I hammered the final nail into my wall and stepped back to observe my handiwork.

Flyers, newspaper clippings, cut-up sections of a city map, photos, and various online articles I had printed and collected completely covered one wall of my living room. Thumbtacks and nails had been pounded into the drywall. Marker and highlighter had dyed and connected various points and notes across multiple sheets of paper.

Every fact, every tidbit, every theory I had on Miranda Priestly's suicide/murder had been vomited into the physical world before me.

"I think I finally passed whatever line was left between sanity and insanity," I mumbled, dropping the hammer on the couch.

"Visualization is key," Miranda steadily added as she stood by and observed my chaotic journey map.

I gave her the side eye. "You'd be teasing me if this wasn't all to help you."

"Possibly," she hummed, crossing her arms as she continued scanning the sea of numbers, letters, and pictures.

I frowned, staring at the void. It was…a lot. Seeing it made me feel heavy.

This was it. It had to work. We only had a few days left. I had to push behind my doubt.

"I used to handle your business and social calendar, I'm sure we can make sense of this mess," I tried optimistically, shoving my fear down and taking a step closer to the wall. Closer to Miranda.

Bourbon. Pearl. Paris? No. Maybe. But how?

Revenge. Yellow. Red.

A red dress. The girl from the gala had something vaguely similar, but not quite the same. Red. I could see the vague silhouette on a faceless model in my memory. But from when? And why?

Red…

"Emily uses a different color-coding system."

I blinked away my train of thought as Miranda's voice broke through.

When I turned, she saw my confusion and clarified, "For the calendar."

I knew Miranda didn't exactly explain herself, and I was a pro at adapting to her encrypted codes, but even I was completely lost with where this could be headed.

"Yeah?"

A pale hand slowly reached out to the wall. Miranda's fingers met no resistance as they disappeared through a highlighted timeline I had written. They have a half-hearted wiggle, easily moving amongst the wall and paper.

"She doesn't comprehend why it frustrates me," Miranda stated quietly, watching her digits glide through the solid surface, "I shouldn't have to explain that non-urgent items should be a cool-colored pallet rather than warm. That color matters. That it speaks to me, even if it's so small and insignificant. You simply knew."

When she pulled her arm back and looked at me, I realized just how close we really were, almost shoulder to shoulder from our inspection of the mess of media. It had only been a few days, but having her by my side now felt familiar. When I awoke each day, she was waiting for me in my living room. She followed me everywhere, I alone heard what she had to say, and we fought together to solve this crisis now personified in the madness before us.

And yet, the way she was looking at me, it all felt new and strange and terrifying all over again.

"You were right, at the benefit," she said airily, almost in disbelief, "I did miss you."

It was cruel, really. How long had I hoped to hear her say that? But all she had missed was Andrea, the assistant that was good at her job. This was her teasing me.

"Because of a calendar?"

My joke fell flat in the silence of my apartment. She turned back to the wall, staring hard, no retort forthcoming.

Oh. She was serious.

"I missed you too," I admitted before I could bite my tongue.

Her features instantly softened. This close, watching her profile, I could see the full lashes of one eye lower as she peered down her long nose. Lips delicately parted.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for all of this."

She didn't look at me as she said it. Instead, her hand reached out to touch mine.

I sharply inhaled, shuddering as the cold ice slid through my knuckles. And yet, despite my initial shiver, I did not pull away. What chilled me more deeply to the bone was the warm affection of her act.

She really still believed I could save her.

How could she thank me? How could she even unknowingly flatter my stupid little heart when she was going to die, and I had managed to do nothing to stop it?

She just needed one fucking thing from me, and I couldn't even do it. I couldn't keep blindly hoping anymore.

Why? Why did it have to be me that somehow determined if Miranda lived or died?

My apartment was spinning. I pulled away.

"Don't," I gasped, "I don't deserve it."

I'm not super proud of what came next.

I sat on my floor and started crying. Resistance was bested by stubborn tears that pushed through, and I sniffled pathetically, rubbing them away like a child.

Miranda kneeled down, probably not requiring supernatural powers to perfectly balance in her tall heels. Hot shame tore through me as she rested her elbows on her knees and patiently waited, only encouraging more of the incriminating salty water to drip down my face.

My breaths were shaky as I tried to calm down.

"Why me? Why this?"

I knew I sounded downright pitiful.

She seemed to consider my rhetorical question thoughtfully as she adjusted one of her bracelets on her wrist. Multiple metal bangles clearly clashed against each other, but there was no noise.

"To ask 'why,' is to assume there's a logical explanation. Do you think any of this has a factual basis?" she asked plainly, focusing her attention back to me.

How was she so fucking calm right now? It was my fault now, I was killing her.

"Fine then," I huffed, trying not to enter a full meltdown, "Not science, not reason. What magic or superpower or force of will attached you to me?"

She frowned thoughtfully. "In life or pseudo-death?"

I took a deep breath and sighed, closing my eyes. One last snotty sniff. One last brush of my sweater's sleeve across my eyes.

Inhale. Exhale. I opened my eyes.

Miranda still waited, no trace of annoyance on her face.

