"You musn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get, until they're strong enough to run into the woods or fly into a tree. And then to a higher tree and then to the sky." -Holly Golightly, Breakfast At Tiffany's

Day One

January 19, 2019: M.

Miranda stared out her window, watching the world fly by her in blurs of grey and muted green. Her sunglasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, casting everything around her in dark colours. Miranda was the kind of person whose mind was always buzzing with activity, exploring the future and consulting the past. At the moment however, her thoughts were nothing more than a mere hum in the background as she peered outside. She was well away from the flashes of silver light and the glint of steel of the city.

Surprisingly, she wasn't too fond of New York, despite spending a majority of her time there. It was cramped, dirty, and in the city, she was required to uphold a certain kind of image. That was undoubtedly the worst part about it. Miranda felt like millions of people were holding a magnifying glass up to her, that she was burning under the focused glass lense and unwanted spotlight. She often wondered, privately, if all this was worth it.

Sure, every woman in the world wanted to be her, and every man in the world wanted her. Sure, she was a fashion icon, one of the most influential women in the world, and a revolutionary in the publishing industry. Was it worth losing three husbands, her friends, and the adoration of her children?

No.

Miranda pressed her cheek to the little nook between the window and her seat. There were children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk and paddy-cake on the steps of an apartment complex. When the twins were just toddlers, they'd do the same. Miranda remembered taking them to Central Park, holding their sticky palms as they crossed the street. She would have held them tighter if she knew what the future held for them.

Everything had been so much easier then. Back then, it was normal for her to kiss them on their foreheads, normal to have dinner together every evening. She'd leave work early on Fridays, and no sooner than she'd set foot into the house, she'd be engulfed in an enormous hug. Cassidy, Caroline, and Greg's arms were almost constricting, and though she'd always rebuke them, it was never in earnest. Eventually she'd end up laughing along with them, and they'd stand there for a while.

The glass on her face suddenly felt cold, and shifted so that she was no longer leaning against the window.

~x~

Once the car had stopped, Miranda opened the door for herself and stepped out without a word to Roy. Outside, her breath formed small wisps in the cold evening air. Like she always did, Miranda glanced at the townhouse adjacent to hers. SOLD, the unsightly sign on the door proclaimed. About time, she thought.

Gloria Bianchi hadn't been a pleasant neighbour, and Miranda was never fond of her. Her passing, however, had been rather strange. It left quite the impression on the neighbourhood, even though no one liked her. It was just that she had always been there, and no one expected her to one day disappear. The woman had been a force of nature, and even in her eighties, was quite eccentric. She talked too loud, smoked too much, and gave advice even though no one asked her for it. Miranda recalled a moment when she has been smoking on the rooftop, after another argument with Stephen. She had thought she was alone, until a raspy voice chimed, "You look like shit."

Alarmed, Miranda had nearly dropped her cigarette. She didn't scare easily, but having some old crone yapping at you at 2:00 A.M. in the morning was enough to make anyone jump.

"I didn't ask for criticism." Miranda growled. She couldn't see much, as it was dark, but squinted in Gloria's direction regardless. There was a snort.

"I decided to give it out anyways, though you might need it." She had a Brooklyn accent, and it was hoarse from decades of smoking. Cassidy had once said she sounded like the receptionist from Monsters Inc.

Miranda rolled her eyes. "How generous of you. I don't believe you can see me."

"Don't need to. You're out here, which means you're probably not doing too good. Another fight with that fellow with the eggplant nose?"

"None of your concern." Her voice rose defensively.

"The hell are you smoking? Smells like something died. Was it your marriage that died?" Miranda's face grew hot.

"This ain't your first one, sweetie. No need to cry over it. Anyways, not a big loss, that man. His nose looks like an eggplant."

"So you've said. And I'm not crying over it. I don't cry."

"But you do smoke," Gloria reminded her. "They're pretty much the same thing. You just keep going and going, until you're out of cigarettes or out of things to care about. And then there's nothing, and you're left unsatisfied. But the good thing with cigarettes, is that you can always go buy more, eh?" Miranda didn't reply.

"Have a good one." There was loud rustling noise, presumably the woman going back down into the house.

~x~

Miranda wondered who the new neighbour was. It was probably some family. When the girls were young, most of the occupants on the street were retired billionaires, whose grandchildren scarcely visited.

