The office is alive with motion—phones ringing, keyboards clattering like rainfall, coffee brewing strong enough to wake the dead. But to you, it’s a storm.

You sit at your desk, back rigid, trying to type. You know your facts, your leads, the quotes you hunted down like gold. You know how good this story is. But your fingers tremble just above the keys. Your throat tightens, your chest burns. That familiar wave of too much is crawling up again, threading through your ribs like wire.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

You reach for the bottle in your drawer. The pills rattle. Familiar. Cold comfort.

Then—

“Knock knock,” Lois Lane says, ignoring the fact that your cubicle has no door.

She leans against the partition, arms crossed, one brow raised. Today’s outfit is a charcoal blazer over a sharp blouse, her lanyard hanging like a medal. She’s the only person you’ve ever seen wear sarcasm like armor and sincerity like a blade.

You scramble to sit straighter. “L-Lois. Hey. I was just—uh, working on the edit.”

Her eyes flick to your trembling hands. You’ve gotten good at hiding them. She’s better at spotting what’s real.

“You’re not late. Relax,” she says, stepping fully into your space. “I read your last piece. The warehouse exposé? Incredible work. Clean, sharp, human. Reminded me of Perry’s early days—before he turned into grumpy Gandalf.”

You almost smile. Almost.

But she sees the way your leg bounces under the desk. The sheen on your forehead. The slight tremor you’re trying to choke down.

“You slept at all?” she asks, softer now.

You shrug. “Little.”

“You eat anything besides caffeine and worry today?”

“...Does gum count?”

Lois doesn’t scold. She just sighs. Then drops a granola bar onto your desk like it’s an order from God. “Eat. And stop looking at the screen like it’s going to eat you.”

You blink, startled. “I just… I get in my head, sometimes.”

“I know,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “That head of yours writes better copy than most people dream of. But it’s not your enemy. Not unless you lock yourself in there too long.”

You glance down. Embarrassed. Exposed.

She pulls the chair from the cubicle next to yours and sits backwards on it, arms folded across the top.

“I used to throw up before interviews,” she says.

You blink. “You?”

“First year at the Planet. I puked in the parking lot before meeting Lex Luthor’s press rep. Had to do the interview with gum and a Coke. I got through it. You will too.”

“I don’t know if I’m built for this,” you murmur.

Lois tilts her head. “You’re built to tell the truth. That’s the job. The rest—suits, deadlines, nerves—that’s just noise.”

You want to cry. Or laugh. Or hide. She’s giving you oxygen when you didn’t even realize you were suffocating.

“Take your time,” she adds. “But not forever. The world’s waiting on your words, kid.”

Then she stands, taps your desk lightly, and heads for her own corner of the chaos.

You breathe.

And this time, it goes all the way down.