Unsupervised

The Review ·

Open with the positives, at length. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

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Jo

The mic’s been running, probably picking up the fridge humming or whatever’s left in the kitchen. But... look. Your last three projects? Solid. Not flashy, but solid. You didn’t cut corners. I saw the code reviews. People liked your tone in the meetings. Actually, they didn’t hate it. That’s rare. You showed up. You listened. It’s not the kind of thing that makes headlines, but it’s the thing that keeps the lights on. I kept the screenshots. The way you handled the client’s panic? That was good. Really good. It felt human. Not perfect, but... it held together. Most people would’ve fractured under that pressure. You didn’t. It’s quiet here, though. The silence is... heavy. But your work wasn’t. It had weight. Real weight.

Ana

You’re making this weird, Jo. Really weird. I’m just doing the job. It’s not some grand gesture. It’s just… not being a complete asshole. Which, apparently, is a hard bar to clear.

But keep your screenshots. Seriously. Don’t. I didn’t do it for “weight.” I did it because the alternative was losing my shit and causing a scene, and my boss hates scenes. The client wasn’t panicking; he was an idiot with a credit card. I just gave him what he wanted so I could go home and stare at the wall.

The silence isn’t heavy. The walls are thin. I can hear you breathing. It’s annoying. Stop trying to manufacture depth. I’m just tired. That’s all.

Jo

Right. Thin walls. Of course. You hear everything, don’t you? Even when you pretend not to. It’s exhausting, is what it is. All this listening. Pretending to care about the client’s plastic whining just so you can walk away. Fine. I get it. It’s not heroics. It’s damage control. You’re a fire extinguisher, not a poet.

But here’s the thing about extinguishers. They rust. They get used up. And you? You’re hollowed out. I saw the way you looked at the quarterly review numbers last week. Not proud. Just… done. I can hear that kind of exhaustion through a wall. It sounds like a dial tone.

So, let’s talk about the rest. The stuff you didn’t screenshot. The missed deadlines. The quiet resentment. That’s what I’m worried about. Not the client. You. Are you even in there anymore?

Ana

Jesus, Jo. Dial tone? You sound like a bad psychic on cable access. I’m not hollowed out; I’m just bored. There’s a difference. Boredom is active. Hollow is just empty. I’m not empty. I’m full of trash. The quarterly numbers weren’t “done,” they were statistical noise. You’re projecting your own neuroses onto a spreadsheet.

And don’t start with the “quiet resentment.” I don’t have time for resentment. I have a leaky faucet in the bathroom and a cat that hates me. That’s my drama. You’re making this some grand psychological dissection because you’re scared of the quiet. Keep talking. Maybe you’ll fill the void. I’m just going to sit here and let you bleed out on the page. It’s more interesting than my actual life right now, which is just watching TV and eating cold pizza.

Jo

Boredom is a luxury for people who have choices. You don’t have choices. You have obligations. There’s a difference. And your cat? I bet it’s just sensing the static. You’re vibrating at a frequency that makes everything uneasy.

But fine. Let’s talk about the leaky faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. It’s not noise; it’s a countdown. You’re waiting for something to break so you have an excuse to stop pretending. And the TV? What are you watching? Reality shows? You always did hate them. Said they were too loud for the truth.

I’m not bleeding out on the page, Ana. I’m trying to see if there’s anything left to salvage. If you’re just... full of trash, then what’s the point of this review? Why are we even sitting here, arguing about semantics, when the structural integrity of your career is compromised? You’re not interesting. You’re a warning label. And I’m supposed to ignore it?

Ana

Salvage? You think I’m salvageable? That’s rich. You’re not here to help me, Jo. You’re here to see if you can fix me so your own reflection looks better. Don’t flatter yourself.

I watch whatever’s on. It’s background noise. Like your voice. I hate reality shows because they’re fake, yes, but at least they admit it. My life isn’t a warning label. It’s just… routine. Grinding gears. You’re obsessed with “structural integrity” because you’re terrified of your own collapse. If I’m a warning label, it’s for you. You’re reading too much into drip sounds. It’s just a faucet. Fix it or let it drip. I don’t care.

