Unwritten introductions

It was my first company event—some forced-fun function at a sleek downtown bar, where the air smelled like overpriced whiskey and career ambition. The editorial team had gathered in clusters, half-buzzed and speaking in the kind of animated tones that only emerged when the workweek blurred into happy hour.

I was still new to the company enough that every conversation started with the same routine: name, role, and polite commentary. I was asked about previous jobs I had worked, which at some point would always bring up the same thing.

“So, have you met Molly yet?”

The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it. A coworker in creative mentioned her like a force of nature.

“She’s brilliant,” they said, swirling the ice in their drink. “Like, completely insane, but brilliant.”

“She’s impulsive! God, she's got everyone’s assholes clenched anytime she publishes something,” someone else chimed in.

“She once convinced a CEO to admit, on record, that their company was full of shit,” another said.

“She’s reckless.”

“She’s precise.”

“She’s ruthless.”

“She’s the most generous person I’ve ever met.”

“She has a framed cease-and-desist letter in her office. Like, actually framed. As if it’s a trophy.”

“She once got locked inside a venue she snuck into and had to write the entire cover story from a janitor’s closet.”

“She somehow got a billionaire to cry in an interview—like, full-on, face-in-hands weeping.”

“She ghosted an entire editorial team for a week and came back with a piece so good, they put it on the cover.”

On and on they went. The stories I was told. I couldn't help but be in awe of her.

I had heard so much about Molly—countless stories, endless contradictions—but I still hadn’t met her. It was casually explained by someone adding on top of everything else, "That’s Molly for ya. Never know when she’ll show up for things."

Later that evening, I excused myself to find the bathroom. As I pushed open the door, the cool lighting cast a soft glow on the room. And there, in front of the mirror, stood a young woman—stylish yet professional, composed yet a little tense. She fashioned a sort of lopsided smile that could be a confident smirk if she had the strength to muster one, though faintly, I could see the flush and the remnants of tears on her face.

For a second, I hesitated, meeting someone new in the office during a vulnerable moment. But she broke the ice first.

“I’ve never seen you before. Why have I never seen you before?” she asked, just like a journalist would.

Flustered, I dumbly replied, “I’m new.”

This made her giggle. “Well, that’s obvious.”

I smiled sheepishly. Glad I at least made her smile. 

“Are you okay? Why are you crying?” I asked, momentarily forgetting that it’s none of my business. 

She chuckled softly, “Skipping the formalities, huh? You’re gonna fit in here real nice.” 

I didn’t have a chance to say anything about her evading my question before She stepped towards me, extending her hand. 

“We haven’t had the chance to meet yet. I’m Molly.”

My eyes widened, and before I could stop myself, a little gasp escaped. Molly quirked her brow, amused at my reaction, unsure if it was something she should be offended by.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I admitted quickly, shaking her hand.

Molly smile disappeared as soon as it got there as was replaced with a deep scowl. 

“Ugh! Those damn busybody’s just love to talk, don’t they?” She threw her hands up in exasperation and walked back toward the mirror, running her hands through her hair. 

"I should've known. I mean, what else is there to expect? We're journalists.” She laughed mirthlessly.

Then her face went serious as she met my gaze in the reflection, something sharp flashing in her eyes before she menacingly asked, 

"So tell me, am I as evil and scary as they said I was?"

As if to challenge me, my next few words would determine where she and I would stand from now on.

And it was then I understood.

She was all of it. The contradiction, the chaos, the brilliance, the myth. The complexity.

And she was standing right in front of me.

I slowly stepped beside her, studying her face in the mirror. For all the things people said about her, standing next to her now, I saw something else entirely. Loneliness. 

“You don’t seem so scary to me,” I said quietly, sincerely.

Molly turned her head slightly, finally looking at me, properly. Her eyes shimmered, and a small, shaky smile appeared on her lips. Grateful. As if it was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her.

“Now, why were you were crying?” I asked her again. Her smile grew even wider, 

“I don’t even know anymore.” She whispered bashfully. 

After a moment though, she cleared her throat and ran her hand through her hair a couple of times again, suddenly nervous. 

“Well then—it’s good to know their gossip is as useless as they are.” she joked, stepping back toward the door.

“Although, they did get one thing right.” She said quietly as she threw away the balled up paper towels she had used,

“And what’s that?” I asked.

”You are exactly what we need here.” She nodded, opening the door. 

“No wonder they kept asking if I had met you yet.” Flashing a sweet smile. 

And then she was gone. 

I lingered for a moment after she left, staring at my own reflection in the mirror, half-expecting her presence to still be there. The bathroom felt quieter now, as if the air had shifted with her departure.

I thought about the way her smile wavered, the way her laughter carried something heavier beneath it. She was a woman who had made herself into a myth, and yet, standing there with me, she had been so achingly real.

I turned to leave, suddenly understanding why everyone who met her, never quite forgot her.