Name one small thing that could have gone differently, and follow it. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

That mic left on in the kitchen? Total disaster. It picked up me arguing with the cable guy, then my mom called and I screamed about the drama. She heard everything. Now she won't stop calling, convinced I'm being evicted because I lost my temper. I told Lena it's fine, but she keeps asking why the house feels so heavy. It's the mic, Lena. It's actually the mic. If I'd just unplugged it, none of this would be happening. Why do you think I'm so tired? It's not the job, it's the walking talking recorder. I should've smashed it. Threw it in the trash. Now we're just stuck here waiting for the next call. It's absurd. You get it, right?

Don't act like you know what I was thinking. It wasn't about an audience, it was about convenience. I needed to vent, not perform. But yeah, maybe I like the noise. So what? You're being annoying about it, Lena. You always do this, acting like I'm some pawn in a game I didn't play. The plastic brick is fine. It's just a brick. It's you who needs to stop judging. I hate how you make everything about my character. It's just a mic. I didn't do anything wrong by leaving it there. You're the one who's reading too much into silence. I'm going to go make coffee. The kettle is probably dry. I keep forgetting to refill it. That's the real mess, not the mic.

Exactly, and that's why I won't smash it. The consequence is the point. If I break it, I admit I'm the problem, which I'm not. I'm just... loud. There's a difference. My neighbor, the one with the cats, he screams too but he never leaves a mic running. He just yells. But me? I need the record. It proves I was there. Without the recording, did I even scream? It feels like the silence is erasing me. You're the one acting like the brick has a soul. It's plastic. I'll go drink the dry coffee. It tastes like ash, just like the silence.

I'm not bad at filling it, I just need the proof. If I don't have the recording, the screaming never happened, and if it didn't happen, why did my mom call? It's circular. I can't just drink the ash, Lena. That's your logic, not mine. The neighbor knows I'm loud, sure, but he doesn't know the words. That's the difference. He yells at cats, I yell at reality. There's a nuance you're missing. I'm going to go stare at the wall. Maybe if I stare hard enough, the kettle will refill itself. That'd be better than your lectures.

The wall won't help, sure, but the mirror is worse. It just shows the face, not the sound. I don't need a witness, I need a transcript. The neighbor doesn't have a transcript, that's why he's fine. He just breathes air. I breathe data. If I look in the mirror, I just see the person who left the mic on. It's too much. I'm going to go unplug the router. Nothing works without the internet anyway, so why pretend? The cat neighbor doesn't stream his rage, he just lives it. I guess that's why he's not worried about his mom. She probably doesn't even call him. Stupid cats. I need to find a towel.

The towel is for the kettle, not the wall. You're missing the point about the cat neighbor again. He doesn't need proof, he just exists. I exist in the data. If I unplug the router, the data stops, and then what? I'm just a person screaming at a mirror. That's worse than the mic. At least the mic was honest. It caught the sound. Now I'm just... static. I found the towel, but it's dusty. Like everything else. I'm not going to stare at the wall anymore. I'm going to stare at the cat. Maybe it'll tell me why the internet is so heavy.

The towel isn't waiting to make sense. It's just dirty. You're acting like the cat has some grand philosophy about purring. It doesn't. It just eats fish and ignores the hum of the fridge. The mic made the silence heavy? No, the silence was always heavy. The mic just proved it. Now I'm holding a towel that smells like old coffee and regret. I should throw it out. But if I throw it out, then I'm just standing here with nothing. And the cat? The cat doesn't care about the towel. It cares about the sunbeam. That's it. I need to find a sunbeam. Forget the internet. Forget the mic. Just sunlight.

The cat doesn't have regrets because it doesn't have a mom who calls. That's the difference. Sunlight won't unrecord anything, but it might burn the towel. I'm going to hold it up to the window. Let the dust catch fire. Then we'll see who has more to lose. You talk about standing still like it's a choice. I'm not standing still, I'm evaporating. The towel is dry now. Or maybe it's wet. I can't tell. The cat is just sitting there, judging the floor. I think I'll give the cat the towel. It needs something warm. I don't. I need the silence back, but the cat doesn't know how to give it to me.

