing?

When no one’s clapping or scrolling or waiting for something clever?

When it’s quiet, and it’s just us?

Would we still choose ourselves?

That question opened the door to another one—sharper. Immediate.

You’ve built a career on not speaking. Why now?

I paused. Fingers still resting on the keys.

Then, without thinking too hard, I typed again:

Has silence ever protected you from the truth?

It was bold.

Maybe too bold.

But Kairo Voss was a walking contradiction—an enigma wrapped in mystery, dipped in existential cool.

If anyone would get it, it was him.

Because silence could protect you.

I knew that intimately.

Silence was safe.

No judgment. No follow-up questions. No unraveling explanations.

Sometimes, silence was the only way to survive being hurt by someone who promised they never would.

And honestly?

Silence had served me pretty damn well.

Stay quiet long enough, and people stop asking.

Stay quiet long enough… and you start to forget, too.

I hit save and closed the laptop with more flair than necessary.

The echo of the lid snapping shut felt like punctuation.

Then—

Knock knock.

Lauren swept in like a breeze of cucumber water and spreadsheet efficiency—iPad in one hand, smoothie in the other, and her faithful energy drink that probably had more caffeine than my entire bloodstream.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your brooding,” she said with a knowing smirk.

“You’re not,” I replied. “Just deep in a moment of artistic suffering.”

“Cute.” She barely paused. “Okay, so don’t kill me—your three o’clock just moved to 2:15, your inbox is officially a warzone, and Jan wants ‘just five minutes’ sometime today. Good news: Kairo Voss’s manager confirmed the studio shoot. Also, I moved your marketing meeting to next week. They didn’t need you, they just... wanted you.”

I smiled. “What would I do without you?”

“Forget to eat, slowly unravel, and send emails that end with ‘Sent from my iPhone’ even though you’re very much not on your phone,” she said, placing the smoothie on my desk. “Spirulina, collagen, mango, and some kind of adaptogen I didn’t Google. It’ll keep you alive.”

“That sounds like something I’d give to a stressed-out houseplant.”

She shrugged. “Same principle.” Her eyes flicked—just briefly—to my outfit.

I glanced down at my black turtleneck and matching pants. My signature blend of chic and emotional armor.

Lauren gave me a once-over. “Text me if you ever decide to wear literally any color besides ‘funeral.’”

“Black is versatile,” I argued.

“So is therapy,” she called over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

And just like that, I was alone again.

Just me, the too-quiet office, and the questions I hadn’t figured out how to answer for myself.

Like why I could get the most ungettable artist to open up to me tomorrow...

...But couldn’t seem to open up to myself today.

I sighed, glanced at the clock, and decided I might as well get the meeting with Jan over with instead of prolonging the dread. But first, I took a sip of the weird green smoothie Lauren had left behind—

—and immediately gagged.

Holy shit. Disgusting.

I grabbed my phone and fired off a text.

Me:

There are other ways to tell me you hate me. Poisoning me wasn’t necessary.

Lauren:

That bad, huh?

Me:

“Bad” isn’t even the word. From now on, absolutely no spirulina anything. If you love me, bring me a burger.

Lauren:

But what about that figure of yours?

Me:

Eh, maybe I’ll finally get the ass I’ve been praying for.

Lauren:

Bahahaha. Noted. Burgers = booty gains.

Me:

What would I even do without you?

Lauren:

Hopefully we never find out.

I smiled, set the phone down—and then froze.

Jan.

Shit.

She was probably halfway out the building by now, or worse, mid-rant about my lack of time management.

I shot up from my desk and immediately slammed my knee into the corner.

Pain flared. Bright, blinding. Definitely going to bruise.

I limped out of my office, trying my best to appear composed. Which—no exaggeration—was one of the hardest things I’d done all week. Okay, maybe slightly exaggerated. Still.

Jan’s door was open when I arrived, which meant absolutely nothing. Unlike other bosses who bragged about having an “open-door policy,” Jan kept hers open solely to monitor the emotional climate of the office. God forbid anyone laughed too loudly. If someone actually walked in to chat, they’d usually be packing up their desk by lunch.

But I didn’t hate Jan. Jan was... Jan. Tough, terrifying, and somehow still the reason I got promoted. In a weird, possibly unhinged way, I kind of admired her.

I knocked lightly. She looked up from her screen.

“Ah, Monroe. Glad you decided to stop by,” she said coolly.

“Sorry, Jan. Got caught up writing questions for the Kairo Voss interview tomorrow.”

She stared at me for a second, expression unreadable.

“Well,” she said finally, “I suppose I can forgive it. Sit. We need to talk.”

