The first excerpt went live on a Sunday.
Rae was halfway through folding laundry on her couch—towels on one side, underwear on the other, a pile of mismatched socks like orphaned characters in a story she hadn’t finished—when her phone buzzed.
Sky.
> RAEEEEEEEEE
> go to Greenbriar’s site NOW
Her stomach flipped.
She opened her browser, fingers clumsy.
Typed the URL.
The homepage loaded.
A banner stretched across the top.
A black-and-white photo of a city skyline.
Over it, in bold letters:
**EXCERPT: “MISSING PERSON” – BY [AUTHOR NAME REDACTED]**
Her heart hammered.
She clicked.
The first line punched her in the gut.
They all told me I had everything, and they were right, if “everything” meant waking up every day with a weight on my chest that no one saw because it was made of their expectations.
She read.
He described a gala.
The one where he’d first told his father “no.”
He described the balcony.
The argument.
The party noise, muffled by glass, seeping through like someone else’s life.
He didn’t name names.
Not his.
Not his father’s.
Not the fund’s.
But the details were precise enough that anyone who’d been paying attention over the last year would know.
He wrote about disappearing.
Not as a grand, impulsive gesture.
As a series of small, tired decisions.
Every time I ignored the knot in my stomach and put on another suit, I practiced being gone. By the time I left, I’d already been missing for years.
She swallowed hard.
He didn’t mention the diner.
Not yet.
This was pre-Exit 19.
Pre-cherry pie.
But she could feel the shape of that part of the story, waiting.
Held back.
Protected.
Maybe for her.
Maybe for him.
Maybe for them.
At the bottom, a short editor’s note.
*Missing Person is an upcoming memoir by an anonymous high-profile figure exploring burnout, family legacy, and the choice to walk away. Names and identifying details have been changed where necessary.*
The comments section was moderated.
Still, some slipped through.
Rich people problems. Cry me a river.
My dad died at his desk. Wish he’d had the spine to leave.
This hurt in ways I’m not ready to unpack.
She sat back, heart racing.
He’d done it.
He’d actually… done it.
Put his voice out there.
Opened himself up to the world’s scrutiny.
And he hadn’t thrown her under the bus to do it.
Yet.
Her phone buzzed again.
NOT NOAH.
> So
> Did you hate it
She stared at the screen.
Her fingers flew.
> You’re a show-off
> And it’s good
> Obnoxiously good
> I had to put my laundry down
A beat.
> High praise
> My editor’s giddy
> Dad’s lawyer is not
> Evan texted “holy shit” eight times
She smiled.
> You scared?
> Yeah
> You?
> Yeah
> But in the good way
> Like before a roller coaster
> Or a first kiss in a diner booth
Her cheeks heated.
> Stop
> You’re going to make my phone combust
> I’d apologize
> But you told me to stop apologizing
She huffed.
> When do I get to see the next part?
> The diner part?
Her stomach clenched.
He’d called it that.
In his head, at least.
> Yeah
> That one’s
> Harder
> I want to get it right
> For you
She exhaled slowly.
> Take your time
> I’m not going anywhere
> Yet
> You better not
***
Class that week buzzed with the excerpt.
Sky waved her phone around in the hallway.
“If this dude isn’t Alastair Gray, I’ll eat my Doc Martens,” she declared.
Miriam rolled her eyes.
“Don’t risk the shoes,” she said. “We all know it’s him. My ex used to drool over his portfolio like it was porn.”
Danny looked vaguely horrified.
“Can we not talk about rich guys like that in front of the poor people?” he asked. “I just want to write my sad robot story in peace.”
Halpern walked up as they bickered.
“All right, my aspiring truth-tellers,” he said. “Into the arena.”
They took their seats.
Rae slid into her usual spot.
Her notebook lay open in front of her, pen poised.
She hadn’t told anyone—not Miriam, not Sky, not Halpern—that she knew the anonymous author.
She’d flirted with the idea.
Dropping it in class.
Watching the explosion.
But the thought of their faces—curiosity, judgment, excitement—made her skin crawl.
This was his coming-out party.
Not hers.
“Before we get into workshop,” Halpern said, perching on the edge of the desk, “I want to talk about the elephant in the room. Or rather, the rich guy on the internet.”
Sky raised her hand.
“Are we allowed to say his name in here or does that summon trolls?” she asked.
Halpern smiled faintly.
“Names are… powerful,” he said. “But in this case, we can just call him ‘the missing man.’ We all know who we mean.”
Murmurs of assent.
“Some of you have sent me… passionate emails,” Halpern went on. “Some admiring. Some… not. It touches a lot of nerves.”
Miriam snorted.
“My cousin hasn’t shut up about it,” she said. “She keeps saying ‘if I’d had a quarter of his safety net, I would’ve left my shitty job years ago.’”
“And you?” Halpern asked.
She hesitated.
