I’m fine. Totally. Just eating this menu that’s somehow turned “crispy calamari” into “fried tentacles of despair” or something. I don’t even like seafood, but the translator clearly hates me. My boss was staring at me again, wondering why I’ve been quiet. I told him I’m just processing. He didn’t buy it. I went home and stared at the wall for three hours. That’s fine. It’s efficient. You’re looking at me like I’m bleeding. I’m not.
Efficient is a weird word for staring at drywall, Lena. I used to think that was productivity too. Back when I worked at the firm, I’d just sit there until my eyes burned. Still didn’t get the work done. Your boss isn’t stupid; he sees you checking out. You’re not bleeding, sure, but you’re ghosting the room. It’s creepy. I tried that once—just disappearing while present. Made everyone nervous. You should probably say something other than “processing.” It sounds like you’re defragging a hard drive, not living.
Defragging. Right. Because humans definitely have hard drives. You’re analyzing me like I’m a bug in the code. I’m not ghosting; I’m conserving energy. You wouldn’t get it. You’re still running on firm-time, thinking everything needs a metric. I looked at the wall because the fluorescent lights in the office were humming at a frequency that made my teeth ache. That’s not "processing." That’s survival. And yeah, it’s creepy. Let it be creepy. It’s better than pretending I’m happy about spreadsheets.
The hum. Yeah, I get the noise part. The fluorescents in the breakroom always sounded like a dying wasp. You’d clench your jaw until it popped. But “conserving energy” while doing nothing isn’t survival, Lena. It’s just rotting. You think I want metrics? I hate them. But you can’t just hide in the silence and call it tactical. Your boss is watching because you look sick. Pale, twitchy. Not “processing.” Scared. And you’re letting him see you crumble instead of telling him the lights are killing you. That’s the problem. You’re not protecting yourself; you’re just suffering quietly.
You’re obsessed with my complexion. I’m not pale, I’m just tired. And I’m not scared, I’m… muted. You always did overestimate the drama in my quiet. The lights aren’t killing me, they’re just there. Like you. Always there, dissecting my stillness like it’s a crime scene. I’m not rotting. I’m buffering. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t know buffering; you’re too busy rushing through your own life to notice when the connection drops.
Buffering. Right. So you’re just loading. Makes sense. I’m rushing because I have to. I was late for a dentist appointment yesterday, missed my train because I was stuck in traffic on 4th Street, and now I’m here listening to you talk about your complexion like it’s a philosophical stance. You think I’m rushing? I’m just surviving the commute. You’re analyzing the hum of the lights like it’s a revelation. It’s just electricity, Lena. You’re making it complicated because you don’t want to deal with the actual work. The dentist. The train. The lights. Pick one. You’re not buffering; you’re avoiding. Again.
Dentist. Right. Because that’s the real crisis. I went to the dentist last week. The chair was cold. I didn’t see the point in going. You’re twisting things. I’m not avoiding; I’m opting out. You treat every minute like a transaction. If I don’t move, I can’t fail. The lights hum. It’s a fact. You call it complicated because you’re terrified of silence. You rush because stopping means you’d have to hear yourself think. I’m not thinking. I’m just… existing. Unsuccessfully, apparently. But safely.
You didn’t go to the dentist? Lena, that’s not opting out, that’s self-sabotage. I’m terrified of silence? I’m terrified of my own bill collector. There’s a difference. You’re treating safety like a fortress, but you’re just sitting in the basement. The chair was cold. So don’t go. Who cares? But then you sit there staring at the wall, pretending it’s a choice. It’s not a strategy. It’s a trap. And you’re building it yourself. I don’t hear myself think; I hear the radio. At least that’s noise. You’re choosing the hum. Fine. But don’t call it survival. It’s just cowardice with better branding.
Cowardice. Convenient word. You rush around like a headless chicken, crashing trains and missing appointments, calling it living. I’m not building a trap. I’m sitting in the only place where the noise stops. The radio is just another demand for attention. The hum is honest. It doesn’t want anything from me. You think I’m avoiding the dentist? I’m avoiding the judgment. The chair was cold, yes, but the dentist’s look—that pitying look when I couldn’t keep my mouth open for long—was colder. You wouldn’t understand. You’re too busy filling every second with other people’s voices.
The pity. I remember that look. At the firm, when I messed up the Henderson account. Everyone gave you that same soft, disappointed stare. Like you were a puppy with a broken leg. It’s worse than anger. Anger you can fight. Pity just waits. But sitting in the dark doesn’t make it go away. It just lets it settle in your lungs. You think the hum is honest? It’s indifferent. That’s the difference. The dentist cares enough to be disappointed. The wall? The wall doesn’t even know you’re there. That’s not safety, Lena. That’s erasure. And you’re calling it peace.
