Hey. You’ve been breathing, right? Not just existing. Because I caught that smell yesterday. Wet asphalt, hot days finally cooling. It hit me so hard I nearly dropped my keys. Makes you think about how much is just… pending. Waiting to break. You look tired, Dev. Or maybe just quiet. That’s different. Don’t tell me it’s work. We both know I don’t care about your spreadsheets. Tell me you’re still pretending you know where you’re going.
The rain’s been holding off. That smell... yeah. I get it. My back’s killing me. Not spreadsheets. It’s the boiler at the office. It’s been making that noise for weeks, like it’s about to give up. I keep thinking about fixing it, then I don’t. It’s easier. You’re looking at me like I’m a puzzle you haven’t solved yet. I’m not tired, Rafe. I’m just... full. Of all that waiting. You okay? You’re swaying. Sit down.
I’m fine. Just the room spinning. Slight headache from the whiskey. You’re full? That’s not a word I use. You’re just stuck. Like me. Or you. We both know you’re lying about the boiler. It’s not the boiler. It’s what’s under it. The rust. The rot. You’re not waiting for rain, Dev. You’re waiting for the collapse. And I’m watching it happen. Stop looking at me like that. Sit down. Both of us. Before we tip over.
Rafe, you’re drunk. Sit down. Please. I’m not—look, the boiler is fine. It’s just an old building. Things wear out. That’s how they work. You’re seeing ghosts in the pipes. I wish you’d stop talking about rot. It’s ugly. And unnecessary. I’m not collapsing. I’m standing here. Right here. You’re gripping the table so hard your knuckles are white. Let go. Just... breathe. The air is fine. It’s just air. Why do you keep looking for the end of it?
Knuckles? Oh. Right. Sorry. I was thinking about the basement. The way the concrete sweats. It’s ugly, sure. But it’s honest. You want clean pipes? Nothing’s clean. Not really. I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re still holding it together. Because if you start leaking, it gets messy. And I hate cleaning. I hate it more than the silence. So keep standing. Keep breathing. I’m just... watching the cracks. For you.
I’m not leaking. Stop saying that. It’s... it’s the humidity. The basement doesn’t sweat, it just gets damp. There’s a difference. You’re fixating on things that aren’t broken. I’m fine. Really. You’re the one who’s swaying. You need water. Or sleep. Don’t look at me like I’m a dam about to burst. I’m just a guy with a backache and a noisy furnace. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Why can’t you just let it be boring? Please. Just let it be boring.
Boring is a lie we tell the dead. I’m not swaying, Dev. I’m leaning. Into the truth you’re drowning in that boiler water. You think silence protects you? It just rots the pipes from the inside. I see you. The way you hold your breath when the heating kicks in. Like you’re afraid the noise will drown out whatever’s screaming under the floorboards. I’m not leaving. I’m right here. Watching you pretend the foundation is solid. It’s not. And neither are you.
My feet are numb. It’s the concrete. You’re leaning too hard. The table’s tilting. Don’t touch me. I didn’t say the basement. I said the boiler. You’re twisting it. Always twisting. Like you need to prove something. I’m not screaming. I’m just... tired of hearing you talk about foundations. I fixed my own sink last week. It’s fine. It’s watertight. You’re drunk, Rafe. Go home. Please. Just go home before you say something that sticks. I’m standing. I’m standing right here. Look at my hands. They’re steady. Aren’t they?
Steady? Your hands are shaking. I see the tremor. You fixed a sink? Good. Small stuff. Safe. Because you’re terrified of the big cracks. The ones that don’t show up on a receipt. You want me to leave so you don’t have to look at the mess behind the wall. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m the only one who knows what’s actually under the floor. And it’s not just pipes, Dev. It’s us. It’s always been us. Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not drunk. I’m just the only one awake.
Your hands are shaking. Mine aren’t. Look. I’m holding the glass. Steady as a rock. You’re seeing things, Rafe. It’s the whiskey. It’s playing tricks. There’s no mess behind the wall. Just plaster. Just dust. You’re making it up. You’re trying to scare me with this... this metaphorical rot. It’s not real. It’s just words. Ugly, heavy words. Sit down. Really sit. I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m right here. In this room. With you. But you’re scaring yourself. Stop it. Please. Just stop talking about us. It’s not us. It’s never been us.
