Miranda Priestly sat at her desk, the soft glow of her lamp illuminating the organized chaos of fashion spreads and contact sheets scattered before her. The Runway office was quiet, the usual bustle of the day having faded with the setting sun. Miranda glanced at her watch—past 9 PM. Another late night.
As she reached for her red pen to mark yet another disappointing layout, her eyes fell on a crisp white envelope tucked beneath a stack of photos. The return address made her pause: it was from Afghanistan.
With uncharacteristic hesitation, Miranda set down her pen and picked up the envelope. Her fingers traced the neat, familiar handwriting. Andrea Sachs. It had been three months since her second assistant had traded Chanel for camouflage, stilettos for combat boots.
Miranda leaned back in her chair, memories of that day flooding back. The shock of the phone call, the revelation of Andrea's double life as a Marine reservist, the quiet pride that had unexpectedly welled up in Miranda's chest. She'd surprised herself—and everyone else in the office—with her supportive reaction.
Taking a deep breath, Miranda carefully opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.
"Dear Miranda," it began.
"I hope this letter finds you well. I imagine the December issue is in full swing, and I can almost hear the panicked clicking of heels in the corridors of Runway.
First, I want to thank you again for your understanding when I was deployed. Your support meant more than you know, especially given how abruptly I had to leave.
Life here is... different, to say the least. The heat is oppressive, the dust gets everywhere, and I've never been more grateful for the waterproof mascara I 'borrowed' from the beauty department before I left. (I hope you'll forgive that small transgression.)
Our days are long and often difficult. The work we're doing is important, but it comes with challenges I never could have imagined. We're helping to train local forces and provide security for reconstruction efforts. It's a far cry from fetching coffee and organizing run-throughs, but in a strange way, the attention to detail and ability to anticipate needs that I learned at Runway have served me well here.
Mom (Vannah) sends her regards. Having her here is both a blessing and a constant worry. She's as tough as they come, but I catch myself watching her during patrols, my heart in my throat every time we enter a potentially dangerous area. I wonder if this is how she felt when I was growing up—this constant, low-level anxiety mixed with fierce pride.
There are moments of levity, though. Last week, during a rare quiet evening, I found myself giving an impromptu fashion lesson to some of the women in my unit. We were flipping through a tattered copy of Runway (three months old, but treasured all the same), and I caught myself channeling you, Miranda. 'No, no, that's not just blue. It's cerulean.' I swear I could almost hear your voice.
It made me realize how much I've learned from you, and not just about fashion. Your uncompromising standards, your ability to see the bigger picture while never losing sight of the smallest details—these are lessons that translate surprisingly well to military life.
There are times, usually in the dead of night when the enormity of where I am and what I'm doing hits me, that I find myself thinking about the life I left behind. The glittering world of Runway seems like a dream sometimes, so far removed from the dusty reality of my days here.
But then I remember the strength I found within myself under your exacting tutelage, Miranda. The confidence I gained, navigating the cutthroat world of fashion, serves me well in the high-stakes environment I now find myself in. In an odd way, you helped prepare me for this.
I miss New York. I miss the energy of the city, the creative chaos of the office. I even miss your impossible coffee orders, if you can believe it. But mostly, I miss the sense of purpose I felt working at Runway. Here, the purpose is different—weightier, perhaps—but no less vital.
I hope everything at the magazine is running smoothly. Give my best to Nigel and Emily (though perhaps don't tell her I said so—I wouldn't want to ruin our carefully cultivated antagonism). And if you happen to be in need of a coffee run, I know a great place just outside Kandahar. The lattes are terrible, but the view is unforgettable.
Take care, Miranda. And thank you, again, for everything.
Yours sincerely,
Gunnery Sergeant, Andrea Sachs
Miranda lowered the letter, realizing her vision had blurred slightly. She blinked rapidly, composing herself. The tightness in her chest took her by surprise—when had Andrea Sachs become more than just another disposable assistant?
She reread the letter, noting the hints of humor threaded through the sobering reality of Andrea's new life. The girl—no, the woman—had grown. Miranda felt an unexpected surge of pride.
Reaching for her phone, Miranda hesitated only a moment before dialing a number.
"Nigel," she said when he answered, her voice steady despite the lingering emotion. "Clear my schedule for tomorrow morning. We need to put together a care package. Something suitably Runway for our girl in Afghanistan."
As she hung up, Miranda's eyes fell on the mock-up of the December issue cover. With a small smile, she made a mental note to have a copy sent to Andrea and her unit. Andrea might be trading Chanel for camo, but Miranda would be damned if she let her forget her roots.
Carefully folding the letter, Miranda placed it in her desk drawer. As she turned back to her work, she found herself hoping, with an intensity that surprised her, that Andrea would return safely—not just to New York, but to Runway. To her.
The red pen hovered over the layout, but for once, Miranda's legendary focus was elsewhere. In a dusty, dangerous place half a world away, where a young woman she'd underestimated was proving her worth in ways Miranda could never have imagined.
With a small shake of her head, Miranda returned her attention to the task at hand. But as she worked late into the night, her thoughts kept drifting to deserts and danger, to courage under fire, and to a pair of eyes that had seen both the glamorous and the gritty sides of life.
Andrea Sachs, it seemed, was full of surprises. And Miranda Priestly did not like surprises—except, perhaps, this once.