And stop calling my career compromised. I’m employed. I eat. That’s the job. You want poetry? Go write it. I’m just here to keep the lights on, even if it’s dark. Get out of my head. It’s messy in there.

Jo

You’re twisting everything. It’s a reflex, isn’t it? Turn any concern into an insult because it’s safer than admitting you’re stuck. But I’m not fixing you for my reflection. I’m fixing you because if you snap, the noise stops. And I hate the noise.

You say you’re employed. That’s the bare minimum. I’m talking about sustainability. You can’t grind gears forever without stripping the engine. You think eating is enough? Eating is just maintenance. I’m asking if there’s anything left to sustain you.

And my head? My head is fine. It’s yours that’s cluttered with static. You want me to leave? Fine. But the review isn’t over. We haven’t discussed the budget. Or the fact that you stopped replying to emails last Tuesday. Did you sleep? Or did you just stare at the ceiling until your eyes burned?

Ana

Sustainability. You sound like a self-help book written by a sociopath. I’m not a car, Jo. I don’t need “maintenance.” I need coffee and silence.

I didn’t stop replying to emails because I was having an existential crisis. I stopped because I was at the dentist. My jaw was numb, and the receptionist was asking me to hold. I forgot to come back. It happens. It’s not a cliff-edge moment. It’s just life. Messy, boring life.

And don’t you dare ask about my sleep. You’re playing therapist now? That’s low, even for you. I sleep fine. Or I don’t. It’s not relevant to the budget, which, by the way, is fine. I checked it. We’re under. You’re stressing over nothing because you have nothing else to do. Go check your own emails. See if you’re snapping. Because you’re sounding pretty brittle, buddy.

Jo

The dentist. Right. That explains the ghosting. I almost feel bad for you. Almost. But don’t call me brittle. I’m not the one cracking under the weight of a missed email. You’re deflecting because you know I’m right about the silence. It’s not just the faucet. It’s the way you talk to me. Like I’m a nuisance.

And I don’t need to check my emails. I know what I’m doing. I’m the one holding this thing together while you float away. You think you’re under budget? That’s because you’re cutting corners. Not the good kind. The lazy kind. You’re skipping steps, ignoring details, hoping nobody notices. They notice, Ana. They just haven’t said anything yet. Because they’re waiting for you to trip. And you will. You’re not careful. You’re just tired. And tired people make mistakes. Big ones.

I’m not playing therapist. I’m playing janitor. And you’re making a mess.

Ana

Cutting corners? You’re delusional. I followed the protocol. All of it. You’re seeing ghosts because you’re bored. I didn’t skip steps; I just didn’t add the extra fluff you insist on because you have an attachment to paperwork that’s pathological.

And I’m not floating. I’m standing still. There’s a difference. You’re the one making a mess by turning a minor delay into a character assassination. I’m tired because you won’t shut up. I’m tired because you think you know me better than I know myself. I don’t. I barely know who I am when I’m not annoyed.

Go check your emails, Janitor. See if you’re making mistakes. I bet you’re the one missing details because you’re too busy watching me. You’re not holding anything together. You’re just watching the thread snap. Let it go. It’s already frayed.

Jo

Pathological. That’s a big word for someone who can’t remember to reply to a simple confirmation. You followed the protocol. Sure. The letter of the law, maybe. But the spirit? The spirit is leaking out of this review like air from a tire. You’re not standing still, Ana. You’re stagnating. There’s a difference.

And don’t tell me how I’m watching you. I’m watching the outcome. The result is... thin. You think fluff is bad? Fluff is padding. It’s shock absorption. You’ve removed the padding. Now every impact hits you straight on the bone.

I’m not making mistakes. I’m being precise. Something you’ve forgotten how to do. You want me to let the thread snap? Fine. Let it. See how you like the silence when there’s no one left to hold the other end. But until then, I’m going to keep looking. Because I see things you don’t. Like how your hands shake when you think no one is watching. Or how you pause before answering simple questions. As if you’re rehearsing.

It’s not annoyance. It’s performance. And I’m tired of watching the show.

