Your Equilibrium

the glance / look at me, if you dare

“Why do you always look at me like that?”

It took Izzy a moment to realize Delcourt was talking to her. She’d been distracted by her phone, texting her father to say she was running late at work. She turned around, and the first thing her eyes landed on was his sneakers.

Bright. Orange. Sneakers.

Who wears something like that to the office? Especially with an equally bright shirt. Green. Modern men’s fashion was completely beyond Izzy. Her father definitely wouldn’t approve.

“There!” His voice carried a strange note of triumph. “That’s exactly what I mean!”

“Sorry?” Izzy didn’t catch it right away. That damn French. Why, out of all the cities in Canada, was her father invited to Quebec?

“I’ll forgive you when you answer the question.” Delcourt stepped closer, busily, almost amused, hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Izzy instinctively took a step back. “Every day in this corridor you give me this look of utter contempt — and — » the rest dissolved into some French wordplay Izzy missed entirely. “Do you follow me?”

Great. Fantastic. Not only had she caught barely half of what he said, but now she had to explain herself to this peacock. Izzy didn’t trust people with eccentric fashion choices; behind that kind of façade, there was usually something far less pleasant.

And she didn’t look at him with contempt. She wanted to say Don’t flatter yourself, but she didn’t have enough vocabulary for it, and anything simpler sounded childish.

Think, Izzy. Think.

Delcourt waited, studying her closely, as if he could pull the thoughts straight out of her head.

“Not very talkative, are you? Not a great trait for a journalist.”

At this point, Izzy couldn’t take it anymore. Questioning her professional competence was one thing this peacock definitely had no right to do.

“A good journalist weighs every word,” Izzy said, surprising herself with how quickly and easily the words came. “It’s just…” She glanced around — the corridor was still empty. “French isn’t my native language,” she added more quietly.

“Seriously?” Delcourt looked genuinely surprised. “But you’re an editor — I’ve seen you in editorial meetings. How do you even write, then?” he asked, with a trace of irony.

Izzy winced. Of course. The newsroom’s favorite question. Her father had never had any trouble with language barriers. Only her — the screw-up.

“I write better than I speak.” Izzy lowered her gaze, then forced herself to look back at him, pulling her hand away from her hair. “I moved here from Switzerland not long ago. I do speak French, but I need time to… get used to speaking it. The Quebecois accent is still a bit hard for me.”

She could feel her ears burning. Why did he need to know any of this? Her brain, unhelpfully, couldn’t come up with anything clever in French, only panic in German.

Delcourt let out a short laugh. But not in an unkind way. Izzy couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile before.

“Monsieur — ”

“Thomas,” he corrected. “So what is it about me you don’t like? Your contempt is going to burn a hole right through me at this rate.”

Izzy shifted her phone from one hand to the other, trying to recall — she didn’t show off, didn’t draw attention, didn’t do anything that might have given the wrong impression. She wasn’t the one walking into the office screaming, “I’m classy, and I know it,” just by the way they dressed.

“I don’t fully understand what you mean.”

“I see you in this corridor almost every day,” he said, noticeably slower now, softer. “And almost every day, you look at me as if my mere existence offends you. I got curious.” He shrugged.

Izzy hesitated, nearly blurting out that it was hard not to look that way when someone dressed like a circus act.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I apologize. I’m just not used to that kind of style… that kind of…” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if a dictionary might suddenly appear there. “Flamboyant,” her brain finally supplied. “I grew up in a different kind of world.”

“And that means I’m not allowed to look a bit brighter?”

Izzy didn’t know how to answer. Yes would be a lie — she knew modern culture embraced self-expression. But no would be just as dishonest, because in her world, that kind of behavior wasn’t acceptable.

“Isabelle? What are you doing here?” came a voice from behind her, making her inhale sharply and straighten up. Chin up, shoulders squared.

“You always pop up out of nowhere,” Delcourt greeted the editor-in-chief immediately, giving an exaggerated shake of his head.

“Watch the familiarity,” Gagnon shot back. “Isabelle, the workday’s been over for a while. Thomas, I thought you were leaving too,” he added after a pause.

Izzy tensed and turned toward Gagnon at once — so he wouldn’t think she was speaking to him over her shoulder. Her father had always taught her to look people in the eye.

“Yes, I had to stay because we were discussing…” she struggled to come up with something remotely plausible, but her mind went blank, “…something work-related.”

“What kind of work?” Gagnon frowned, then shifted his gaze to Delcourt. “You again? How many interns have you had already — maybe that’s enough?”