“I… get where she’s coming from,” Miriam said slowly. “But… reading it… I also… get… him. A little. That… feeling… of waking up and not recognizing your own life.”
Sky rolled her eyes.
“He could’ve just… not taken the job,” she said. “It’s not like poor people… have that option.”
Danny nodded.
“It’s hard to feel sorry for someone whose worst day still involves catered food,” he said.
Rae’s pen dug into the paper.
Halpern watched them.
“I’m not here to defend him,” he said. “Or condemn him. He has plenty of people doing both. I’m here because this is… a teachable moment.”
Groans.
“He said it,” Sky moaned. “He said the thing.”
Halpern smiled.
“Look,” he said. “When you write from inside privilege, you’re always going to be asked to justify your suffering. That’s… the tradeoff. Your pain will be weighed against others’. That doesn’t make it… nonexistent. It just makes it… contextual.”
He glanced at Rae.
Her stomach clenched.
“When you write from outside it,” he went on, “you’ll be asked to perform it. To make it consumable. To make it… inspiring or pitiful or legible to people who don’t share it. That’s also a tradeoff. Also… contextual.”
He drew a line on the board.
At one end: SAFE.
At the other: TRUE.
“Where you land,” he said, tapping the chalk between, “is… your choice. Not your agent’s. Not your editor’s. Not your internet audience’s. Yours. But you need to be honest with yourself about the cost.”
Rae’s throat tightened.
Too close.
He underlined TRUE.
“If you choose this end,” he said, “you risk… blowback. Misunderstanding. Anger. You also stand a chance of… hitting someone where they live. Of… making them feel less alone.”
He underlined SAFE.
“If you choose this end,” he said, “you protect yourself. Protect others. You also risk… flattening… something that deserves dimension. Only you know what you can live with. And what you’re willing to… risk.”
Sky raised her hand.
“Are you gonna make us… pick?” she asked. “Like a blood oath?”
Halpern smiled.
“Not in blood,” he said. “Ink will suffice.”
He looked at Rae again.
Just for a second.
Not accusatory.
Inviting.
She dropped her gaze.
Her notebook was full of doodled coffee cups.
She wrote under them:
*How do you write someone who could destroy you and still be kind?*
She knew she didn’t mean Kline.
She meant Noah.
And herself.
And the way the book was starting to feel like a third person in their relationship.
***
She didn’t see Noah that Tuesday.
Or the next.
She told herself she was fine with that.
He was busy.
With the book.
With lawyers.
With his mother’s careful maneuvering.
With Evan’s scripts for possible TV appearances—he’d texted her a photo of his brother’s whiteboard full of phrases like “disrupting toxic legacy” and “mental health doesn’t care about your net worth.”
She laughed.
Then put her phone face down.
He still called.
Still texted.
Still sent pages.
But the pages came slower now.
Each one heavier.
He was in the thick of the hard parts.
Writing about things he’d never said out loud.
The first panic attack.
The first time he’d thought… about… stepping off a balcony instead of just walking back inside.
She read with her chest tight, pen tapping.
She sent notes.
*This isn’t self-pity. Don’t soften it just because you’re scared it’ll sound that way.*
*Make your dad real. The moment at graduation with the tie? That’s good. Use more of that.*
*If you put the scene where you stayed with your friend in the ER in, you need to give him a pseudonym that doesn’t sound like a soap opera star.*
He responded with emojis.
With *lol*.
With *you’re right*.
With *this is hard.*
He came to the diner once on a Thursday, mid-morning, halfway through her shift as the day people started trickling in.
He sat in the corner, cap low, pretending to read.
She pretended not to look.
They didn’t kiss.
They didn’t even touch.
They just… existed in the same air.
It helped.
And hurt.
On the third missing Tuesday, she woke up from a dream with her heart pounding so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs from the inside.
She’d been back in the hospital room with her mother.
Except it wasn’t her mother in the bed.
It was Noah.
Wires.
Beeping.
A TV in the corner playing his own interview on loop.
She sat up in the dim.
Sweat slicked her back.
Her throat burned.
She grabbed her phone.
It was 5:43 p.m.
He’d be awake.
She typed.
> Dreamt you died
> 0/10 do not recommend
The dots appeared almost immediately.
> Fuck
> You okay?
She stared at that question.
He asked it a lot.
It never had a simple answer.
> No
> But I will be
A beat.
> I’m not dead
> For the record
She exhaled a broken laugh.
> I know
> My subconscious is a drama queen
> Want to talk later?
> Yes
> Class first
> Then diner
> Then phone
> Schedule envy
She climbed out of bed.
Showered.
Pulled on jeans and a T-shirt.
Tied her hair up.
Looked at herself in the mirror, toothbrush hanging from the corner of her mouth.
She looked… older.
Not in a bad way.
Just… more herself.
Less like a girl in an apron playing at endurance.
More like a woman… making choices.
Terrible, terrifying, exhilarating choices.
***