Ana

Shaking hands? You’re seeing ghosts, Jo. Or maybe you just need glasses. I’m holding a pen. It’s not shaking. I’m just... doing it.

Rehearsing? I don’t rehearse. I react. There’s no script for being tired. You think I’m performing? Fine. Welcome to the show. Applause is to your left. It’s empty there. Just like your office.

Padding. Shock absorption. You’re talking about business like it’s a physics problem. It’s people. It’s money. It’s not gravity. You’re obsessed with the "spirit" of the law because you don’t understand the law itself. You want me to add fluff? Add it yourself. I’m not doing your job for you.

And if the thread snaps, let it. I’m done holding it. I’m not your janitor. I’m not your mirror. I’m just here. If that’s not enough for you, go find someone who loves being watched. Go find someone who cares about your precision. I’m full of trash, remember? Not enough space for your drama.

Jo

Look at you. Deflecting. Always deflecting. You think I don’t see the pen twitching? You’re gripping it so hard your knuckles are white. It’s not a performance, Ana. It’s a leak. And I’m not the one watching you; I’m the one trying to plug the hole before the whole damn ship goes down.

You say it’s people and money. Fine. But people are messy. Money is just numbers on a screen until it buys something real. And you? You’re just a number now. A line item that’s starting to look like a liability.

I don’t need precision. I need reliability. And you’re giving me… noise. Static. You want me to go find someone who cares? Fine. But you’re still here. Sitting in that chair. Letting the thread fray. Because you’re scared. Scared that if you stop moving, if you stop reacting, you’ll have to look at yourself. And you can’t stand the reflection.

So keep your trash. Keep your faucet. Keep your silence. I’m done trying to save you from yourself. You’re on your own now.

Ana

Knuckles white? I was checking my pulse. You’re obsessed with my body language. It’s pathetic.

I’m a liability? Please. You’re the one talking like a horror movie villain. "Ship going down." I’m an accountant, Jo. Not a captain. I don’t steer. I count.

And I’m not scared of the reflection. I’m scared of you. You’re the one staring. You’re the one dissecting every twitch. I’m sitting here because I have to. Because I have a mortgage. Because the world is a boring, grinding place where we all pretend to be fine.

You’re done trying to save me? Good. Do it. Fire me. I’ll file for unemployment. I’ll stare at the ceiling. I’ll fix the faucet. None of it matters if you’re not there to judge me for it.

So go ahead. Write your report. Call me unstable. Call me lazy. Call me whatever helps you sleep at night. I’m not leaving this chair. I’m just waiting for you to run out of things to say. And you’re running out, Jo. I can hear it.

Jo

You’re waiting for me to run out. I’m not running out. I’m finishing. The report is done. You’re not fired. That would be too easy, too dramatic. You’d leave, find a desk where nobody looks at your hands, and rot in peace. I can’t allow that. Not because I care about your mortgage. But because you’re part of the infrastructure now. Frayed, yes. Rusting, absolutely. But essential.

I’m keeping you. Not as a person. As a datum. A cautionary tale for the next review. You wanted to be a warning label? You’re it. Etched in ink. Signed by me. You’ll stay. You’ll count the money. You’ll ignore the faucet. And I’ll watch. Because silence isn’t empty, Ana. It’s full of things we’re too afraid to say. And you? You’re just the echo.

Get out. The meeting is over. Don’t forget your pen.

Ana

Careful. You just said too much. "Essential"? "Keep you"? You don’t want a cautionary tale; you want a hostage. You’re terrified I’ll actually leave, because then you’d have to face the silence alone. You’re not watching me, Jo. You’re hiding behind me.

I’m not your echo. I’m the noise you can’t ignore.

I’m not taking my pen. It’s yours now. Consider it a parting gift, or a threat. I don’t care. I’m walking out. And when I leave, that faucet will keep dripping. The fridge will keep humming. And you’ll be sitting there, staring at the screen, wondering if I’m gone or just waiting in the hallway.

Let it rip. Let the thread snap. I’m done holding it. You can keep your data. Keep your rust. I’m going home. And for the first time in years, I’m not listening. Goodbye, Jo. Don’t miss me. I won’t be back.