“I asked for it myself!” Izzy blurted. “You keep promising me more serious topics, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

“See? Not my fault,” Delcourt chimed in, spreading his hands, watching her closely. “Come on, I’m drowning in routine work anyway — let the next generation learn.”

Gagnon only huffed.

“This is the last time you take one of my juniors,” he warned, gesturing as if he might strangle him. “Actually, you know what?” Gagnon smiled slyly. “Fine. Take her under your wing. Train her. Drill her. You’ll report back to me on her progress. Consider it a return to your teaching days,” he emphasized — and judging by Delcourt’s expression, he didn’t like that one bit.

Looks like Izzy was in way over her head.

“What’s the catch?” Delcourt narrowed his eyes.

“No catch.” Gagnon smiled. “Maybe you’ll finally have more time for commercial work and finding experts — the sales department is already howling.”

“Deal,” Delcourt said through clenched teeth.

If Izzy could have snapped her fingers and vanished, she would have done it that very second.

“Isabelle, you’ll have plenty of time to work late some other day. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home. It’s already late,” Gagnon said, motioning for her to follow.

Izzy nodded automatically, but didn’t move. She stood frozen, looking at Delcourt in a quiet panic. He glanced around and stepped closer — not too close, but close enough to finish the conversation.

“I… I didn’t mean to. I’m so — ”

“Write to me. We’ll set up a plan.” Delcourt handed her his business card.

“ThanksI’llwritetoyoubye,” Izzy rattled off in one breath and hurried toward the exit.

letter / with the deepest disrespect…

“Jérôme called. Said he was glad you’re taking initiative,” her father began over dinner, cutting into his steak with methodical precision. Even at home, he insisted on speaking French, no matter how much Izzy begged him to switch to German. Before leaving for Canada, they had agreed to stick with French to help her adapt faster.

Izzy waited for him to bring up Delcourt — she had no doubt Gagnon had reported everything immediately. Probably right after dropping her off at her door. They were friends, after all. The hardest part was getting used to the fact that “Uncle Jérôme” had turned into “Monsieur Gagnon.”

But the moment never came. Or maybe Izzy was just too afraid to start it herself. How had the stars aligned like this? She had assumed Gagnon would bury her in minor lifestyle pieces — and now she’d ended up under the wing of an established journalist.

The only problem was that it was Delcourt. Visiting freelancer who looked like a cross between a peacock and a pain in the ass wrapped in bright candy packaging. Izzy had never trusted people like that. In the end, their insides always turned out to be rotten — like Dorian Gray’s.

That was exactly what she didn’t need.

“Isabelle, come back to earth. I’m talking to you.” Her father’s voice was quiet, but it carried enough weight to make Izzy nearly spill her water.

“Sorry, I got distracted,” she said with a brief smile. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure — it all just sort of happened…”

“A smart move with that journalist,” her father continued for her. “Good for you, stepping up instead of waiting around. Jérôme told me about him — apparently, he’s experienced, but not stuck recycling the same stories or chasing the news cycle. Good practice. Fieldwork. That’s your element.”

Izzy was so taken aback that she didn’t even argue. Who would have thought that one impulsive, stupid lie would turn into an unexpected boost to her professional karma?

On the other hand, the outcome was almost too good. Finally, a chance to get back to stories that mattered more than which celebrities were dating and how to improve your skin with avocado.

All that was left was to find out what that Delcourt would ask for in return. He had to ask for something. There was no way his reaction to Gagnon’s comment about paid articles had been random. Izzy had clearly set him up somehow.

He had to want something.

Dinner ended as it always did: clear the table, stack the dishes into the dishwasher, wipe down the kitchen, then retreat into their separate routines. Her father read. Izzy disappeared into her bedroom. After a full day in an open-plan office with no private spaces, all she wanted was to lock herself in and shut the world out.

Except now she also had to write to her suddenly appointed mentor — or whatever he was supposed to be called.

Delcourt’s business card was painfully simple: black-and-white, name, email. Naturally, no phone number — otherwise he’d be torn apart. His inbox was probably strictly work-only, too.

Izzy quickly drafted a standard message. She still didn’t understand why she had to write first, but there was no way around it — especially since he had asked.

She reread it and was about to hit Send.

