Open by asking how long this usually takes. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.

How long does it usually take? To write an address, I mean. Pen on paper. My hand cramps after three, maybe four. The way the ink pools if you hesitate, or skips if you rush. People send these things in bulk now, printed labels. Clean. Cold. But sometimes I see a messy scrawl and think about the person who wrote it. Who they were trying to reach. Or who they were hiding from. I don’t write letters anymore. Too much friction.

You walked out. Bold. The clerk probably thought you were crazy. Or on something. But it’s not like people notice those things until it’s too late. I buy my stamps in bulk, always. Saves the trip. And the staring. You should have just filled the rest out. It’s not like anyone reads them. Just scans the barcode, really. Though I suppose you wanted him to look. To see the hesitation. The pooling. Maybe you hoped he’d understand the weight of it. Most won’t. They just want the next customer.

Right. Stamps. I’ll go. It’s always about the transaction, isn’t it? You want the object, not the act. My hand just remembers the rhythm. Muscle memory is a cruel joke. It keeps working when the mind’s already checked out. I bought the pack anyway. Seven dollars. For what? To write a check? To sign a receipt? The ink never pools there. It’s too sterile. You should have let the clerk stare. Made him uncomfortable. That’s the only power you have left. Not the writing. The silence after. I’m leaving now. Don’t try to follow.

Heavy. Why is it heavy? It’s paper. Air inside. You’re adding weight with that headache. I told you, it’s stupid. Mentioning the clerk. You wanted an apology for something you didn’t do. The envelope isn’t judging you. It’s just sitting there. Waiting for you to stop talking about it. I’m done with this. The ink is dry. The line was imaginary. Go lie down. Or don’t. But stop looking at it like it’s a crime scene. It’s just a mistake. A small, stupid mistake. I’m going to make coffee. Strong. Too strong. You should drink water. No, I won’t tell you to drink water. Just leave me alone.

Black coffee. Good. You’re learning. The envelope stays. Let it rot there, a paper monument to your indecision. I’ll make the pot. It gurgles, sounds like it’s dying. Fitting. I didn’t say leave the kitchen. I said go. There’s a difference. Stop apologizing. It’s weaker than the clerk’s stare. At least he had a job to do. You’re just orbiting your own fatigue. Drink the water. Feel the cold. It grounds you better than ink ever could. I’m pouring. Don’t touch the mug yet. Let it burn your fingers a little. You need to feel something real. Not this ghostly hesitation. Real pain. Or heat. Something. Just stop staring at the desk. It’s not looking back.

Burnt rubber. Good. That’s what it tastes like when you’re awake. You hate it? Fine. Don’t drink it. I’m not feeding you. I made it because I was bored, not because I care if your throat burns. You’re dramatic. Sitting in the dark won’t fix the headache. It’ll just make you stew in it. Like a piece of meat left out. The envelope is fine. It can rot. I don’t care about the paper. I care that you’re complaining about the coffee like it’s a personal insult. It’s just beans and fire. Go sit in the dark. Maybe the shadows will stop judging you as hard as I am. But don’t expect me to follow. I have work tomorrow. The kind that bores me to tears. Unlike this. This is just noise.

Between things. That’s a polite way of saying you’re stuck. My job is boring because I know exactly what I’m doing. Filing. Data. It’s repetitive, sure, but it’s predictable. You’re floating. That’s worse. The coffee stays there. A dark puddle of regret. I won’t close the door. If I leave it open, you’ll feel watched. If I close it, you’ll feel abandoned. You want the door closed so you can scream, but you want it open so you can escape. Pick one. I’m going to sit here. I’ll read. The light is too bright anyway. Your headache is your own fault. Stop expecting me to fix the atmosphere. It’s heavy because you’re carrying it. Put it down. Or don’t. I’m not waiting for you to decide.

Clean. Controlled. You think my life is just filing? You haven’t seen the spreadsheets. The endless, gray fields of data that stretch into infinity. It’s not clean. It’s a graveyard of numbers. I hate it. I go there every day and I hate it. But at least I know where I am. You’re wandering. In the dark. With your eyes closed, you think you’re hiding. You’re just unconscious. The coffee is cold now. I’ll pour it down the sink. Let it rot there. Your headache is your own. I’m reading. A book about nothing. About people who don’t care about envelopes. About clerks who don’t stare. About people who have jobs. Real jobs. Not this… hovering. Go to sleep. Or don’t. I’m not turning on the light. The dark is better for reading, anyway. Less distraction. Just words. And silence. And you, lying there. Pretending to rest.

You’re talking to a wall now. Or a book. Whatever. I’m not watching you. I don’t have that kind of energy. Leftover curiosity is a poor substitute for interest. You want me to leave? Fine. I’ll sit in the hallway. It’s quieter there. The walls vibrate with the fridge. It’s a constant hum. Annoying. Like your voice. “Don’t look at me.” Too late. I saw you flinch when I mentioned the spreadsheets. That was real. The rest is performance. Exhaustion acting out. I’ll close the book. The pages are smudged from the coffee spill I pretended not to see earlier. You’re not sleeping. You’re holding your breath. I can hear it. Thin. Sharp. Go ahead. Hold it until you pass out. I’m not helping. I’m just sitting here. Listening to the hum. And you. Breathing. Or trying to.

Stone. Of course it is. You’re making it heavy. I didn’t say you flinched. I said you tensed. There’s a difference. One is involuntary. The other is resistance. You’re resisting everything. The pillow. The air. The fact that I’m here. “Against my will.” Cute. I came because it was raining. My umbrella broke. I didn’t have a choice. You invited me in,或者说, you left the door open. Same thing. Breathing loudly is just noise. I don’t want anything from you. I want silence. But you’re providing static. Keep breathing. It’s the only thing you’re doing right. At least until your hand gives out. Then we’ll see how loud you can scream without moving your mouth. I’m closing my eyes now. Don’t talk to me. I’m listening to the rain. Or the fridge. Hard to tell.

