Late Fall, 1962

You’re not the First Lady. But you’re his lady.

The distinction is subtle. Like a ghost note in a jazz tune—miss it, and you lose the whole rhythm.

Jackie wears pearls and history. You wear his shirts, barefoot, curled up on the couch in the Lincoln Bedroom, flicking ash into a stolen Waterford glass like you’re daring someone to notice. She belongs to the nation. You belong to 2 a.m., to whispered meetings behind locked doors and tie-loosened truths. She gives him legacy. You give him an alibi for feeling something.

And in private—when the security detail fades into shadows and the world outside is just another headline he can’t fix—he calls you Mrs. Kennedy.

And you let him.

Not out of delusion. Never that. You’re too smart for illusions. You read Proust before bed and annotate the margins with cigarette burns. You quote Camus when he tries to unravel the Cold War and tell him not to confuse martyrdom with leadership. You walk through the West Wing like a ghost with lipstick and purpose, leaving only questions behind.

Tonight, you sit in his shirt, legs folded beneath you, a notebook on your lap. You’re writing again. Not for him. Not even about him. Something about power and silence, and the way America tastes like a myth if you press your tongue to it long enough.

He’s in the next room on a secure line, whispering about Cuba or Berlin or God-knows-what. The voice you hear belongs to a president. The man you wait for is something else entirely.

You know the difference.

You always know the difference.

The sound of the line clicking off brings you back to the room. His footsteps are muffled on the hardwood floor—he’s still in motion, even when he’s still. You can hear in the way he moves.

Your pen continues scratching across the paper. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s there. You never have.

You finish the sentence.

With a steady hand, you sign the page.

𝓜𝓻𝓼. 𝓚𝓮𝓷𝓷𝓮𝓭𝔂.

For him.