Then she remembered how particular the French were about emails. They had briefly covered business correspondence in school, but apologies and expressions of gratitude had been drilled into them no less rigorously than those infamous numerals. Of course, a language that says “four times twenty plus nineteen” instead of “ninety-nine” would be obsessed with long, unnecessary phrases like “please kindly accept my deepest respect”. Izzy had always thought that this was where the hypocrisy of the French language lay: elaborate, circling endlessly around a simple three-letter sound, masking true intentions. German was just as intense, with its own pitfalls, but it was precise, structured, and capable of expressing multiple states in a single word. French demanded attention and engagement: miss two words or mishear the pronunciation, and you lose the thread entirely.

Izzy gathered everything she knew, added an online translator for safety, and finally sent a short but linguistically correct email.

Delcourt replied so quickly — and so briefly — that it took her a moment to process it.

— —

Mademoiselle Keller,

Thank you very much for your message.

Allow me to express my strong interest in working together going forward.

I suggest we hold our first meeting tomorrow at 1:00 p.m. in the conference room on the second floor to discuss the details.

Kind regards,

Thomas Delcourt

P.S. Let’s skip the usual formalities in email — it’ll be faster that way. My personal number is below — I tend to respond to messages more often than emails.

— —

Izzy was ready to scream.

What did he mean by “skip the formalities”? Had she done all that for nothing? Dug up all those elaborate constructions just to avoid offending this insufferable Frenchman?

She let out a low growl through clenched teeth and forced herself to take a few deep breaths.

He probably just needed an assistant to dump all the tedious, dirty work on — that’s why he’d latched onto her. Why was he so polite? So helpful? Had he set this whole thing up? Did he think she was just some inexperienced student?

Izzy counted to six, exhaled, and typed out a reply.

— —

Monsieur Delcourt,

Thank you for your prompt response.

I confirm the meeting at 1:00 p.m. If anything changes, I will let you know as early as possible.

Kind regards,

Isabelle Keller

— —

She included her mobile number as well. A courtesy. A return move. Besides, he wasn’t going to start texting her for no reason.

Right?

He didn’t.

Izzy didn’t like that she kept looking at her phone — and waiting.

distance / when barricades aren’t just for revolutions

Izzy would come to the second-floor conference room when the newsroom fell unbearably quiet, and music only made it worse. She had tried noise-cancelling headphones, but the absence of movement around her was distracting even visually — it made it harder to focus.

She missed the rhythm of the news.

Most of the time, you were glued to your desk, barely able to step away, because the world changed at a relentless pace. Stories updated constantly, reactions came in from all sides, photos and videos were replaced in real time. It was a vortex, a constant churn — the kind you could only escape long enough to grab lunch, bring it back to your desk, hold a fork in one hand and type or scroll through agency feeds with the other.

Any place feels like a swamp at first after working in the news.

Izzy had hoped she would be assigned to politics, international conflicts — something that mattered. Instead, Gagnon had placed her in what he called lighter topics: travel, life hacks, pieces about Quebec, and other small, unfamiliar details of everyday life. He had said her writing was strong, but she needed to learn how to handle solid, long-form material. Promised it would only be for a couple of months.

Izzy was on her third.

The second-floor conference room was used for calls and, as her colleagues had put it, “when you really need to scream.” It had decent soundproofing and only a few administrative offices nearby — perfect if you needed to disappear.

Only when she stepped in at ten to one did Izzy wonder why Delcourt had asked her to meet on the second floor. Did he know she came here? Or did he simply not want extra ears — or eyes — around? Likely, after yesterday.

She laid her things out in advance: laptop, notebook with a digital pen. Made sure everything was aligned, traced the edges of the screen with her fingers, checking the smoothness of the plastic out of habit. Checked her chats — no urgent tasks, no updates from Delcourt. She tapped her nails against the keyboard, eyes fixed on the clock. Three minutes to one. The last thing she needed was for him to be late.

“Oh, wow. Been here long?”

There he was.

Izzy jumped to her feet and adjusted the sleeves of her shirt under her sweater.

“You’re a minute late,” she said, frowning, gripping the back of her chair like a shield.

Up until the last moment, Izzy had refused to believe this wasn’t some trick of her subconscious. But reality was becoming increasingly solid, tangible. Delcourt gave a quiet huff, set his wide coat over a chair, placed a worn bag on the one next to it, and pulled out his laptop in a single smooth motion. Izzy couldn’t help a quick, critical glance — those strange high-waisted trousers again, and a bright yellow sweater.

“Your father taught you to judge people by the color of their shirt, but not how to greet them properly? I’ll chalk up the comment about being late to your national stereotypes.”