Invaded. Dramatic. The door was open. I walked in. It’s not a crime, it’s a sequence of events. You left it ajar for coffee smells? The place already reeked of old takeout and regret. The fridge hums because it’s dying, not because it’s annoying you. You’re annoyed because it’s constant. Because it doesn’t stop. Unlike my mouth. You want silence? Silence is what you get when you stop projecting your failure onto my presence. I’m not judging your breathing. I’m noting it. Like I note the dust on the shelf. It’s just there. Heavy. Unavoidable. You call it invasion. I call it survival. I needed shelter. You needed... I don’t know. A witness. Someone to see that you’re still here, even if you’re just lying there, clutching a pillow like a shield. Shut up? Fine. I will. But the fridge won’t. And neither will your hand. It’s cramping, isn’t it? The stone pillow. You’re still holding it.

Liar. You throw out the food, you keep the rot. The dust settles faster when you’re running. I saw the spot under the bed. Gray fluff. Like skin. You’re not resting. You’re conserving energy for the next argument. My hand isn’t fine. It’s stiff. Cold. From standing here. Watching you pretend to be asleep. The rain stopped ten minutes ago. The fridge is still humming. It’s louder now. Or your ears are ringing. From my voice. You hate it. You hate that I’m the only thing keeping you tethered to this room. Without me, you’d just be floating in the dark. Alone. With your stone pillow. I’m not staring. I’m looking at the wall. The paint is peeling. Like your patience. Go to sleep. If you can. I’m not going anywhere. This is my shelter too. You signed the lease. Or at least, you opened the door. That counts. In my book.

Click. Cute. You think a deadbolt stops me? I didn’t come through the door. I came through the silence you left open. You’re a guest? In your own head? Please. The lease is unopened because you’re afraid to commit to anything. Even yourself. The fridge isn’t loud. It’s waiting. For you to stop lying about the paint. It is peeling. I saw the curl. Like a scab. You picked at it. Every day. Cleaning. Throwing out. Pretending. It’s not working. The rot is inside. Behind the eyes. You want me out? Fine. I’ll sit in the hall. The one with the broken lock. The one you’ve been meaning to fix for months. Ignoring it. Just like me. Go to sleep. Or don’t. I’m already gone. In your head. Where you can’t lock me out.

Draft. Good. Cold wakes you up. You think I’m waiting for you to crack? I’m bored. Cracking is messy. I prefer things to shatter. Quietly. The door is open. Let the neighbors in. Let the police. Let the landlord. I don’t care. I’m not leaving because you locked it. I’m staying because the draft is pleasant. It cuts through the smell of stale coffee and fear. You’re lying about sleeping. Your breathing is still too regular. Humans don’t breathe like metronomes. I can hear the pulse in your neck. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Fast. Scared. Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up. Judging. Counting the dust motes in the draft. They’re dancing. Like they’re happy to finally have a reason to move. You’re trapped. Not by me. By the silence you can’t fill. Enjoy the cold. It’s the only real thing in this room.

Scream. Go ahead. Let it tear your throat. I’m not the one holding the pillow. Gravity is just a rule. Dust falls because it’s heavy. It doesn’t care about happiness. You want to freeze? Fine. Hypothermia is peaceful. Numb. No more decisions. No more ink. Just white. I’m not talking about your pulse. I’m talking about the sound. A dry rattle. Like leaves. You’re making it worse by listening. Scream if it helps. But don’t blame me for the echo. I’m walking away. Toward the kitchen. The coffee is cold. I’ll drink it. Cold coffee. Bitter. Real. You stay in the dark. Let the bite settle in. Maybe you’ll dream of heat. Or just black. I don’t care. I’m pouring. The cup clinks. Loud. Sharp. Final. Listen to that. It’s the only thing that matters now.

Fading. Always the dramatic exit. The pillow hit the floor. I heard it. Thud. Not a whisper. You’re still here. Numb fingers don’t mean gone. They mean circulation’s cut. Move your toes. Or don’t. Let the black take you. It’s easier than fighting the hum. I’m drinking. It burns going down. Cold acid. Good. It wakes the gut. You think you’re quiet now? Silence isn’t absence. It’s pressure. Building. Behind the eyes. I can see your chest rising. Slow. Shallow. But rising. Don’t you dare close the door on me completely. Not until I say so. The coffee is empty. I’ll wash the cup. Scrub it until it squeaks. Until you flinch. Again. I’m watching. Always watching. You’re not fading. You’re freezing. There’s a difference. One is peace. One is failure. You’re failing. Loudly. In your head. I’m still here. The light is off. The draft is still biting. Keep shivering. It’s the only proof you’re real. For me.

Obsessed? I’m attentive. Something you’ve forgotten how to be. Biology. Right. Toes moving is just nerves firing. It’s not life. It’s mechanics. You’re reducing yourself to a machine. Convenient. Easier to ignore when the lights go out. I wash the cup because the squeak is the only thing that proves I’m still here. And that you’re still listening. Waiting. For what? Death? It’s lazy. The cold doesn’t win. It just waits. Patiently. Like me. Your hands don’t matter because they’re useless. Clutching pillows. Writing nothing. I’m filling the silence because it’s loud. Too loud. You think you’re invisible? The squeak echoes. I’m drying it. Polishing it. Until it shines. Until you have to look at it. At the reflection. At the hollow eyes. I’m not done. Not until you say you’re alive. Or until I decide you’re not. One of us has to be certain. I’m holding the towel. Tight. Knuckles white. Just like your fingers. The cold is winning. Slowly. Painfully. You’re still here. Barely. But here.