Prompt from Anon: "so, if you're still taking #mirandy prompts (i hope you are!), i was thinking something in miranda's voice where she realizes she doesn't like it when she doesn't get her way. that's all."

There comes a point in time when you realize you've been going about your days with a little voice inside your head. Fifty years on this earth and I am just now beginning to hear it, and to listen.

It began this morning. I can hardly remember what she was wearing because I was so caught off guard. I stepped out of the town car just as she was kissing a scruffy-looking young man on the sidewalk. I presume she knew him. He was probably her boyfriend, but I didn't want to admit it. Why not, the little voice asked.

Why not, indeed. Why not, because he was probably the reason she turned down my invitations. Coffee, a glass of wine, a ride home, dinner. She always said no, and I never understood why. Now, I believe I do.

I had been dressing for her for the past five weeks, that voice reminded me. Hoping she would take notice and—and then what? Smile, perhaps? Oh, Andrea, why won't you just smile for me.

Nigel just walked in and showed me the new layout. I told him I wanted periwinkle, not cornflower. Without a doubt, I know he is back at his desk, bringing the color temperature up to cornflower. No one dares to tell me "no."

The closest anyone ever came, really, was Andrea. During her interview. And in Paris. And after Paris. You always get your way, except when it comes to Andrea. It was true, wasn't it?

By eight o'clock, I thought for sure I was going crazy. No one—ever—in my life has flat-out refused me the way in which Andrea had. What baffled me most was that I continue to let her do this. I continue to extend the invitations, knowing she continues to decline. Why? Because I don't know any other way.

I call for my coat and bag, and Emily meets me at the door. She sent Andrea home hours ago. Probably had a date with her boyfriend.

Maybe it was true—that saying about only wanting what you can't have. That was how I felt. Forget the magazine. Forget my daughters. Forget my career. I felt like a complete and utter failure because I could not get that which I wanted most: Andrea Sachs.

And what did I want with her anyway? Nothing specific. I just wanted her to look at me. To see me, to smile. Any sort of acknowledgment of my desire.

It just isn't fair, I thought to myself. She is so beautiful, so charming, but she refuses me. I could give her the world, and yet, she's kissing Bozo, who I think was wearing Sketchers and Dickies. I shudder at the thought.

I cannot go on like this. Something has got to give. Looking down at my phone, I make a rash decision and call her. She has to answer the phone. I may not like her response, but I pay her to answer her phone.

"Come to the townhouse. Now," I say, hanging up before she can say a word. And now, I wait. It isn't long—maybe five minutes—before she climbs out of a taxi and runs up the stairs.

She asks if everything is okay, and I simply turn and head into the den. I know she will follow. But, can I get her to stay?

"Miranda, why am I here?" she asks after I hand her a glass of wine.

I hiss back something about her being smart enough to figure it out. That voice tells me to dial it back or I'll scare her away. I take a deep breath, and explain to her that no one refuses me.

Her eyes grow wide, and she looks utterly terrified. Oh god, I've gone too far again. My brain scrambles to do damage control. "Wait!" I said, reaching out to grab her wrist. I deliberately softened my tone to match the delicate grasp I had on her hand. I explained that I hadn't meant it the way it sounded.

"What do you want from me?" she asked. The terror was gone, but her voice still trembled. She sounded so small. I felt the need to wrap my arms around her, though I knew she would probably push me away if I came any nearer.

She repeated her question, but I was lost in my thoughts. I don't do defeat. I don't handle loss. Second best is not in my vocabulary. Why was this young woman making me consider these options, then?

"You," I choked out. "I want…you." There. I said it.

Her eyes widened as her brain caught up. I nodded, reassuring her that she did, in fact, hear what she thought she did. "So—so that's what this has all been about?"

I shook my head. Surely, I had no idea what she was talking about.

"Miranda," she said, "I need an explanation. This isn't about choosing tourmaline over opal or rock studs over sequins. This is—oh, wait," she said. I feared she, too, was hearing the little voice. "You're pouting, aren't you?"

Am not! the voice shouted inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut and focused my lips into a slim line. Then, I felt her other hand reach up and take mine. I opened my eyes to see her, smiling back at me. I had to blink several times to ensure she wasn't a figment of my imagination.

"You know, I could tease you…but I won't," she said. "Just explain one thing—why me?"

"You didn't let me get my way."