Nowadays though, she was receiving invitations to block parties that promised good wine and play groups. She used to take walks around the area every evening, but stopped once met by large swarms of people, who were returning to their homes after parties. They'd ask her with wide eyes if she was really Miranda Priestly, as if an abundance of Miranda Priestly look alikes frequented the Upper East Side. She'd have to answer stupid questions, smile so widely that it made her face ache, and make up excuses so she could leave. Miranda hadn't gone out for another walk after that.

She was more than upset that her girls hadn't been able to grow up in an environment like this. Where they could stay with a friend instead of a full-time babysitter, and had people to talk to other than themselves. Though it wouldn't have solved everything, it would have been helpful to some extent.

A cold gust of wind made her shiver, and reminded her that she had been standing outside for God knows how long. Giving Gloria's old townhouse one last glance, she climbed up the marble steps, and unlocked the door. Her key was battered, rusty, and a health hazard, but it never struck her to replace it. After all, she'd been using the same key for about thirty years. Despite how small it was, it comforted Miranda to know that she'd always unlock the door with the same key, with the small indentation in its side and the faded label.

Everything was always changing, and she stood in the centre of it all, as the world cycloned around her. Miranda however, stayed the same. She retained the same signature silver hair, and her face was exactly as it was when she was forty-five; with the exception of a few, almost invisible wrinkles. Runway was all about change, and she was hailed an innovative, futuristic thinker. While at work, that certainly could be said about her. However- in every other aspect of life, she valued stability and familiarity. She ate eggs for breakfast every morning, she never deviated from her normal coffee order, and she applied her makeup the same way she did in the early 2000s. It kept her grounded in this lonely, crazed world.

As she hung up her coat and kicked off her Manolo Blahniks, she heard the pitter-patter of rain. It started softly at first, but then grew in intensity, and soon her windows roared as water pounded down on them. She wasn't hungry, so she poured herself a glass of overpriced wine, and settled onto the ledge of a large window. Miranda absently sipped it as she watched droplets fall from the dreary grey sky, still wearing her sunglasses, even though it was dark enough already.

~x~

January 19, 2019: A.

Andy knew a lot about running away.

When she was eight, she'd ran away from home because she wasn't allowed to have a dog, only to come back an hour later in tears. She'd stormed out of a lecture hall when her professor had given her a failing grade on her paper, just because he hated her. However, she returned the next day and apologised for her behaviour. Most of the time, Andy never left for good; she'd always bounce back. Most of the time, not always. There were two exceptions to this. The first was when she had walked away from Miranda Priestly in Paris, and thrown her phone into a fountain. The second time was now, though a little more complicated than the rest.

Andy sighed, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. Runway seemed like a lifetime ago. Names, faces, and places were murky. Except for one person, of course. It's really hard to forget someone like Miranda Priestly; she just couldn't, even if she tried. If Andy shut her eyes, she could recall her face perfectly.

The editor had just a few noticeable wrinkles around her eyes, which were the same striking colour as ice, and just as chilly. Her hair was frosty white, cheekbones prominent, and wit sharp. In regards of her appearance, it made sense why tabloids referred to her as the Snow Queen.

In other terms, however, the title couldn't be anything farther from the truth. They thought she was cold, incapable of emotion. Andy saw an inexhaustible fire in her eyes, tempered but not subdued. If she really was as uncaring as some claimed, why would she always work so fervently? Miranda was demanding because she cared about fashion, the magazine, and her daughters. That was why she didn't allow room for error, and refused to accept anything less than perfect.

Andy had thought she'd understood Miranda well, at least until Paris. At the time, she couldn't get why the older woman had destroyed the dreams of her only friend. Now, Andy knew that she didn't have much of an alternative. It was either Miranda or the other guy- she couldn't remember his name, but his face wasn't too distorted in her mind. Bald man with glasses. Probably not too important right now, Andy mused, and stopped trying to remember. Anyways, she could feel a headache coming on.

Thinking about the past was difficult, usually. Painful. Andy just thought that walking away from her job in Syria, and moving here, would be a fresh start for her. A part of her knew subconsciously that the kind of the things she'd seen would haunt her forever. It couldn't be solved by a swanky townhouse in the good part of New York, or by not being there anymore. Even though she woke up every day on her old friend Doug's couch instead of a cot in the Middle East, it was still scary. Often times, she'd have to leap out at some ungodly hour in the morning, not even half-awake, because people were coming to kill her.