My heart immediately tried to sprint out of my chest.

Was I getting laid off?

She raised a hand before I could spiral. “Get the panicked look off your face.”

Noted.

“A couple things,” she began. “First—don’t let this fool you—but I’m planning to retire in the next few months.”

I blinked. Wait, what?

“I already have my successor lined up. Alicia.”

I nodded slowly, still trying to figure out where this was going.

Was I getting laid off?

She sighed. “No, Monroe. You’re not getting laid off.”

Cool. Love that she had to clarify.

“Second,” she continued, folding her hands neatly on the desk, “Cover Source is shifting. We’re not just going to be an entertainment, fashion, and gossip mag anymore. We’re branching out.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly. “To… what exactly? Healthy living? Fitness?”

“Don’t know yet,” Jan said. “That’s why I’m forming an innovation team. I want real ideas, concepts, long-term strategy. You, me, Alicia, and… that one girl. Can’t think of her name right now. The one who keeps pitching the TikTok stuff.”

I nodded, trying to keep my face neutral.

“You’ll meet with us next Tuesday at 8 a.m. sharp. Block off the whole day. I want proposals. Not vision boards. Real, tangible plans. That’s all.”

She looked back down at her papers like I’d already left the room.

I stood. “Thanks, Jan. I’ll see you then.”

She gave a noncommittal wave without looking up.

I limped my way back to my office, still wondering how I had just gone from emotional breakthrough to Cover Source reinvention committee in under ten minutes.

Because of course I had.

And because I am who I am, I decided to get a jump start on this little “assignment.”

Back at my desk, I opened a new document and stared at the blank screen. Again.

Cover Source Innovation Team – Brain Dump

Working title.

Accurate, though. She wanted ideas, and I was going to give her the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I sighed and started typing, letting the thoughts pour out without editing:

What even is innovation in media anymore?

Do we start a podcast? Make a docuseries?

Add QR codes to our print issues that lead to exclusive skincare discount codes and maybe one emotionally resonant playlist?

What do people want?

Something real—but not too real.

Digestible, but not bland.

Empowering, but aesthetic.

Basically: therapy in a slideshow.

Categories we could explore:

Modern identity: who we are when no one’s watching? Eh, could work.

Money, but make it emotionally intelligent – I don’t know how money can be emotionally intelligent, but whatever. Sounds good.

Culture, fashion, and not pretending the metaverse is a real place – Kinda wack. We already do this, in a way.

Love, sex, and self-worth in the age of situationships – Kind of what every other magazine does already… but could work?

Wellness that doesn’t involve shame, green sludge, or pretending celery juice is a personality – This is good. As long as they don’t ask me to write the pieces.

Titles I would absolutely pitch if I didn’t care about HR:

Unhinged but Thriving – Winner, winner.

This Might Be a Cry for Help

Modern Power: The Anxiety Years

How to Stay Hot While Falling Apart – I can’t be the only one out there falling apart but still trying to look hot while doing it, right?

I paused. Then typed:

Real pitch (maybe?):

What if we blended storytelling with commentary—a space to explore the mess and the magic of modern adulthood?

Just the regular Joe Schmos quietly redefining what success, wellness, ambition, love, and “being enough” actually means.

The raw and gritty stuff.

The stuff everyone pretends to know—but really doesn’t.

The stuff they’re just trying to fake their way through while making it look curated and effortless.

I sat back and stared at the list.

It was chaotic. Raw. Probably not what Jan meant when she said “real ideas.”

But whatever. It was as innovative as I could be at that particular moment.

I glanced at the clock and groaned. 6:30.

I’d promised myself I’d only work eight hours today. Just eight. But there I was—again—letting ambition nibble away at my boundaries like it paid rent.

The new season of Bridgerton had dropped, and I had a very important date—with my couch, my takeout, and a couple… okay, a few glasses of wine.

I grabbed my things in a rush. If I could get home by 7:30, I’d have time to binge at least two episodes, make deeply emotional eye contact with a bottle of pinot, and be in bed by 11.

Perfect.

The kind of night that whispered, “Sure, I’m emotionally complicated—but I still know how to romanticize the hell out of my solo evenings.”

Little did I know, that sacred “me date” was about to be ruined the minute I walked through the door.

I was fully prepared for indulgent escapism—sweatpants, Pinot Grigio , fake British accents, and at least one scene that would make me text Lita something unhinged like “I miss being in love in a palace.”

But no. Instead, the universe decided that tonight—of course tonight—was the night it would remind me that peace is a privilege I am simply not allowed to have.