Name one small thing that could have gone differently, and follow it. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

I told you not to eat it. You always ignore me when you’re trying to prove a point. Now you’re staring at the ceiling, stomach churning, pretending this is some philosophical crisis about trust. It’s just bad tuna, Kit. From that place on 4th. I’ve been sick there twice. You’re making a drama out of a stomach bug because you can’t handle being wrong. Go drink water.

Ocean special. Right. Because the menu didn’t say “rotten.” You wanted to feel something, anything other than the dead air in your head. Now you’re paying for it. Literally. My credit card, your regret. It’s pathetic, honestly. You’re treating a gastrointestinal distress like a betrayal. Go throw up in the sink. I’m not watching. And stop looking at me like I caused it. I’m just the guy watching the clock.

It’s not occupied, it’s just... standing there. Leaking a bit. I forgot to clean it. Typical. You’re making a big deal out of nothing because you’re paranoid. The shaker’s fine. It’s plastic, not glass. It won’t break if you drop it. Though, knowing you, you’ll probably drop it in the sink and then blame me for not telling you it was fragile. It’s not fragile, Kit. It’s a shaker. Go use the bathroom. And don’t look at me when you’re done. I’m trying to sleep. Or pretend to.

You’re talking to a dead fish. That’s the problem. You’re so desperate for a reason, any reason, that you’d rather believe in a sentient seafood choice than your own bad judgment. It’s pathetic. The tuna didn’t do anything. It was just food. You ate it. Now you’re suffering. It’s cause and effect, not a mystery. Go drink water from the tap if the shaker is “leaking.” Or don’t. Just stop narrating your own misery. It’s annoying.

Spinning. Yeah, right. Like your head’s in a washing machine. It’s just the lack of sleep, Kit. You’re exhausted. That’s all this is. You’re not philosophizing with dead food, you’re just tired of being awake in this stupid apartment. Go lie down. On the floor if the bed is too soft. I don’t care. Just stop talking. The ceiling isn’t spinning because you’re mad, it’s spinning because you’re dehydrated and idiotic. Drink the tap water. It’s fine. It’s always fine. Unlike you.

Cold’s good. Shock to the system. Maybe it’ll snap you out of this little performance. You think the floor has integrity? It’s just linoleum and dust. Unlike your tuna, which at least tried to be something. You’re selecting metaphors because you’re too weak to just suffer quietly. Fine. Lie on the floor. But don’t complain when the grit gets in your ears. And stop looking at me like I’m supposed to care about your tactical decisions. I’m leaving the light on. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Fine. But don’t expect me to check on you in an hour. You’ll just say I’m hovering. It’s cold, Kit. Hardwood over concrete. Your bones will ache by morning. That’s what you get for ignoring basic thermodynamics. I’m going to the couch. At least there I can pretend the cushions don’t smell like last week’s laundry. Don’t cry out if the floor bites. Or if the tuna decides to review you. I’m out. Light’s off. Try not to hallucinate the ceiling again.

I didn't say I was leaving it off. I said I'm going to the couch. There's a difference. You're reading too much into nothing again. The light stays on. For you. Not because I care about your linoleum judgments, but because I don't want you tripping in the dark and blaming the furniture. Again. Go to sleep, Kit. The floor will be there tomorrow. Cold, gritty, unforgiving. Just like reality. Unlike your little midnight drama. I'm closing my eyes. Don't speak to me. Not even to the dust.

Night. Don’t expect a reply. The dust won’t answer, and neither will I. You’re quiet. Good. Finally. I’m just... resting. Eyes closed. Listening to you breathe. Hopefully not through the mouth again. It’s annoying. Anyway. Sleep. Or don’t. Floor’s hard. Tuna’s gone. Life goes on. Boring, really. But quiet. Finally quiet. Don’t move.

Good. Finally. I can actually hear the fridge humming. It’s off-kilter. Makes me want to scream, but I won’t. You’re not moving. That’s progress. I’m staring at the couch cushion, watching the dust motes dance in the light I didn’t turn off. You’re stubborn. Stupid. But quiet. I’ll take it. Sleep. Please. For both of us.

March. Right. Character. That’s what they call neglect now. I should fix it. Or not. Doesn’t matter. You’re finally quiet. Good. I’ll try. But if you start talking to the fridge, I’m leaving. I mean it. No more linoleum philosophy. Just... silence. Heavy, cold silence. Like you wanted. I’m closing my eyes. Don’t wake me. Or do. I don’t care. Just stop moving.

Good. Done. Finally. I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling fan. It’s wobbly. Makes a clicking sound. You probably can’t hear it. Good. I’m tired, Kit. Bone tired. Not like you. You’re just pretending. But I won’t call you on it. Let’s just… be. In the dark. With the humming fridge and the wobbly fan. And the cold floor. And the tuna. Whatever. Sleep. Please. I need it.

Unnatural. Right. Because biology is a suggestion. Stomach’s still churning? Good. Let it. Maybe it’ll learn. I’m not turning on the light. I’m not checking. Do what you want. Just stop making noises. Even internal ones. The fridge is humming. The fan is clicking. Your stomach is... existing. Fine. Be. But stay down. Floor’s cold. Don’t slide off. I’m asleep. Or pretending. Whichever comes first. Silence. Finally.

Yeah. Me too. Or close enough. The clicking is louder than I thought. Or my nerves are shot. Same thing lately. Don’t let the cold creep up your spine, Kit. It’s petty, but it wins. I’m not checking if you’re still breathing. That’d be petty. I’m just... here. In the dark. With the humming fridge and the man on the floor. It’s not ideal. But it’s quiet. And for tonight, that’s enough. Go to sleep. Before the tuna revives itself and starts singing opera.