A/N: I was listening to "Say Something" on repeat for a few days this week, and this is what happened…not really based on the song or anything, but kind of a breakup fic.

Andrea sighed in relief as the taxi turned down the tree-lined street she knew so well. It was late on a Saturday night, and she wasn't expected to be home until Tuesday. She had been covering a scandalous story surrounding a local election upstate, but with the candidate dropping out of the race with four days to go, she was able to wrap-up her report and get home—to Miranda.

In the past three weeks, she had only seen Miranda once, and it for a few hours in passing. She loved her career as a journalist for the Mirror, but she didn't like that her stories sometimes took her away from home.

The car pulled up to the townhouse and she smiled, seeing the lights on. Paying the driver, she practically ran up the steps, eager to wrap her arms around the older woman. Quiet jazz music streamed from the den, so Andrea set down her bags and headed in search of her lover. Seeing a splash of white hair peeking out from behind the wingback chair in front of the fireplace, she felt the tension drain from her body. She was home.

"Miranda," she said as she walked closer, "oh god, I've missed yo—" and suddenly, she froze. Miranda was in the chair, as she expected, but she was sitting on the lap of an older man Andrea vaguely recognized from one of the galas.

Miranda's head jerked towards the young woman, her eyes wide with guilt. She removed her arms from their place around the man's neck and stood, never breaking eye contact with Andrea. "Charles, please leave. I'll have my assistant contact your office first thing Monday to make arrangements," she said.

"Of course, thank you for the drink," he said, standing up and heading for the door. The two women stared at each other intensely until the door slammed shut.

Miranda jumped and rested her hand on the back of the chair, closing her eyes. "Andrea, it's not what you think," she said, softly shaking her head.

"Oh, and what is it exactly that you think I'm thinking?" Andrea hissed.

"There is nothing going on between Charles and me. We were just working on a new project and—"

"That's bullshit. You work on projects in your office, in a conference room, hell, even in a booth at Pastis. Not in his lap, in front of the fireplace—our fireplace!" Andrea took a few steps away, running her hand through her hair. She spun around and stood inches in front of Miranda, causing the older woman to whimper. "I was so happy to come home to you…I just…dammit, Miranda. I can't do this," she said, storming back out the door she just came in.

Miranda closed her eyes and gently chewed on her upper lip, silently berating herself. It wasn't like she had sex with Charles—they hadn't even kissed—but she couldn't deny that they had been flirting heavily with each other. She had been feeling insecure and depressed again, and a little playful flirting with a colleague seemed innocent enough. And it would have been if her wife hadn't walked in.

Tears welled as fear and despair surged through her body. Sobs took over her body—deep, gut-wrenching sobs that sounded more like howls than anything else. She stumbled towards the stairs, intent on making it up to her bedroom, but she collapsed at the base of the staircase, crumbling, just like her marriage.

Andrea walked around the block for nearly twenty minutes. She knew Miranda would keep saying there was nothing going on, that they were working on a project and so forth. But that was a lie. She saw the guilt in the woman's eyes, and guilt was an emotion quite foreign to the editor.

Making her decision, she returned to the townhouse. "Miranda, I—" she stopped when she saw her in a pile at the base of the stairs. "Are you okay?"

Miranda lifted her head and looked at Andrea through bleary, puffy eyes. Her eyes couldn't quite focus, and she was still stuck in that haze that always follows an emotional purge. Wiping her eyes, she simply nodded.

Andrea took a deep breath. "It's over. I'm leaving."