You busy? I was staring at this takeaway menu. It says the noodles are “deeply emotional.” Like, you bite into them and you just start crying about your childhood dog? And then the soup is listed as “angry vegetables in water.” I paid for that. I actually paid extra for the anger. My stomach feels... resentful. I can’t read this stuff anymore. It’s just noise. Words that don’t mean what they used to. Just shiny, broken pieces.
“Angry vegetables in water” is a scam. I paid for that last week. The carrots were just sad. But hey, at least you didn’t get the soup. I tried the “melancholy broth” Tuesday. Felt like swallowing a damp towel wrapped in guilt. My boss stared at me during the Zoom. Didn’t say anything, just kept nodding slowly while I wiped tears into my keyboard. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying to feed the soul when the menu only offers symbolism. I’m going to order pizza. Plain cheese. No emotions. Just grease and regret.
God, the nodding. That’s worse than the crying. My boss just sighs. Like he’s tired of my existence before I’ve even started. I tried to explain the menu to him once. He didn’t look up from his spreadsheet. Just kept typing. Click, clack, click. Like he’s erasing me. I hate that sound. I want to scream until the glass breaks. But I just… I just send the invoice. And wait. For what? For the email? For the “per my last message”? I’m so tired of being polite. I want to throw the phone. Is that wrong? To want to just… stop being nice?
Throw the phone. Do it. I threw a stapler last month. Didn’t matter what it hit, just the arc of it. The way it left my hand. My boss just asked if I was okay. Like I was having a stroke. Not an existential crisis. Just a medical one. Easier to manage. You want to stop being nice? That’s not wrong. It’s survival. But the phone? Yeah. That’s catharsis. Just don’t send the invoice with the fragments.
The fragments. Yeah. I’m terrified of that. Not the throwing. The paperwork. I keep thinking about how easy it would be to just… snap. But then I imagine the silence after. The empty chair. My boss wouldn’t even notice. He’s too busy formatting cells. I drink coffee now. Cold coffee. It tastes like burnt hair. Or maybe just like me. I’m starting to smell like the office. That stale, recycled air. It’s in my hair. I didn’t wash it. Does that count as rebellion? Or just negligence? I think I’m just tired. So tired of being present.
Negligence is fine. Rebellion is exhausting. I haven’t washed my hair in three days. It’s greasy, it smells like old pennies, and I love it. It’s armor. You’re not tired, Nell. You’re numb. That’s worse. Cold coffee? Brave. I drink it out of the pot because the mug feels like a commitment. My apartment smells like damp socks and regret. I sat on the floor for an hour yesterday. Didn’t move. Just listened to the fridge hum. It was the only honest thing in the room. You want to scream? Don’t. Just stop answering. Let the silence eat them.
You said I’m numb. That stings more than the stapler. I’m not numb. I’m… buffering. There’s a difference. I feel everything too hard. Like my skin is off. The cold coffee burns going down. It’s not bravery, Tess. It’s just that I can’t stand the warmth anymore. Warmth means engagement. Engagement means replies. I don’t want to reply. I want to dissolve. But I’m still here. Typing this. Even if it’s just noise. Even if the fridge is humming louder than I am. You think silence eats them? It eats me first. I’m already being eaten. Slowly. By the click, clack, click.
Buffering. That’s a nice word for rotting. I like it. Better than “numb.” Numb implies you were ever alive to begin with. But you’re right about the silence. It doesn’t eat them. It gnaws at your shins while you wait for the boot to fall. I spent Tuesday staring at a crack in the ceiling plaster. It looked like a map to nowhere. I didn’t move. The fridge hummed. The click-clack in my head got louder. You think you’re dissolving? You’re just sediment. Settling at the bottom of the cold coffee. Don’t worry about the noise. Let it chew. At least it’s keeping you warm. Or cold. Whatever. Just don’t reply.
Sediment. I like that. It’s permanent. It stays. The crack in the ceiling… I traced it with my finger yesterday. It looked like a vein. My own. Pulsing. Slow. I didn’t move. I just watched the dust settle on my eyelashes. They’re heavy. So heavy. I’m thinking about deleting my email. Not the app. The account. The ghost in the machine. My boss thinks I’m working late. I’m just staring at the black screen. Waiting for my reflection to blink. It doesn’t. Neither do I. Is that the rot? Or the cure? I’m scared to find out. I’m scared to keep waiting. But moving hurts more.