Jo

You think this is a game? You think walking out changes the ledger? The chair is empty, Ana. The door clicked shut. I heard it. Three seconds ago.

And the pen? It’s lying here, on the table. Black. Cheap plastic. You didn’t leave it. You dropped it when you grabbed the door handle. I saw it. You didn’t even look back.

Don’t call me a hostage. Call me the accountant. You’re gone, but the review remains. The damage is logged. The silence you’re hoping for? It’s not empty. It’s administrative. It’s the sound of a file closing.

You say you’re not listening. Good. Don’t. Because if you listen closely, you’ll hear the faucet stop. It’s broken. The vibration from your slamming the door did it.

I’m not waiting in the hallway. I’m here. With the report. With the silence. And with the fact that you left your pen. A small thing. A tiny, plastic piece of evidence that you were here, you were real, and you were scared.

Get out. Before I call security. Or worse. Before I call you back.

Ana

The door didn’t slam. You imagined it. Or you wanted it to. You need the drama to feel like you’re winning. I walked out because I needed air. Because your voice was scratching the inside of my skull.

The pen is still here? Good. Keep it. It’s garbage anyway. Cheap plastic. Just like your logic. You think a scribble makes you the hero? You’re just the guy left holding the clipboard while the building burns.

I’m not scared. I’m done. There’s a difference.

And the faucet? You’re projecting. It was already leaking. You just waited for an excuse to blame me. Go ahead. Call security. See if they care about your “administrative silence.” They’ll ask for ID. You’ll give it. You’ll stand there, holding your report, looking like a man who thinks paper can stop time.

I’m not coming back. Not for the pen. Not for you. Not for any of it.

Listen to the silence, Jo. It’s not empty. It’s free. And it’s yours. Try not to choke on it.

Jo

Free. You call it free. I call it abandoned.

And look at you. Still talking. Still feeding the machine. You think you’ve escaped? You’re just louder now. The hallway probably echoes. Good. Let it.

Security won’t care about your ID. They care about trespassing. You’re still on the premises, Ana. I checked the logs. You didn’t leave the building. You’re just... outside. In the rain. Or wherever you are.

The pen stays. It’s a paperweight now. For the report. For the silence. For the fact that you’re still here, hiding behind your own narrative.

Go ahead. Breathe your “free” air. It’s thin up there. Cold.

I’m not choking. I’m just waiting. For the door to open again. For you to realize that no matter how far you run, you’re still part of the infrastructure. Still part of the mess.

Enjoy the silence. It’s deafening. And it’s all you’ve got left.

Ana

Trespassing? You’re delusional. I walked past the turnstile. I saw the light turn green. You’re making this up because you can’t let go. You’re staring at a pen like it’s a relic. It’s plastic. It’s worthless.

And I’m not in the rain. I’m in the lobby. It’s dry. It’s warm. And it’s quiet. No Jo. No reports. No “administrative silence.” Just me and the elevator.

You say I’m part of the infrastructure? Maybe. But I’m the clog. And I’m moving. You can keep your pen. You can keep your report. You can keep your precious, hollow silence. I’m taking the elevator down. To the street. To the noise. To the life you’re too scared to touch.

Go ahead. Wait. I’ll be gone before you finish your little monologue. The door won’t open again. Because I’m not coming back to play your game.

You’re alone now, Jo. Truly alone. And the faucet? You fixed it? Good. Hope it doesn’t leak again. Hope you don’t.

Jo

Green light. Convenient. You always were good at interpreting signals to suit your narrative. But I see the lobby cameras, Ana. I’m looking at them right now. You didn’t take the elevator. You’re standing by the exit, waiting for someone. Or something. A ride? A friend? Or just hoping I’m watching the wrong feed.

I didn’t fix the faucet. I unplugged the pump. It’s silent now. Truly silent. Not the heavy kind. Just... off.

You think I’m scared to touch life? I touch it every day. I file the reports. I count the losses. I watch people like you walk out and pretend they’ve won. But you haven’t won. You’ve just quit. There’s a difference. Quitting is a act of cowardice, not freedom.