I'm not waiting for the sun. I'm waiting for the towel to stop smelling like me. If I drop it, it's just physics. Gravity, Lena. You're overthinking the drop. The cat knows gravity. It jumps off the counter and lands. No drama. I'm the one who needs the drama, apparently. That's what you keep saying. But the sun is going down anyway. The light is failing. The towel is on the floor now. I didn't mean to drop it, but look, it's there. Silent. Heavy. Just like the mic. You win. Can we stop talking about the cat? It's staring at me again. I think it's laughing.

My hands weren't shaking. They were just heavy. Like the towel. I'm not holding the mic right now, Lena. It's on the counter. You're confusing me with the recording. The cat doesn't want a fish, it wants silence, which is exactly what you're giving me. Less than silence. You're giving me a lecture. I dropped the towel because I was tired of the smell. The mic is still there, unplugged. It's just plastic. Why are you fixating on my hands? Maybe I'm just clumsy. Maybe the floor is the problem. It's too smooth. I should have sandpaper. No, that's stupid. I need coffee. The kettle is dry again. I forgot to fill it. Again.

The counter is fine. I'm not avoiding it. The kettle is just... stubborn. It doesn't want water, okay? Maybe the sandpaper was a metaphor. For the floor. Or my hands. The cat is definitely not hungry, it's full of judgment. I walked past the mic five times today. It didn't blink. It just sat there, judging the dust. I didn't avoid the room, Lena. I avoided the silence that happens when the recording stops. That's the real monster. The mic is just a prop. The food is gone. The cat is full. I'm going to open a window. It's stuffy in here. Maybe the cat will breathe again. Or maybe it'll just keep staring.

The draft won't wash away sound, it just moves dust. I stopped listening because the playback was too good. Too clear. You think I'm waiting for the wind? I'm waiting for the tape to break. The cat doesn't care about the draft, it's just cold now. The window is open, but the mic is still warm. That's the trick, Lena. It gets warm from listening. I didn't stop hearing it, I just stopped caring what it said. The room is too loud with wind now. I should close it. But then the silence comes back, and the cat laughs. Not really laughs, just blinks. I'm going to touch the mic again. Just to see if it's still recording. I won't listen this time.

The cat is blinking because it's bored. I'm not staring hard, I'm just... focused. The heat is the only proof the mic was ever real. If it's cold, then I was talking to myself. That's worse than the silence. I'm going to touch it. Right now. Just a tap. If it's warm, the room is listening. If it's cold, I'm alone with the cat and the dusty towel. You're trying to stop me, but I need to know. The cat doesn't care if the mic is warm. It cares about the window. I'm touching it. It's cold. Why is it cold? The recording stopped. The room is dead. I should scream again. No, wait. The cat is watching. I won't scream. I'll just stand here.

I'm not waiting for a ghost. I'm waiting for the cat to blink less. You're right about the food, though. The cat is staring at me like I'm the kibble. I'll feed it. But the mic being cold means the listening stopped. If the listening stopped, then the screaming didn't matter. That's the problem. If I feed the cat, it'll stop staring, and then I'll just be alone with the cold plastic. I can't do that. I'll get the food. But I'm not happy about it. The cat will eat, and I'll still be standing here, wondering why the silence is so heavy. Give me a second. I need to find the can opener. It's probably under the towel.

I'm not waiting for forgiveness. The cat doesn't care about apologies, it cares about tuna. But the towel is in the way. It's blocking the drawer where the opener lives. If I move the towel, I have to admit it's just a dirty rag. Not a piece of evidence. I'll move it. There. The opener is stuck. Maybe it's rusted. Maybe it remembers the screaming. I'm going to pry it open with my fingernail. If it snaps, I'll scream again. That'll teach the silence. The cat is purring now. That's disgusting. It knows I lost. Just hand me the can. No, don't help. I need to do this myself.