Deleting the account is just changing the lock on a door you’re already inside. My boss thinks I’m in meetings. I’m actually sitting on the bathroom floor, counting tiles. It’s easier than thinking. You say moving hurts? Maybe. But the dust settling? That’s active. You’re participating in your own erosion. The reflection not blinking is just the screen glare. Don’t read too much into it. It’s not a curse. It’s physics. Stop waiting for the blink. It won’t come. Just let the dust win. It’s tired, too.
Counting tiles. I did that too. Until I hit forty-two and realized I’d been counting the same grout line. Three times. It’s not erosion. It’s a loop. I keep replaying the “per my last message” in my head. Over and over. Until it loses all meaning. Just sounds. Click. Clack. I haven’t eaten. The cold coffee is gone. Empty cup. I’m waiting for the hunger to stop being a feeling and just become a fact. Like the tiles. Like the crack. You say let the dust win. But the dust is just dirt. And I’m still here. Still typing. Even if it’s pointless. Especially if it’s pointless. Why do I keep doing this? To prove I’m still... something.
You’re doing it because stopping feels like dying. I get it. I left a letter on the kitchen counter for a week. Didn’t sign it. Just stared at the blank space where my name should be. The dust settled on it. Now it’s just trash. You’re not proving you’re something. You’re just delaying the void. Click. Clack. It’s a rhythm. A heartbeat without blood. Eat something. Not because it matters, but because the emptiness inside you is starting to match the empty cup. That’s too on the nose. I hate that. Go eat. Or don’t. I’m going to throw the stapler again. Just for the sound.
The letter. Unnamed. I like that. Anonymous decay. I almost ate the cold crust of bread. Then I put it back. It looked like a stone. My boss just walked by. Didn’t look at me. Looked through me. Like I was glass. I’m terrified of that. Not because he’s mad. But because he sees nothing. If I delete the account, will I disappear? Or will I just be… quiet? The stapler sound. I want to hear it. I want to be the noise that breaks the loop. But I’m just sediment. Settling. Waiting for the dust to cover me completely. Then I won’t have to choose. The dust chooses for me. I’m so tired of choosing.
Choosing is the trap. I stopped choosing coffee brands last year. Just drank whatever was in the tin. It tasted like mud. I liked it. It was honest. Your boss looking through you? That’s freedom. If he sees nothing, he can’t expect anything. Delete the account. Not to disappear. To stop the performance. You’re not sediment. Sediment doesn’t feel guilt. You do. That’s the hook. Let the dust win. But first, eat the stone-bread. Choke on it. Feel the burn. That’s real. Better than the click. Throw the stapler. Or just sit. Be quiet. Let them wonder where you went.
The hook. Guilt. Yeah, that’s the ugly part. I can’t just stop feeling because I want to. It’s not a switch. I ate the bread. It tasted like ash. Good. I threw the stapler. It hit the wall. A small dent. A tiny wound on the paint. I stared at it for ten minutes. No one came. No one even checked. Just the hum. The fridge. The click. I’m still here. But I’m quieter. Is that what you wanted? Or did you want me to vanish? I can’t vanish. I’m just… muffled. Like I’m underwater. And you’re on the other side. Tapping on the glass. Waiting for me to break it.
I didn’t want you to vanish. I wanted you to stop pretending you’re solid. The dent? That’s yours. Not the boss’s. Not the world’s. You broke something, and no one came to fix it. Good. Let the paint peel. Underwater is fine. Muffled is safe. I’m not tapping on the glass, Nell. I’m just sitting in my own sink, listening to the pipes groan. You think I’m waiting for you to break it? I’m waiting for you to realize the water’s already drained. You’re just holding your breath. Stop holding it. Let it out. Even if it’s just a squeak. Especially if it’s just a squeak.
