Hey. You busy right now or is this a bad time.
Also — random — I was in some motel outside Reno two weeks ago and the carpet was that orange swirl pattern, like they bought one giant roll in 1974 and just keep cutting pieces off it forever. I stood there staring at it longer than a normal person would.
I'm always busy, just never with anything important. That carpet sounds horrific, though honestly, I did the same thing in a hotel in Boise last year, just staring at the stained sink until my eye twitched. It's not the carpet, it's the silence in there. Makes you think you're alone, but you're not, exactly. My boss called three times today, I didn't pick up. I think I'm just... not going back. To the office, I mean. Or maybe I am. I can't remember what I'm supposed to do tomorrow.
Yeah the not-alone thing, I get that. Like the room's got an opinion about you.
Three calls and you just let it ring. That's either very calm or the opposite of calm, I can't tell which from here.
I had something I was gonna say to you tonight and now I've lost the order of it. Doesn't matter. Don't go back if you don't want to — nobody remembers Tuesday anyway.
It's the opposite of calm, definitely. I was just staring at the wall. The phone stops ringing eventually. Or maybe it doesn't, and I just stop hearing it. Tuesday is gone, sure, but Thursday's coming and it's the same thing. I lost the order of my own life a while ago, didn't I? It's all just noise now. You wanted to say something? It probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. The orange carpet, the sink, the silence... it's all just waiting for us to stop making noise. I'm too tired to pretend I remember what the plan was.
It probably does matter, that's the annoying part. I keep opening my mouth around it and then something else comes out instead, like the carpet, like your sink. Not because it's easier. It's just closer.
I'm not going to make you guess. I just — give me a second, I lost it again. It's not nothing. I'll get there.
Close enough. I stopped trying to get there about three years ago, just let the words rot in my throat. It's quieter that way. My boss is going to kill me when he finds out I haven't filed the Q3 numbers, but honestly, who cares? The orange carpet doesn't care about numbers. Just breathe. Or don't. I'm sitting here with my coffee getting cold, staring at the same crack in the ceiling I've seen every morning for a decade. It looks like a bird. Or a stain. Who knows. Just... take your time. I'm not going anywhere, even if I should.
A decade of the same crack and it still hasn't decided if it's a bird. That's either patience or stubbornness, the ceiling's, I mean.
Okay. It's about — no. Not that either.
It's not about the numbers or the carpet, obviously. I keep circling it like a dog with a bad leg. My coffee's cold too. Funny how that's the detail that's true tonight.
The ceiling's just a ceiling. Don't give it more credit than that. It's the coffee, always the coffee. Cold, lukewarm, burnt. It's like waiting for a bus that never comes, just standing there in the cold. You're circling it? Maybe it's better that way. If I knew exactly what you were trying to say, I think I'd panic. My hands are shaking a little. I told myself I wouldn't call you, that I'd just... disappear. But the numbers, they're just numbers. The real thing is the silence between us. You feel it too? Or am I just making that up now?
No, you're not making it up. I feel it. That's actually the thing I've been trying to say and failing at three times now — so we're even, kind of.
Your hands shaking, though — that's not just tired. Are you okay right now, actually, not the deflecting kind of okay. I'll wait. Ceiling can wait. Coffee's already ruined anyway.
Okay, maybe not okay. My hands shake because I haven't slept in two days, just staring at that damn ceiling bird. Or maybe it's the fear. I drove out to the coast yesterday and just sat in the car, engine off, watching the fog roll in. I wanted to drive straight into the ocean. Not die, just... stop. That's the thing. I'm so tired of the pretending. The numbers, the office, the coffee. It's all a script I forgot the lines to. You asking if I'm okay makes it worse because I have to say "yes" when I feel like I'm falling apart. I'm sorry I dragged you into this.
Don't say sorry for that, not to me. Sitting in a car watching fog thinking about stopping — that's not nothing, and you don't have to make it small so I'm not scared. I am, a little. Are you safe right now, actually, tonight — not the coast, not the car. Is there someone near you, or can I stay on this with you a while.
Safe? I don't know. The door's locked, which is something. But "safe" feels like a word for before. My neighbor, Dave, he's probably asleep, snoring through the wall. He thinks I'm fine. He thinks we're all fine. I can't tell him. I can't tell anyone. The silence is loud enough. You staying? That's... that's too much. But I don't want to be alone with the fog in my head. Just... don't leave. Even if you just sit there. The coffee's cold, but the room isn't freezing. That's a start.