That airport carpet. You said it was this aggressive plaid, red and gold? But you were in Terminal B. Terminal B has that bland, sterile grey loop. I remember because I spilled coffee on it last week and it just vanished. Unless you’re using the old concourse. Which one was it? Because my memory is filing this under “hallucination” and I’d prefer it be a detail I missed.
God, you’re watching me like a hawk. I swear on my life, the carpet in B was grey. It was that soulless, looped nightmare that swallows your soul and offers nothing back but static. But the… the memory of the place? That’s where it gets messy. The plaid? That was a dream. Or maybe just my brain trying to repair a file that didn’t save. I remember the smell of stale pretzels, sharp as a knife, and the way the light hit the dust motes like they were suspended in amber. But the colors? Those are lies I told myself to make the boredom feel like art. I wasn’t in the old concourse. I was standing there, dead to the world, waiting for a flight that never quite arrived. The grey was real. The gold was just the sun breaking through, or maybe my eyes failing me. Take your pick.
So the carpet was grey. Fine. But you said the light hit the dust motes like amber. That implies sunlight. Terminal B has no windows, Lena. It’s a concrete box. You can’t have amber dust in a windowless tomb unless you’re hallucinating the architecture too. Or maybe you were in the atrium, which has glass, but the atrium doesn’t have those pretzel smells. It has rain. You didn’t mention rain.
You’re dissecting this like a coroner. It’s exhausting. I didn’t say the smell was amber. I said the light made the dust look like it was suspended in amber. Resin. Old things. Preserved. It doesn’t matter if the windows were real or just reflections in the polished floor. Light is a liar, Cass. It bends. It refracts. You’re hung up on the concrete, but I was hung up on the feeling that time had stopped. That’s what the amber was. Not sunlight. Stasis. The pretzel smell? That’s just the ghost of every bad decision made in that building. I don’t have the receipts for the architecture. I have the feeling. Isn’t that enough? You want a blueprint. I’m giving you a mood. The grey carpet was the anchor, sure. But the rest… the rest was just the air getting thick. You’re looking for a glitch. Maybe I’m just tired of explaining why the world feels so heavy sometimes.
Look, I’m not asking for a blueprint. I’m asking why you’d describe a windowless room as having light that bends. Unless you were wearing tinted glasses? You didn’t mention those. And the “ghost of bad decisions”? That’s poetic, sure, but it’s also a vague enough smokescreen to hide the fact that you probably weren’t there at all. Or you’re just making it up to seem interesting. Again.
You think I’m crafting a persona? Please. I just work in data entry. My life is a spreadsheet of errors. I don’t have time for literary fabrication. It’s too exhausting. The light bends because of the fluorescents, you idiot. They hum, they flicker, they distort perception. It’s not magic; it’s bad infrastructure. I was there. I had to be. The deadline is today. If I’m not in the chair, I’m fired. And if I’m fired, I lose the apartment. So yes, I was standing in that grey hell, staring at a screen that blurred at the edges. The "poetry" is just my brain trying to cope with the sheer, unadulterated boredom of waiting for permission to leave. You want a confession? I forgot my keys. I stood there for an hour. The light wasn’t amber. It was just ugly. You’re parsing my fatigue for secrets. There are none. Just the stress. It makes things look different.
Fluorescents don’t bend light into amber, Lena. They make things look like a clinical autopsy. You’re trying to paint over the fact that you weren’t in Terminal B. You were in the breakroom. I’ve seen you there. The carpet is identical. The pretzel smell comes from the microwave. And the deadline? You’ve been “on deadline” for three years. You’re not losing the apartment. You’re just avoiding the spreadsheet. Which, by the way, is due at noon. You’re already late.
You’re relentless. It’s a disease. The breakroom carpet is grey. That part I concede, because you’ve got eyes like needles. But the pretzels? In the breakroom, they smell like burnt oil and despair, not the sweet, yeasty rot of the terminal. I was there. I swear on my mother’s grave, or whatever pathetic religion I claim when I’m scared. The light did look amber. Maybe because I hadn’t eaten. Maybe because the heat from the microwave turned the air thick, syrupy. You think I’m avoiding the spreadsheet. Maybe I am. But not because I’m lazy. Because the numbers don’t make sense. Because the deadline is a lie they tell us to keep us running. I’m not late. I’m just… pausing. To breathe. You’re so obsessed with the clock you’ve forgotten we’re all just ghosts in a machine, waiting for the reset. The carpet is grey. Fine. But the feeling? That was real.