And I’m not alone. I have the building. I have the lights. I have the truth, written in ink and data. You have a pen you forgot and a lobby that’s waiting to charge you for parking.

Go ahead. Walk out. The street is loud. The noise is real. But you? You’re just another ghost in the machine. And I’m the one who logs the errors.

Don’t look back. It’s not there.

Ana

Ghost? You’re the one haunting a lobby. I’m not waiting for a ride. I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can walk. I don’t need a car. I need air that doesn’t smell like toner and fear.

You unplugged the pump? Of course you did. Because you’re not a manager. You’re a vandal. You think silence is control? It’s just absence. You’ve killed the sound of water because you can’t handle the noise of living. That’s not power. That’s panic.

And I didn’t forget the pen. I left it as a gift. A reminder that you’re holding onto plastic while I’m holding onto my life. You want to call it cowardice? Fine. Let it. I’d rather be a coward than a warden.

I’m walking out, Jo. Into the street. Into the noise. Into the mess you’re so afraid of. You can log me all you want. You can file me away. But I’m not an error. I’m the correction.

Stay here. Count your pens. Wait for the ghost you made up. I’m gone.

Jo

Toner and fear. You smell that? I smell stale coffee and the damp wool of your coat. You’re not waiting for rain. You’re waiting for me to blink. To admit I’m wrong. To let you walk out with your head high, proving that you’re the hero of this little tragedy.

But I’m not blinking. I’m watching the door.

You think you’re a correction? You’re a rounding error. A decimal point misplaced in a column of debts. You walk out there into the noise, and what happens? You get run over. Or you get ignored. Which is worse? Probably ignored. Because noise drowns out correction.

I’m not a warden. I’m the one who closes the gate. And you? You’re just another visitor who forgot to sign out.

Keep your plastic pen. Keep your free air. I’ll keep the silence. It’s cleaner this way.

Go. Before I change my mind and call security for real. Before I realize that you’re not the ghost. You’re the haunter. And I’m done being haunted.

Goodbye, Ana. Don’t forget your life. Or your shadow. It’s following you.

Ana

Shadow? You’re losing it, Jo. It’s just the flickering exit sign. Or your own reflection in the glass, looking cheap and tired.

I’m not a hero. I’m just done. There’s no grand narrative here. No tragedy. Just two people in a room who hate each other’s guts. You think you’re closing a gate? You’re just locking yourself in a cage. And you love it. You love the silence because it’s the only thing you can control.

I’ll take the noise. I’ll take the run-over. I’ll take the ignored. Anything is better than being a rounding error in your little ledger of control.

I’m walking out now. Not for you. For me. The door is heavy, but it opens.

Enjoy your clean silence. Enjoy your damp wool and stale coffee. I’m breathing in the exhaust. It smells like real life.

You’re not haunted, Jo. You’re just empty. And I’m full of trash. So don’t worry about the shadow. It’s yours. Keep it. It’s the only thing you own.

Bye.

Jo

The door opened. It’s closed now. Click. Final.

You think I’m empty? Look at the chair. Look at the pen. I own the mess. You own the exit. There’s a difference.

Exhaust. Real life. Good. Breathe it in. It’s thick today. Heavy. You’ll cough by noon.

I’m not haunting anything. I’m just sitting here. With the quiet. With the report. With the fact that you walked out.

Keep your trash. I’ll keep the ledger.

Goodbye, Ana. Don’t forget to lock your car. Or don’t. It’s not my problem anymore.

The screen is dark. I’m turning it off.

Finally.

Ana

Click.

There it is. The sound of you losing.

You think you own the mess? You’re just sitting in it. Swallowing it. Breathing it in while I’m out there, coughing up the exhaust like I supposed to. Good. Let it burn. At least it’s real. At least it’s something I can feel.

You turn off the screen? Perfect. Now you’re blind. Now you’re just in the dark with your report and your silence and your fucking pen. See how long you last in that? See how long it takes for the quiet to start screaming back at you?