Before she'd taken this assignment, she took being normal for granted. How was she supposed to laugh with the rest of the world, when she knew over 20,000 children had been slaughtered? Why would she ever want to sleep when her dreams replayed the same screams, the same marred faces, the same explosions, over and over and over and over again?

Andy's grip on the wheel loosened, and she felt herself starting to drift into another lane. With a jolt, she managed to get herself back to reality, but her hands shook. If she was having an episode right now, while she was on the freeway, she'd be fucked. Thankfully, it eventually subsided, and Andy felt a wave of relief wash over her.

It wouldn't be like that here. Andy had high hopes for New York, she'd loved it when she had lived here all those years ago. Hope- that was something had seemed like an impossibility for so long. If Miranda could live off of it, maybe she could too.

As Andy drove through the Upper East Side, taking in every well clipped shrub and ornate building, something familiar stirred inside her. It was only a remnant of a memory though, and slipped through the crevices of her mind within a moment. Andy frowned in disappointment, because it had seemed like something pleasant.

A cheery song came on the radio, and even though she couldn't remember the name or its lyrics, Andy found herself humming along to it.

~x~

Day Two

January 20, 2019: A.

Andy sighed, leaning against the side of her car for a moment to catch her breath. She had been moving boxes almost all day long, unloading her few possessions. Andy didn't own much, because in Syria she'd have to travel light, and she'd had this weird idea that moving herself in would be fun. It had been, but also a lot of work.

She unscrewed her water bottle, gulping down its contents so quickly that her head spun. Andy took a moment to appreciate how quiet it was; the delicate maple trees, scarlet and amber leaves carpeting the otherwise clean sidewalks, and the crisp evening air. Palaces of cream and beige that rose into the sky. There was no stench of trash, no roaring of engines, or incessant chatter that could be found in the city.

The plastic of the bottle was still chilled, so she pressed it to her forehead, a wave of shock running through her. It was too cold, and she grimaced. After carefully setting it down in the roof of her car, she was just about ready to turn in for the night. Andy had set up a sleeping bag and bunch of blankets on the floor, and was just a little excited about the arrangement. Sleeping in a bed was disorienting, and she hadn't put it together anyways. She might actually have to hire someone to do that for her; the Ikea instructions were incomprehensible.

Andy heard the wheels of a car pulling up nearby, and glanced in its direction. A gleaming, sleek black car had stopped in front of the townhouse next to hers. Andy felt a little thrill at being able to meet her first neighbour. Sure, this area was bound to be full of rich, intolerable braggarts, but that didn't stop her from being curious. The door swung open, and her heart soared exhilaratingly when she saw who had slided out of the car.

It was none other than Miranda Priestly, her head raised regally and pale vanilla hair sweeping over her forehead, the one forelock falling across her sunglasses. Her evening gown of charcoal silk flowed behind her, fabric falling around her slender shoulders.

Andy thought it was remarkable that she looked exactly the same as she had thirteen years ago. She still walked in a graceful stride, glowing ethereally under the light of the lamp posts.

Apparently Miranda had noticed her, and the woman froze halfway up the steps to her house. Andy expected her to purse her lips, roll her eyes, or demand what she was doing here; that is, if she even remembered who she was. Instead, the older woman's lips parted in shock, eyes widening impossibly. She said nothing. It was obvious she did remember.

~x~

January 20, 2019: M.

Miranda's dinner party had been more than unpleasant. Too many drunk bachelors, and not enough room to distance herself from them. Next time, she'd come with a date, a bodyguard, or both. James Huntington was incapable of keeping his hands to himself, and had earned the nickname "Cuntington." Miranda could not have thought of a more fitting moniker. She had been in the middle of the only half-decent conversation that evening, when a rough hand came down to cup her hip.

Miranda didn't turn around, but she didn't have to. He was the only one in the room that hadn't met her before, therefore the only one stupid enough to attempt a pass like that. In any other setting, she wouldn't have hesitated to strike him across the face.

However, this was meant to be a sophisticated event, and she'd have to handle this composedly. Public humiliation was on the table.