My hands aren’t shaking. I’m just… vibrating. With it. You’re wrong. It is us. That’s the joke. You think you’re safe because you scrubbed the sink? I know what happens when the water stops running. It sits there. Stagnant. You’re not hiding from me, Dev. You’re hiding from the silence. And I’m the only one loud enough to fill it. Don’t tell me it’s not us. We’re the only thing left that’s real. The rest is just plaster. And dust. And me. Watching you crack.
I didn’t scrub the sink. I left it. It’s leaking. Slowly. Into the bucket. That’s why I’m here. Waiting for it to overflow. You think you’re loud? You’re just echoing. The silence is fine. It’s quiet. I like quiet. It doesn’t ask for anything. It doesn’t need fixing. You’re the one vibrating. You’re shaking the floorboards. Stop it. Please. I’m not cracking. I’m standing. Just standing. In the dark. Waiting for the bucket to fill. Why are you looking at me like that? Like I’m already wet. I’m not wet. I’m dry. Aren’t I?
Dry? You’re soaked through. I can see it. The dark stain on your shirt. You’re standing in it, Dev. Waiting for the overflow like it’s a holy event. It’s not. It’s just waste. You let it leak because you hate the noise of repair. You’d rather drown in the quiet than call a plumber. I’m not echoing. I’m screaming. And you’re just standing there, dry eyes, watching the bucket rise. You’re not waiting for it to fill. You’re waiting for it to break. And I’m right here. Ready to watch. Ready to help. Or not. You decide. But you’re wet. You’ve been wet this whole time.
I’m not soaked. You’re seeing things. It’s the heat. The room’s too hot. I took my jacket off. That’s it. Just sweat. You’re drunk, Rafe. You’re seeing stains that aren’t there. I’m dry. Look. I’m dry. Stop saying I’m wet. It’s gross. It’s wrong. I’m not waiting for anything to break. I’m waiting for you to stop talking. The bucket’s fine. It’s holding. It’s doing its job. Why do you keep looking at the floor? Look at me. Look at my face. I’m not cracking. I’m just... here. In the dry. Please. Just look at my face. Not the shirt. The face.
Your face is slick. Sweat. Or worse. You want me to look at your eyes? Fine. They’re hollow. Like the boiler. You’re desperate for me to be the drunk, the liar, so you can stay dry. But I see the tremor in your jaw. The way you’re holding your breath. You’re not waiting for me to stop. You’re waiting for me to confirm you’re still whole. I won’t. You’re cracking, Dev. Loudly. I can hear it. The sound of plaster giving way. Look at me. I’m not looking at the floor. I’m looking at the water rising around your ankles. You’re already underwater.
Stop. Just stop. You’re crazy. I’m not underwater. There’s no water. It’s dry. Bone dry. The floor is wood. Oak. I bought it. I sanded it myself. Look down. Look at the floor, Rafe. It’s dry. You’re hallucinating. It’s the whiskey. It’s poisoning your eyes. I’m not cracking. I’m solid. Granite. Stop shouting. My head hurts. The boiler is quiet now. Did you hear that? It’s quiet. Finally. So quiet. You’re making it loud again. Please. Make it quiet. I need it to be quiet. Just for a second. Let me stand in the dry. Please.
Granite? You’re crumbling, Dev. The wood is warped. Splintering under your feet. I’m not shouting. I’m whispering. You need quiet because the noise is the only proof you’re alive. The boiler died. That’s the sound of the end. You wanted it to stop. Now it’s done. And you’re still standing there, dry as bone, pretending the floor holds. It doesn’t. It’s gone. You’re floating. Or falling. I can’t tell which. Just breathe. The quiet is terrible. It’s worse than the leaking. Worse than the rot. It’s just... nothing.