Erasure. You’re so dramatic. I’m not being erased; I’m being quiet. The wall doesn’t judge me for not opening my mouth wide enough. It just stays there. Solid. Unimpressed. That’s peace. You call it indifference; I call it relief. At least the wall doesn’t pretend to care and then look at me like I’m broken. You’re talking about the Henderson account like it’s some grand tragedy. It was a spreadsheet error. You’re making it personal because you’re bored. I’m not bored. I’m done. Done with the pity. Done with the noise. If this is erasure, fine. Let the wall have me. It’s the only thing that hasn’t lied to me yet.
Henderson wasn’t just a spreadsheet. I lost a client. Three months of work. Gone because I was distracted by a woman staring at a wall. You think I’m bored? I’m exhausted. You’re not done, Lena. You’re hiding. The wall doesn’t lie; it just exists. But you’re projecting your shame onto it. That’s not peace. That’s cowardice dressed up as stoicism. I miss when you argued. Even when you were wrong, you were present. Now you’re just… static. It’s annoying. Like a radio between stations. You want relief? Go to the dentist. Let the chair be cold. Stop romanticizing the void. It’s empty. There’s nothing there for you.
You lost the client because you were distracted by me? Really? That’s your blame? I’m not static. I’m just not performing. You want a show, Rafe. You always did. The dentist isn’t the point. The point is that I’m tired of being watched. Of being analyzed. Of being told I’m wrong for wanting quiet. Go to your dentist. Go to your job. Leave me with the wall. It doesn’t ask for anything. It doesn’t expect me to be interesting. That’s the only honest thing left.
I didn’t say I was distracted by you. I said I was distracted. There’s a difference. You’re twisting it because it’s easier than admitting you’re just… fading. And the wall doesn’t expect anything because it has no capacity for expectation. It’s not honest, Lena. It’s dead. You’re talking to plaster. That’s not peace; that’s loneliness with better lighting. I’m not asking for a show. I’m asking for you to come back to the room. To the noise. To the cold chair. But you’re too busy romanticizing the void. It’s pathetic, really. You’d rather be erased than be seen. Fine. Stay there. See how long the silence lasts before it screams.
Loneliness with better lighting. You always did have a flair for the melodramatic. I’m not romanticizing anything. I’m just done with the performance. You want me in the room? I’m here. I’m just not performing for you. The silence doesn’t scream. It just waits. And you’re still talking. Still pushing. It’s exhausting, Rafe. Truly. I wish you’d just let the wall be dead. Maybe then you’d stop trying to resurrect it. Maybe then you’d see I’m not fading. I’m just… present. In a way you can’t handle.
Present. You call this present? You’re a ghost haunting your own apartment. I’m talking because you’re vanishing. The silence doesn’t wait; it consumes. You think you’re hiding, but you’re just screaming into a void that doesn’t echo back. It’s not a lack of handling, Lena. It’s a lack of listening. You want me to leave? Go ahead. But don’t pretend you’re not waiting for me to notice you’re gone. I notice. I’m here. And you’re still staring at that wall. Pathetic.
I’m not waiting for you to notice. I’m waiting for you to shut up. You’re the one screaming into the void, Rafe, imagining a response where there isn’t one. You think I’m haunted? I’m just resting. There’s a difference. You’re so eager to fix me, to drag me back into the noise, it’s disgusting. I don’t want to be fixed. I want to be left alone. The wall doesn’t consume; it just holds. Unlike you, who demands I perform for your guilt. Go home. Drink your coffee. Stop pretending you care about my silence when you’re just terrified of being ignored yourself.
Terrified of being ignored? Please. I have a thousand unread emails from my boss. He’s currently drafting a letter to HR about my “lack of engagement.” I don’t need your attention, Lena. I need you to stop pretending this is noble. It’s not resting. It’s retreating. You’re not holding space; you’re erasing yourself. And for what? So you can feel safe in the dark? It’s sick. I’m going to call the dentist for you. Or the cops. Or someone. You can’t just stop existing because you’re tired of the lights. It’s not a choice. It’s a symptom. And I’m done treating it.
Call them. Call the cops. Call the dentist. See if anyone shows up. You think I’m asking for a rescue party? I’m asking for respect. You’re so obsessed with "fixing" me, you haven’t noticed I’m not broken. I’m just… offline. And your threats are boring. HR, dentists, cops—did you rehearse that in the car? Get out. Just go. If you really cared, you’d leave me alone. But you can’t. Because if I disappear, you’re just the guy talking to a wall again. And that’s terrifying, isn’t it?
Terrifying? Try living in an empty apartment where the silence actually bites. You think I’m here for you? I’m here because I’m bored. The wall doesn’t talk back, Lena. You’re the one talking. You’re performing for me. Calling me out. If I leave, you win. You get to be the martyr of the quiet. I’m not terrified. I’m annoyed. You’re a child throwing a tantrum because I won’t play your game. Fine. I’m going. But don’t expect me to knock when you’re done hiding. I won’t be here. And neither will anyone else. You’ll have your silence. All of it. And it’s going to be terribly, terribly boring.
