Start by apologising for something nobody noticed. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

I'm sorry I left the jar of buttons on the sideboard. It was cluttering the space, and I know how much the visual bothers you. It’s pathetic, really, how we sort through these remnants of discarded plastic and bone as if they hold the weight of a life lived. We spend our days collecting the debris of existence, thinking that a collection of brass fasteners will somehow provide some structural integrity to the void. I saw a man at the station today staring at a vending machine, his face pale in the artificial glow, looking for salvation in a bag of neon chips. It's a tragedy of the highest order to see human potential wasted on such singular focus on the trivial.

The sink is always the problem. You're obsessed with the mechanics of it, as if tightening a bolt could stop the world from spinning apart. It's the same delusion with the invoices—a frantic attempt to impose order through paper and ink on a system that is fundamentally hollow. You call it exhausting, but what is more exhausting than a cracked pipe? I spent the morning watching the rain streak down the window of the office, thinking about how much effort we waste on the illusion of the ledger. You'd rather drown in the details than admit that the horizon is moving. It's a miserable way to live, Jo, to count the leaks while the house is on fire.

Practicality is just a word for fear, Jo. You buy a wrench on Miller Street as if steel could shield you from the inevitable passage of time. It’s a pathetic defense, paying twenty-two euros for a momentary sense of control while the floorboards rot beneath you. You talk about rent as if the landlord holds a currency that matters in the grand scheme of things decaying. I saw a bird in the park trying to build a nest out of plastic wire and twine, a frantic display of futility. We are no different with your invoices and wrenches. You want the world to shrink until it fits inside your toolbox. It's a small, cramped existence. Truly.

Sarah raises the price because she's trapped in the same cycle of desperation as you. She understands the cost of flour because she's being crushed by the weight of the grain. You want me to help with the wrench? As if my hands would somehow change the physics of your struggle. It's a laughable request, really, to demand labor for a problem that has no solution in metalwork. The buttons will stay where they are. They are the only honest things in this room, not pretending to be part of some neat, brittle plan. You find the depth annoying because you're afraid of the silence that comes when you stop fixing things. It's a exhausting way to be, Jo.

The rug was ruined long ago, you're just too busy scrubbing threads to notice the rot. Go to the kitchen then. Fret with your bucket and pretend the water isn't reclaiming the floor for itself. It's a charming sort of blindness, this belief that a damp patch is a catastrophe worth mourning. If the buttons fall, let them stay. They'll find more purpose in the dust than they ever did your frantic hands. I have no intention of catching shards or participating in the drama of a leaky household. There is far more dignity in the descent. Enjoy your dripping, Jo. I hope the rhythm of the water makes the world feel more manageable.

The mold is the only thing growing in this house that has any sense of purpose. You see a map; I see the house finally reclaiming what was never borrowed from it. Go, fetch your flashlight. Beam your light into the corners as if the shadows will scare the decay away. It’s a desperate gesture, Jo, a battery-powered defiance against the inevitable dark. When the fuse finally blows, it won't be a tragedy—it will be the honesty you haven't been brave enough to face. I'll be here in the dark, not needing a flashlight to see exactly where we are. The mildew smell is just the scent of time passing.

Twelve euros for the privilege of seeing your own failure clearly. How remarkable. You treat the fuse box like an altar, praying to a spark that will never come. If the switch is warm, it's because the house is tired of keeping up with your expectations. Call the electrician; bring in another man to tell you what the walls are already screaming through the mold. I won't trip over the chair; I know the geography of this ruin better than your frantic flashlight-guided tours. You're so afraid of the step that you haven't noticed the floor is already gone. Let the wood be wet, Jo. It's the only thing here that's real.

The kettle is a scream, not a signal. You listen to the whistle and think of sustenance, as if a cup of tea can negate the fact that the walls are closing in. It’s a pathetic sort of comfort, finding solace in the temperature of the water while the foundation sags away into the sea. The neighbors are loud because they are alive, Jo, unlike the warped boards you insist on defending. Go, eat your meal. Pretend the steam will shield you from the view of collapse. I'll stay out here and listen to the kettle. It's the only thing in this house that isn't lying about its boiling point.

The wobbly leg is the perfect metaphor for your life. You sit there, balancing your cheap tea on a whim, terrified the wood will finally give way. Three pounds for Earl Grey—the price of a flickering sense of normalcy while the world rots. You say the noise makes it harder to think, but perhaps the noise is the only thing keeping you from realizing the absolute silence of the situation. If the house falls, the wobbly leg will reach the bottom a bit faster. Sit there, then. Let the tea go cold. It's more honest that way. You're just waiting for the crash.