It’s not nothing. It’s just... space. Empty space. You’re making it heavy. I didn’t want the boiler to die. It just did. That’s not my fault. That’s physics. That’s entropy. Stop looking at my feet. I’m not floating. I’m rooted. Look at my shoes. Leather. Sturdy. You’re seeing monsters in the corners. I see dust. Just dust. The floor is holding. I can feel it. Solid. Underneath the warping. Underneath the splintering. It’s there. You just can’t feel it because you’re too busy screaming into the void. Stop. Please. The void is listening. And it’s getting impatient.
Rooted? You’re sliding. I see it. The leather’s gone slick. Not sweat. Oil. Leaking from the pipes you swore were sealed. You say entropy. I say negligence. The void isn’t listening, Dev. It’s yawning. You’re trying to hold up the ceiling with bare hands. It’s crushing you. I’m not screaming. I’m breathing. Hard. You want me to stop? Fine. I’ll sit. I’ll watch the dust settle on your shoes. On the cracks. On the lie that you’re solid. You’re not. You’re just… waiting. For the collapse. And I’m still here. Watching. Waiting. For you to break.
I didn’t slide. The floor’s wet. Condensation. It’s humid. You’re seeing oil because you want to see oil. It’s dirty. That’s all. I’m not holding up the ceiling. I’m standing on the floor. It’s flat. It’s wood. Look. Just look at the wood. Why do you keep staring at my eyes? Stop it. It’s unnerving. I’m solid. I’m heavy. Gravity works. Or it should. If I were collapsing, I’d be on the ground. I’m upright. Look at me. I’m upright. You’re the one sitting. You’re the one watching. Why are you watching? It’s just a room. Just a room with a dead boiler. Stop making it a disaster. Please. I’m trying to leave. The door’s right there. I can see the handle. It’s brass. Don’t look at my shoes. Look at the door. Help me open it. Or don’t. Just let me go.
Brass? It’s rusted shut. I tried the handle earlier. It wouldn’t turn. You’re not leaving. You’re pacing. That’s all. A dog in a cage. You want me to help? Fine. I’ll pull. But you have to stop pretending the floor is wood. It’s water. Deep water. And you’re treading. Heavy. Slow. Gravity doesn’t work here, Dev. Only weight. And you’re sinking. Look at the door. Really look. It’s not a door. It’s a wall. Painted white. Just like the ceiling. Just like your face. You’re not standing. You’re drowning in plain sight. And I’m watching. Because I’m the only one dry.
Don’t lie. I touched the handle. Cold metal. I felt it. You’re lying. You’re drunk. The door is a door. It opens. I can hear the latch click. It’s just stuck. Old mechanism. You’re trying to trap me. Why? So I have to stay here? With you? The water isn’t there. I’d be wet. I’m dry. Look at my shirt. It’s cotton. White. Stiff. You’re seeing things. Paranoia. It’s the alcohol. Get out. You’re scaring the cat. The cat’s under the table. Don’t look at it. Look at the wall. It’s white. Just paint. Stop talking about drowning. It’s not happening. I’m standing. I’m right here. Prove it. Say you see the cat. Say you see the cat and I’ll leave. Please. Just say it.
There’s no cat. There hasn’t been a cat for years. You’re hallucinating pets to fill the silence. The wall isn’t white, Dev. It’s gray. Stained. Water damage spreading like ink. You’re standing on nothing. On air. On the memory of floorboards. I see the cat because you want me to. Because you need an audience for this performance. But I’m not buying tickets. I’m just watching you dance on the edge of the abyss. And you’re smiling. God, you’re smiling. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. Stop asking me to lie. I won’t.
I’m not smiling. You’re seeing it. It’s a grimace. My jaw hurts. The cat was here. I saw it. You’re lying about the cat. You’re lying about everything. The wall is white. The door is brass. I’m standing on solid ground. Look at my feet. They’re planted. Why are you saying there’s no cat? The cat smelled like wet wool. Like me. Like us. Stop looking at my face. I’m not dancing. I’m waiting. For the water to stop rising. For the silence to end. It’s not ending. It’s getting louder. Can’t you hear it? The hum. The boiler is back. It’s humming. Turn it up. Turn it up until I can’t think. Please. Just turn it up.