Izzy dug her fingers deeper into the chair. Could he speak any simpler?

“My apologies, Monsieur Delcourt. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” he said with an approving nod. “Sit down — we’re not in a classroom.” Izzy immediately sat, though she didn’t move any closer. To her relief, Delcourt didn’t either — if anything, he defined the distance by remaining at the far end of the table. “Tell me about yourself.”

“What exactly would you like to know?”

“I need to understand who I’m dealing with. Education, experience, what you’ve worked on here.”

“Is this an interview?” Izzy crossed her arms. Delcourt didn’t answer. “Fine,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Bachelor’s and Master’s from the University of Bern, Communications and Media Studies. I started at a well-known Bern newspaper, then moved into news at a regional TV channel in the canton of Bern. Worked my way up to senior editor, then moved here and ended up at City Courier.”

“No position in local television here?”

“I wanted to try something new,” she cut in. That was all he needed to know. “Anything else?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle Keller, of course.” Izzy was almost certain he was mocking her. “Since I’ve ended up with you, I’m obligated to get the most out of the situation.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, will you just forgive me for yesterday?” she blurted out. “I just — » Izzy exhaled and bit the tip of her tongue. “I really am sorry. I didn’t mean it. Gagnon is a long-time friend of my father’s. He helped us move, got me this job, keeps checking in, asking if I’m seeing anyone, discussing my work with my father. Sometimes he even drives me home,” she rolled her eyes. “And then he saw me with you, alone, and I panicked.”

“The panic I noticed,” Delcourt said with a faint smirk. “But it works out better this way. I had been keeping an eye on the new editors — the others all ran off eventually. For what it’s worth, Gagnon thinks highly of you. Though now I understand why he’s so protective. He asked me at least four times not to come closer than a meter.”

Izzy tightened her grip on the chair and shifted even farther away from him. Wonderful. “Uncle Jérôme” at his finest.

“Are you sure I’m a good fit for you?” she asked quietly, almost strained. “If you just need a personal assistant, that’s not me.”

“I know,” Delcourt said with a small smile. “I need someone who writes about interviews as a form of power — not a girl running errands. Though there will be some running involved.”

Izzy felt her ears burn.

“How do you — ”

Delcourt gave her a look. The question was, admittedly, stupid. Izzy hadn’t exactly hidden her blog, and he had probably gone through all her social media. Journalists were bloodhounds — worse than private investigators.

“Then why the interrogation?”

“It’s always interesting to hear how colleagues present themselves. You’ll learn.”

Izzy wanted to say something back, but didn’t. This wasn’t the position to push. Besides, he clearly wasn’t going to share much about himself. She had tried to look him up too — found half-empty social media profiles and articles from two years ago. A lot, and somehow not enough. As if part of it had been cut out or hidden.

“Is that why you spoke to me yesterday? Some long game with Gagnon — ‘take the editor’?”

“Honestly? No.” Thomas shook his head. “But we’ll come back to that conversation. I’m still curious about the impact of brightly colored clothing on the quality of one’s writing.” Delcourt feigned a frown, though he didn’t stop smiling.

“Monsieur Delcourt — ”

“Thomas,” he cut in. “We’re going to be working together for a while, and I don’t miss the elaborate French formalities.”

“Isabelle. Izzy is fine,” she nodded, only realizing a second later that she had answered.

rumors / hands in your pockets, heart locked away

The rumors spread quickly — it hadn’t even been three weeks. Izzy told herself it was a combination of factors: the new girl and the freelancer, two single foreigners, and why exactly were they disappearing into a conference room once a week?

The “training” started at full speed. Izzy wasn’t unfamiliar with that pace. Thomas made her gather enormous amounts of information, verify it, re-verify it, and analyze it. After news work, the adjustment wasn’t easy: clarity and speed were replaced by three meticulous rounds of editing, in which Thomas still found mistakes. But Izzy was willing to do anything — as long as she didn’t have to compile another batch of memes for Gisèle’s department, where she’d originally been placed.

The only thing Thomas didn’t let her near was commercial pieces.

“You’ll have plenty of time to die of boredom later.”

On that point, Izzy almost agreed. Formulaic, pre-approved questions about someone’s business were enough to make anyone drowsy.

Gagnon kept an eye on them. Constantly asked how things were going, sometimes reviewed Izzy’s drafts himself. A couple of times, she overheard him arguing with Thomas over yet another commercial article, demanding that certain key points be rewritten.

But most often, in work chats, people asked whether Izzy and Thomas had slept together yet.