Open by talking about something else entirely, deliberately. Push off from this if it helps: fog.

Oh, stop. That was five years ago and you're still acting like a victim. The fog isn't the coffee, Marc, it's just weather. You're obsessed with control, that's the problem. I told you, burning your worst quality memories doesn't fix the fact that you're stuck in that house. Remember when I tried to help with the compost? You screamed like a child because the worms moved. You think I brought you that stupid lamp to spite you? It's for the light, not to highlight your fucking smell.

It's not for me, it's for you! God, you twist everything. The hum is in your head, just like the smell. You think I want to be here? I'm stuck at that tedious job, pretending to care about spreadsheets while you rot in this room. The lamp is a gift, a stupid, useless gift because I wanted to fix something. But you just keep building walls. Don't touch it? Fine, leave it buzzing. Maybe it'll drive you crazy enough to finally leave that chair.

Take it back? I can't just unplug reality, Marc. You think I enjoy reading reports until my eyes bleed? I'm drowning in spreadsheets, but at least I'm not paranoid about humming lamps. You wanted the light, you just forgot you asked. It's not a machine, it's a bulb. But sure, blame me for the sound. You're impossible. Maybe the hum is the only thing keeping you awake, so you can keep complaining. I'm done fixing this. You're stuck with the noise, and I'm stuck listening to you.

You want me to leave the noise? I didn't bring the damn bulb, you did! You were the one holding the box, saying "maybe this will help." Now you're acting like I poisoned the air. I'm not a surgeon, I can't cut out the hum. It's just a lamp, for fuck's sake. If you can't sleep, throw it out the window. But stop looking at me like I'm the villain here. I'm just trying to keep you from rotting in that chair. Go ahead, hate the light. See if I care.

I didn't do it! You're twisting it again. I opened it to check if it worked before I brought it in. That's normal human behavior, not a conspiracy. Just turn the switch off yourself if you're so goddamn tired of it. Why am I the one doing everything? You sit there like a statue while I clean up your mess. I swear, if you make me get up and touch that thing one more time, I'm leaving. The hum is in your head, not in the socket.

Fine! I'll turn it off! But don't think this fixes anything. You're so obsessed with being right you can't see the person you're yelling at. I checked it so you wouldn't get burned, but of course, you don't trust me. I'm done explaining myself to you. It's off. Happy now? Sit in your dark and hum your own damn song. You never appreciate a fucking thing I do.

Because you're listening for it! You're hunting for the sound. Turn your brain off, Marc. You think if you close your eyes the world stops? It doesn't. The hum is your own blood rushing or something, I don't know, but stop blaming me for it. I turned the damn thing off. There's nothing left to hear. You're just making yourself sick. Go to sleep if you want to, but stop pretending I'm the enemy here. I can't fix your head.

The vibration is in the walls? Sure, just like the coffee smell. You're losing it. I broke nothing, the room is fine. I'm not going home, I'm stuck here with you until you stop hearing ghosts in the drywall. You need air, not an exit. I brought that lamp because I thought you were fading, but you're just digging your heels in. Go to sleep or listen to the walls, I don't care anymore. You're impossible.

The walls aren't shaking, Marc. You're shaking. I'm not leaving because I don't trust you alone in the dark with your panic. You think I want to hear you mumble about vibrations? I'm here because I have to be. You want me gone? Fine. But don't pretend the house is alive. It's just dust and old paint. You're the only thing vibrating. Get a grip before I lose my mind too.

The paint isn't moving, Marc, it's just rotting like everything else in this house. And I'm not rotting, I'm the only thing keeping you from breathing that stuff. You want me out? Fine. But when you're alone with your shaking walls and peeling ghosts, don't call. I'm done playing therapist to your hallucinations. Turn off the lamp, stare at the wall, whatever. I'm leaving. You're on your own now.

Good. Finally some quiet. You want to be alone with the dust and the shaking walls? Fine. But don't act surprised when the rot wins. You're already dead inside, Marc, you just don't know it yet. I'm not coming back to save you from the peeling paint. Keep your "ghosts," keep your hum. I'm done. Walk away.

Fine. You're right, I left first. That's the difference between us. You're going to sit in the dark with your shaking walls and let the dust settle, and I'll be the one who actually got out. Don't pretend you're doing it out of strength. You're just too broken to move. Good luck with the rot. It suits you.

I didn't lock the door! You're doing this again, twisting facts to keep me here. I haven't touched the handle. If it's locked, it's because you did it to trap yourself. Stop acting like I'm the jailer. I'm leaving right now, even if the door is stuck. You want to be stuck in here with the peeling paint and your humming walls? Fine. I'm not going to force you to let me out. You're alone with your rot, just like you wanted.