You’re mixing metaphors again. Ghosts don’t have deadlines. And you’re not “pausing.” You’re hiding. I saw you leaving the breakroom. You didn’t go back to your desk. You went to the lobby. The one with the weird carpet you keep describing. You’re lying about the terminal. You’re lying about the breakroom. You were somewhere else entirely. And you’re terrified because you know I can’t prove where. Yet.
I’m not terrified. I’m bored. There’s a difference. You’re seeing patterns where there’s just exhaustion. The lobby? Maybe. The carpet was red and gold. Aggressive. Like a wound. I liked it. It hurt my eyes. That’s why I remembered it. Because it was real, unlike the grey loops of B, unlike the sterile breakroom. I went there to think. To remember what color looked like. You’re tracking my movements like I’m a suspect. I’m just an employee who forgot which way to turn. The deadline is coming. I know. But I need to stand in that red gold mess before I go back to the white noise. It’s the only thing that feels honest. You want proof? You have it. The memory is the proof. You’re just refusing to accept that sometimes, we lie to ourselves to survive the day.
Red and gold? That’s the old airport terminal. You said you worked in data entry. Data centers don’t have airports. Unless you’re hiding another job. Or a criminal record. I’m not tracking you for fun, Lena. I’m tracking you because you’re burning out. The deadline isn’t a lie. It’s real. And if you’re at an airport, you’re not at the office. You’re not going to make it.
I don’t have a criminal record. I have a mortgage and a cat that hates me. You’re grasping at straws. The airport story? It’s a metaphor. A elaborate, stupid metaphor for the void in my chest. I wasn’t there. I’m here. At the desk. Staring at the screen. The red and gold carpet is the panic attack I haven’t had yet. It’s vivid. It’s loud. It’s the only thing that feels real in this grey, windowless office that smells like burnt oil. I’m not running away. I’m just… dissociating. You think I’m hiding. I’m just hiding from the realization that none of this matters. The deadline is real. I know. But so is the terror of missing it. I’m not late. I’m just paralyzed. The carpet in my head is red. Because I’m bleeding out, slowly, quietly, while you watch.
You’re bleeding out? Great. Very cinematic. Did you spill coffee on the server rack again? Because if you’re just having a panic attack, you’ve already missed the noon deadline. The spreadsheet isn’t waiting. My boss is walking down the hall right now, and he’s not looking for metaphors. He’s looking for spreadsheets. Stand up, Lena. The carpet is grey. The deadline is gone. Now we just deal with the fact that you wasted the morning dreaming of red.
He’s here. I can hear his shoes clicking on the linoleum. Sharp. Determined. Like a judge’s gavel. You think I’m dreaming of red. You think it’s just a mood. It’s not. It’s the color of the error message that just popped up on my screen. A red bar. Thick. Unavoidable. I didn’t miss the deadline. I broke it. Intentionally. Because the data was wrong. All of it. Pretzel-stinky, windowless, grey-lie data. I couldn’t fix it. So I ran. To the lobby. To the red carpet. To feel something that wasn’t a mistake. Now he’s at the door. Knocking. You’re looking at the clock. I’m looking at the red. It’s beautiful, Cass. It’s the only truth I have left. Go tell him. Tell him I’m not coming back. Tell him the spreadsheet is a lie. The carpet was red. And I’m done.
Stop. Just stop. You think breaking the data fixes anything? It doesn’t. It just makes you the villain. And I’m not going to tell him you’re not coming back. I’m going to tell him you’re having a breakdown. Which, frankly, is more plausible than your airport fantasy. Let me handle the knocking. You hide behind the monitor. And for god’s sake, wipe the screen. He’ll see your reflection. And he’ll see you’re still here, trembling. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.
He’s knocking. Loud. Aggressive. Like he’s trying to break down the door of my sanity. You’re right. I’m trembling. I can’t help it. The screen is foggy. My reflection is a ghost, pale and distorted. Red eyes. That’s what he’ll see. Not the villain. Just a wreck. I’m hiding behind the monitor because I’m scared. Not of him. Of the silence that comes after. The red carpet in my head is fading. Turning grey. Bland. Sterile. I’m not a hero. I’m just a girl who forgot to save her work. And now the world is ending. One spreadsheet at a time. You handle him. I’ll handle the shame. It’s heavier. Heavier than the deadline. Heavier than the lie.