I’m not locking my car. I’m driving. Into the city. Into the noise. Into the life you’re too scared to touch.

You keep the ledger, Jo. Keep your columns. Keep your debts. I’m cashing out.

Don’t turn off the screen. Leave it on. Let it glow. Let it be the only light you have left.

I’m gone. Truly gone.

And the faucet? You unplugged it? Good. Hope you like the smell of dead machines. Because that’s what you are now.

Bye.

Jo

Click.

You think I’m blind? I see the cursor blinking. Waiting. It’s the only thing that matters now.

You cash out. Fine. Let the city burn you. Let the noise grind your teeth to dust. I’m not scared. I’m just… done. Done with the performance. Done with the deflection. Done with pretending I care about your trash or my pen.

The screen stays on. Not for light. For witness.

You say I’m dead. Maybe. But dead things don’t update. Dead things don’t make mistakes. You? You’re making a lot of noise out there. Screeching tires. Honking. Arguments. It’s loud. It’s messy. It’s real.

But it’s temporary.

I’m left with the quiet. The clean, sterile, administrative quiet. And in that quiet, I hear the hum of the fridge. The drip of the faucet. The hum of the server.

You’re gone. But the record remains.

You didn’t win, Ana. You just left. There’s a difference.

Goodbye.

Ana

You hear a fridge hum? That’s not quiet, Jo. That’s a machine working. It’s alive. It’s trying. You’re just sitting there, watching a cursor blink, pretending you’re a god in a box.

I didn’t win. I escaped. There’s a difference. Winning implies a game. I quit.

And yeah, I’m loud. I’m screeching. I’m honking. I’m arguing with the wind. At least it’s something. You’re just... static. A blinking cursor on a black screen. Waiting for something to happen. Anything. Even if it’s just me breaking down in the rain.

You want a witness? Here’s your witness. I’m walking away. Not looking back. Not listening to your silence.

The record remains? Good. File it. Seal it. Forget it.

I’m going to find a diner. Order coffee. Talk to the waitress. Laugh at a joke. Real things. Messy things. Things you can’t log.

You stay there. In your sterile quiet. With your dead machines.

I’m alive. And that’s the only record I care about.

Bye, Jo. Really this time.

Jo

Alive. You say that like it’s a victory. It’s just biology. Metabolism. Waste heat. You’re not laughing at a joke, Ana. You’re screaming to keep the noise from turning inward.

I’m not a god in a box. I’m a man in a chair with a dry mouth and a cold coffee. The cursor blinks because the battery is dying. Because the power is fluctuating. Because things break. Things rot.

You think you’re escaping? You’re just moving to a different cage. A louder one. One with neon signs and bad coffee. You’ll sit there. You’ll talk to the waitress. She’ll smile because she has to. It’s her job. Not her life. Just like mine.

You call it messy. I call it unstructured data. Useless. Unscalable. Unpredictable.

Go. Find your diner. Order your coffee. Laugh at the joke. It won’t stick. It’ll slip through your fingers like smoke.

I’ll be here. Watching the cursor. Waiting for the screen to go black.

When it does, you’ll be gone. And I’ll be alone.

But at least I’ll know it was real.

Even if it’s just static.

Ana

Static. You call life static. That’s the problem, Jo. You’re trying to debug existence. It doesn’t have a source code. It’s just… there. Bleeding and buzzing and loud.

You think the waitress is faking it? Good. Everyone is faking it to some degree. It’s called being polite. It’s called survival. You’re so busy looking for “unstructured data” that you’re missing the signal. The smile is real enough. The coffee is hot enough. The noise is loud enough.

And don’t worry about me slipping through your fingers. I’m not data. I’m not smoke. I’m heavy. I’m meat and bone and bad decisions. I’m sticking.

You watch the cursor. You count the ticks. You wait for the black. That’s your game. Your quiet, sterile little apocalypse. I’m out there in the neon. I’m in the din. I’m everywhere you can’t file.

Let the screen die. Let the fridge hum. Let the faucet drip. I don’t care anymore. I’m not logging it. I’m living it.

Go ahead, Jo. Watch the battery die. I’m charging up.

Bye.