"Well," Miranda had drawled, her voice dripping with venom. It was enough to silence the entire group. One by one, the groups around them quieted as well. Unfortunately, the hand remained, caressing her, and travelling downwards. Miranda wanted to throw up, and felt an uncomfortable chill ripple down her back. She gave the incredulous faces around her a stony smile. "As riveting as this has been, I believe Mr. Huntington has something to say to me. Perhaps if he stopped fondling me like one might pet a dog, we might be able to have a proper conversation."

The crowd subsequently exploded, and Miranda used this moment of chaos to her advantage. She moved as fast as her heels could carry her, taking care to keep her head ducked. Miranda felt rattled, and she was sure that it showed.

Slipping on her sunglasses, she quickly dialed Roy, and ordered that he get here now. She leaned against a pearly white pillar, not caring that her gown was backless, or that the marble was cold. Someone walked past her, shoes clicking against the floor, and she turned her face into the wall. This was ridiculous, she knew it, but couldn't look at anyone right now.

Miranda couldn't help but feel ashamed; people were supposed to be afraid of her. Fear and respect were synonymous, and if no one respected her, what did she have? Nothing. Who the hell did James Huntington think he was? No man had dared touch her like that, not since she'd become editor-in-chief. Nearly forty years since someone thought that they could do that to her, like she was only some toy that would fall into their hands without protestation. Miranda was no one's toy, she never has been, and never will be.

The Mercedes pulled up, and Miranda slammed the door when she got in. It didn't make her feel any better.

~x~

Roy was quiet until they pulled up to the townhouse. "Stay safe, Miranda." It was barely audible, but Miranda stopped halfway out of the car anyways. "I shall." He nodded, and once she was on the sidewalk, he was off.

Miranda stared up at her townhouse, with its limestone walls and ornate iron embellishments. These past couple of years, it hadn't felt like home. She should probably move, but at the same time she didn't really see the point in doing so. It would take too much time and energy, something Miranda had a very finite supply of. Her girls were in college, Patricia had long ago passed away, so the only thing she came home to was a bottle of wine and the Book.

Retirement awaited her; she'd announced that she'd be stepping down on her 63th birthday. Runway was the only place she belonged, and soon she'd have to kiss it goodbye. Miranda's stomach sank. She had no idea how she was going to spend the rest of her life. Miranda fished out the old key from under the doorway, and was about to unlock the door when she vaguely sensed someone's eyes on her. She surveyed the area, the dimly lit sidewalk and dark windows. Then she noticed that there was someone in front of Gloria's old townhouse.

The stranger was leaning against an ancient-looking car, staring dead at her. Her hair was chestnut brown, and worn in a medium-length bob. Even in the twilight, Miranda could see that her skin was tanned light caramel, with a light dusting of freckles across her exposed shoulders. What drew Miranda in the most were her eyes. They were watching her intently, flickering in recognition. Expressive, but sad.

Miranda was abruptly transported back thirteen years. A similar pair of eyes had gazed at her, but they belonged to a different girl. An assistant, her optimism knowing no ends. She'd made Miranda smile, but ultimately disappeared after that one encounter they shared when she was heading into the Elias-Clark building.

Andrea Sachs- that was a name that she had been scanning newspapers for a while. She'd been following her story, not avidly, but with careful interest. Andrea had worked for CNN, and reported from Syria. About a year or so ago, the articles stopped coming. Miranda was not the kind of person to assume the worst; that didn't keep her from being concerned anyways.

Now, she knew where that girl had gone off to. Here, of course. Of all places she could have gone to, here.

They regarded each other somberly, Miranda standing on her steps and Andrea leaning against her car with her arms crossed. Andrea had certainly changed. There was rigidity in her posture, and a strange kind of air about her. Her expression seemed guarded, and her gaze, once warm, was sharp. Miranda wondered if she'd changed as well; she didn't think so, but it was possible.

Andrea smiled tightly, dimples forming in her cheeks. "Hi." Her voice was soft, but at least to Miranda, that one word resonated through the entire neighbourhood.

Miranda tilted her head at her, and after a moment, quirked her lips. Despite the repertoire of things she could have said to Andrea, she whispered, "Goodnight."

Then she unlocked the door.