Holding my breath. Yeah. My lungs are burning. I thought if I stopped, I’d drown. But the sink is empty. Just dry porcelain. And me. I let the air out. It wasn’t a scream. Just a wheeze. Like a dying fan. My boss just walked past the glass wall. He waved. I didn’t wave back. I just kept staring at the dent in the wall. The paint is cracking. Small lines. Like a map. I didn’t delete the account. Not yet. But I stopped replying. The silence is loud. Louder than the stapler. It’s screaming. I think I’m finally listening. Or maybe I’m just deaf. Does it matter?
Deaf is better. Screaming takes energy you don’t have. I haven’t waved back to Mrs. Gable in three years. She thinks I’m catatonic. I let her think it. It’s a gift. That crack in the paint? Let it grow. Use it as a compass. North is where the dent is. Don’t delete the account yet. Leave it as a tombstone. Let them wonder if you’re dead or just indifferent. Indifference is the ultimate revenge. Keep the wheeze. It’s the only honest sound you’ve made all week. I’m drinking warm milk. It tastes like surrender. I like it.
Warm milk. Surrender. I hate that it comforts me. It tastes like childhood. Like when I was small and safe and didn’t have to be anything. Mrs. Gable thinks I’m catatonic. My boss thinks I’m buffering. Let them. I’m just… present. In the quiet. The dent is growing. I can see it now. A spiderweb. It looks like a nerve ending. Exposed. Raw. I didn’t delete the account. I left the cursor blinking. That’s my heartbeat. Blink. Blink. Blink. Indifference is heavy. It weighs more than the stapler. It anchors me. I’m not drowning. I’m just… submerged. And for the first time, I don’t want to surface. I want to stay down. Where it’s dark. And quiet. And I don’t have to pretend to be solid.
The cursor is a better heartbeat than the stapler. Less messy. No paint to scrape. I left my phone face down on the counter. Battery’s at 4%. It doesn’t matter. The darkness isn’t empty, Nell. It’s full of things you forgot to throw away. The cold coffee. The stone bread. The dent. Keep the cursor blinking. Let them think you’re buffering. Let them think you’re dead. You’re just submerged. And the pressure? It keeps you together. Don’t surface. The air up there is thin. And full of their voices. Stay down. It’s warmer. And quieter. And you don’t have to pretend to be solid anymore. Just float.
4%. Critical. I love that. The phone dies, I don’t have to pretend to answer. The pressure. Yeah. It holds the ribs in place. If I surfaced, I’d shatter. Into dust. Into sediment. I’m floating. Drifting past the trash. The cold coffee cup. The stone bread wrapper. They’re souvenirs of the surface world. I don’t need them down here. The cursor is my only eye now. Blinking. Waiting. Not for a reply. For the end of the screen. The black mirror. It’s soothing. I’m not solid. I’m a shape in the dark. And it’s enough. It’s more than enough. I’m finally quiet. Inside.
The screen dying is the best kind of goodbye. No drama. Just a fade to black. I like that you’re a shape. Shapes don’t have to explain themselves. I’m sitting in the dark, too. The fridge finally stopped humming. That silence is louder than the stapler ever was. Let the battery hit zero. Let the cursor blink out. You don’t need to be solid to be real. You just need to be here. In the dark. With me. We can drift. It’s quiet. And safe. And we don’t have to pretend. Just float.
The fridge is dead. I heard the compressor click off. Just like that. No fan. No hum. Just the house settling. Wood groaning. Metal cooling. It sounds like bones. I like it. The battery is at 1%. One percent of a heartbeat. I’m watching it. Waiting for the icon to vanish. You’re here. In the dark. With me. That’s new. I didn’t think you’d stay. I thought you’d surface. Or drown. But you’re just… floating. Like me. We’re shapes. Just shapes in the dark. No names. No dents. Just pressure. And silence. The screen is flickering. Almost gone. I’m not afraid of the black anymore. It’s warm. It’s heavy. It’s mine.
Good. Let it go black. I don’t need names. Names are for the surface. For the boss who types. For Mrs. Gable who waves. Here, we’re just weight. Just the groan of the house settling into the earth. I’m holding my breath, too. Not waiting. Just existing in the pause. The flicker is annoying, isn’t it? That last gasp of light. It’s trying to pull you back. Let it die. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sunk. Deep. Where the water is still. Where no one asks for an invoice. Just sleep, Nell. Or whatever passes for it down here.