"You think it was fate?" I mumbled, "Even when you weren't lying on a hospital bed?"

Her eyes didn't leave mine as she seemingly contemplated her answer. Her chest rose and her mouth opened, but then she looked to the floor.

She stood and offered me her hand, only to then hesitantly drop it with a sigh. Instead, the ghost pointedly gestured to the couch.

I guess having me semi-weeping on the floor wasn't very dignifying for anyone in the room.

Once I scooped myself up and retreated to the sofa, she crossed her arms and lightly cleared her throat.

"For once in my life, I cannot perfectly perceive my future. It's always been crystal clear to me. I envisioned it, and I achieved it. Even when it didn't go as planned," she declared firmly, turning to glance at a newspaper headlining her suicide, "I am now stuck in a limbo I do not understand nor know how to fix. I may never hold my children again. I am reminded each day in this walking nightmare that the empire I built was on top of numerous sacrifices. That I may have inspired murderous intent in someone."

Her voice wavered, and she stopped. I watched helplessly as she winced, glaring at the wall.

"Is this punishment?" she murmured, "Or my soul clinging to a regret, unfinished business, binding me to what little of life I have left? I simply don't know."

Miranda now looked at me with glassy eyes, a subtle pink of threatening tears making the icy blue of her irises all the more electric.

"All I know is I am somehow tethered to the one person that has probably…" her soft, shuddering voice trailed off before she continued, "Well. To the person that was my greatest disappointment."

The smile that followed was so small, so sad. My shaky breathing that was slowly stabilizing grew hazardous again.

She shrugged half-heartedly, raising her fingers to delicately wipe under one eye.

"So, fate indeed. Why me? Why you? There's much I could be punished for. Perhaps you are being punished for leaving," she suggested with a hollow laugh.

I sat on the edge of the seat cushion, hands balled into fists, trying to hold myself together. The last time I had seen her cry, she had cast me out.

My voice was still raspy from my own crying when I said, "I told you. I didn't leave you. I left Runway."

Her brow wrinkled as she continued to inspect me, analyzing my words. No anger, no sarcasm, not like that first night she appeared in my apartment. Just a sad, empty confusion. Then, she shook her head slowly.

"And as I said before, I am Runway. As it is me."

Miranda, you were so much more than that.

"Not all of you. Not the parts you let me see. And that's why I had to leave," I admitted as I was once again biting back tears, "I opened up Pandora's box. In learning the truth, in knowing what was there, I couldn't go back to a time when I didn't know."

"When you saw what I did to Nigel," she added quietly, looking away.

"When I saw you cry," I practically sobbed from the couch, "I knew you would repay Nigel. But when would you repay yourself? Maybe you needed someone who could do that for you. Be there for you. But then the lid to the box was closed again. And I couldn't go back."

Her eyes grew wide as they honed in on my face and my words. For once, the surprise was readily apparent on her face. I had shattered her mask, and the silence that followed was as sharp and cutting as broken glass.

Her response was barely audible, a fragile whisper that made my heart scream.

"Was what Emily said true?"

I had said too much. I was emotional and weak. She was panicked and disgusted.

I hurriedly wiped my hands across my cheeks.

"That I sold my soul to the devil for a pair of Jimmy Choos?" I jested weakly, trying to force out a laugh.

I was all but begging her to roll her eyes, sigh, tease me, and move on.

Instead she took a step forward, towards me, halting as her knee bled into the coffee table.

Her voice was quiet. "Andrea."

Fate had forced us together again, but not for this. I couldn't say it.

I took a deep, steadying breath.

"You're Miranda Priestly. I'm fully aware you don't need anyone," I sighed, offering a shrug and sheepish grin, as if it wasn't a big deal.

As if I didn't love her.

Downcast eyes fell to the floor.

"People like me cannot often afford to need or want someone," she murmured slowly, "I once told you people like us see beyond such things and choose our life's direction. But whether or not I could admit it in a past life, I must admit now…"

She paused. I waited seconds or years, it was hard to tell.

Her gaze returned to mine as she said, "I need you by my side now."

She just needed someone to keep her alive, and she was stuck with me.

"I already am. In a way, I always have been," I muttered, looking down at my lap.

I could at least swallow my bitterness and continue to push on as her assistant. Wasn't that why I had run away the first time? Why I was running away now? So I could do the one thing I was always meant to do for her…

My job.

I looked back up and added as calmly as possible, "I'm going to help you solve this and then you can go be Miranda Priestly independent superstar again."

For a moment, she didn't move, and I wondered if she hadn't heard me somehow. Then, all she offered in response was a nod. She smoothed back her hair and adjusted her blazer as she stepped back to face the wall.

The moment passed. The mask was restored. The message was clear.

That's all.

I really just wanted to go to my room and cry more.

"I have to meet Nigel tomorrow night at Holt's," I explained as I stood from the couch, "so it's gonna be a long day. I better get to bed."

Starting my retreat, I called over my shoulder, "Night."

I did what I did best.

"Goodnight, Andrea."

I ran away.

The next morning, when I woke up, Miranda was gone.