Before she disappeared, Scarlett had been frustrated with me for being unable to understand how publishing had ruined writing for her. Truth be told, I could never grasp how that could be the case. For me, the magic was in the revisions that came along with publishing. The way I saw it, she would write something for herself, and the editors would help turn it into something for an audience. It was a symbiotic relationship for everyone involved—Scarlett got to write, we got to revise and reshape, and the readers got to enjoy her work. But the further into the process she got, the more she hated it. I tried to tell her to hold out for the next deal. I even worked behind the scenes to push for a much better offer than they were going to give her. The hard work was going to pay off for her in a way she deserved. But it wasn’t enough.

“I’m glad you kept writing,” I say simply.

“Yeah, you’ve got another bestseller on your hands if you play your cards right.”

Even in all of our conversations before her breakdown, I don’t think I’ve ever heard her sound so bitter. It hurts to hear her sound so jaded. I frown down at her, but she doesn’t look at me. She just stares vacantly ahead.

Something about the raw vulnerability she’s showing me makes it all the more important for me to make her understand that it was never about editing a bestseller for me. “After you left, I didn’t know what to do with myself.” I don’t know why I decide to go down this road, but there’s no turning back now. “I kept going to work, but not because I wanted to. At first, I think the only thing that kept me going was sheer hope that maybe one day, you’d show up again. And then I needed to pay my bills, I guess. I signed authors, got promoted, did decently well. But none of those books were memorable in any way. Not like yours. And then Becoming landed on my desk. It woke me up, Scarlett. It meant something. I haven’t felt like that since the last page I read of yours.”

She rolls her head slightly so she can look at me. The bags under her eyes are intensely purple. She looks five years older than the last time I saw her. I want to pull her close to me and soothe away every negative emotion clouding her head.

“You’re so dramatic,” she teases, though the words come out flat, as if she doesn’t have enough energy to put any bite into them.

“Like you said, some things never change.”