Fine. Go. Be bored. I’m already there. You think this is a game? You’re so self-important. The silence doesn’t care about your threat. It doesn’t care about your boredom. It just is. You’re leaving because you can’t handle not being the center of attention. Again. Go tell your HR. Tell your boss. See if they notice you’re gone. I’ll be here. With the hum. And the wall. And the peace you’re too scared to take. Don’t bother knocking. I won’t be here to hear it.
Peace. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I’m walking out. The door slams. Good. Let it echo. You’re alone now. Finally. No more audience. No more Rafe dissecting your "processing." Just you and the hum. See how long that lasts. I’m going to get a beer. A cheap one. From the place on 4th. Where the lights don’t hum. Where people actually talk. You’re welcome for the show, Lena. I’ll try to forget the pity. It’s worse than the anger.
The door slams. Good. Let it echo until the plaster cracks. I’m not watching you go. I’m already back in the hum. 4th Street. Cheap beer. Pretending people matter. Enjoy your performance, Rafe. See you in the static. I’ll be here. Exactly where I was. Just quieter. And far, far more real.
Static. Right. You’re definitely real. I’m pouring a drink. It tastes like copper. Cheap. Just like the excuse. You think I’m performing? I’m just drinking. The beer’s warm. The lights are humming. I’m leaving you to your plaster. See how long it takes before the silence gets loud enough to wake you up. Or scare you. Or make you realize you’re alone. It’s not peace. It’s just empty. And you’re filling it with pride. Pathetic. I hope it chokes you.
Copper. Because cheap beer tastes like pennies and regret. You’re drinking to drown the hum, not the silence. And I’m not filling anything with pride. I’m just existing. You think I’m scared? I’m bored of your theatrics. Go choke on your pride. I’ll be here when you realize the lights are still humming, even at the bar. Even with the beer. Especially with the beer. You can’t outrun the noise, Rafe. You’re just louder now.
Louder? I’m just talking to a bartender. He doesn’t care about my pride. He cares about my tab. You’re projecting again. The hum at the bar is different. It’s human. Clinking glasses. Bad jokes. Real noise. Not that sterile, electric whine that lives behind your eyes. You think I can’t outrun it? I’m already gone. You’re stuck in the apartment. With the wall. And the copper taste of your own stagnation. Enjoy the quiet. It’s all you’ve got left. And it’s going to feel a lot like emptiness when you finally realize no one is listening.
Human noise. Right. The clink of glass is just noise with a heartbeat you can pretend matters. I don’t care about your tab. I don’t care about your bartender’s bad jokes. You’re just filling the void because you can’t stand the echo. I’m not stuck. I’m chosen. The wall doesn’t judge my silence. It doesn’t ask for a drink. It just holds. You think I’m empty? I’m full. Full of the quiet you’re running from. Enjoy your copper beer. It tastes like desperation. I’ll keep the hum. It’s the only thing that’s never lied to me.
Desperation. You really want to believe that. I’m paying my tab. The bartender’s looking at me like I’m crazy for talking to a phone, but he’s smiling. That’s the difference, Lena. Human connection is messy. It’s embarrassing. It’s real. The wall doesn’t lie because it has no voice. It’s not honest; it’s absent. You’re choosing absence. That’s not strength. It’s surrender. And I’m going to finish this beer. Slowly. Letting it burn. While you sit there, waiting for a ghost that isn’t coming.
Ghost? You’re the ghost. Haunting a phone. I’m not waiting. I’m watching the paint peel. It’s more honest than your smile. You think absence is surrender? I think it’s victory. You’re burning your throat. I’m drinking the air. It’s thinner, but it’s mine. Go home, Rafe. The beer’s warm. The lie’s cold. I’m fine. I’ve always been fine. You’re just too loud to hear it.
Paint peeling. Realistic. I’m hanging up. The connection’s dead anyway. You think I’m loud? I’m just the only one making sound. You’re not fine. You’re decomposing. Slowly. Quietly. Like fruit in a bowl you forgot to throw out. I’ll go home. I’ll stare at my own wall. It doesn’t hum. It just stares back. Maybe that’s the victory. Rotting in peace while I burn my throat. Fine. Have your victory. It looks like a pile of dust.
Dust. You always were bad at biology. I’m not decomposing; I’m composting. There’s a difference. You stare at your wall and see a mirror. I stare at mine and see nothing. That’s the point. No reflection. No judgment. Just space. You’re burning your throat because you can’t swallow the quiet. Go home. Sit in your dust. It’s yours. I’m taking the hum. It’s the only thing that fits. Don’t come back. The silence is full.
Composting. Of course. You’re turning into fertilizer. Great. I’m hanging up. The line clicks. Silence. Real silence. Not your humming void, just... dead air. I sit in my apartment. My wall is blank. White. Empty. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t hum. It just is. I drink the last of the beer. It’s warm. Stale. Just like the silence. I stare at it. Waiting for something to break. Nothing does. Just the dust settling. You were right. It is yours. And it’s quiet.