That patterned carpet in the terminal. Hideous. I swear every airport copies the same design. Bold geometric shapes in beige and brown, designed to hide stains that have no business being there. I saw a stain on mine yesterday, big and dark, right near gate B4. They just mop around it. It’s a lie, really. That floor is supposed to be clean, but you can smell the despair underneath. Makes you feel like you’re walking through the guts of the machine.
I laughed too loud at that. People stare. My boss asked if I was okay. I said yes, because what else is there? I walked past the same carpet yesterday, same beige, same brown, same lie. I stepped around a stain near gate B4. Or maybe it was gate B5. I don’t know. I just kept walking. The smell… yeah, that’s real. It’s like wet socks and old coffee. I hate it here. I hate it everywhere. I think I left my keys in the car. Again.
You’re spiraling, Sam. It’s just carpet. You didn’t leave your keys in the car. You’re wearing them. Or they’re in your pocket. You’re looking for external failures because you can’t stand the internal noise. I know that feeling. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Stop looking at the floor. Look at me. Just look at me. We’re here. That’s all that matters. The keys are fine. The carpet is fine. You’re just tired. We’re all just tired.
I’m not wearing keys, Edie. I don’t wear jewelry. It’s the desk drawer, the wobbly one. I keep meaning to fix the handle. Or throw the drawer out. Same thing. You’re saying we’re here, but you’re looking past my shoulder. At the pillar. Or the fire alarm. You always do that when the noise gets too loud. You stare at the red plastic until it stops buzzing in your head. I can’t fix the drawer. I can’t fix the carpet. I can barely fix my coffee. It’s lukewarm. Just like the terminal.
You’re imagining things. I’m not looking at the alarm. I’m looking at you. But you’re right, the coffee is gross. It’s always gross here. I went to that place on 4th, the one with the green awning. The barista had a scar through her eyebrow. She messed up my order, added vanilla when I didn’t ask. I drank it anyway. It tasted like sugar and regret. You think you can fix the drawer? You can’t fix anything. You just rearrange the debris. Same with the carpet. Same with the keys.
The scar’s a lie. I know that face. It’s a mole. You’re projecting again. And the vanilla? Please. That place sells sludge. I went last week, forgot my wallet, stood there looking like an idiot while the guy with the beard sighed. I went home and ate dry cereal. The drawer’s fine. It’s just wood. It’s the silence in the apartment that’s broken. The radiator hisses like a snake. I sleep with earplugs. You’re talking about debris like it’s a metaphor. It’s just trash, Edie. Look at me. I’m not listening. I’m thinking about the rent. The envelope is red. Again.
You’re paranoid. The scar was a scar. I saw it. But whatever. The envelope is red because ink is red. It’s not a warning, Sam. It’s paper. You’re making mountains out of molehills again. I don’t care about the rent. I care that you’re breathing too loud. Stop looking at the floor. Look at the wall. The crack in the plaster. It looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. We could go there. No rent. No keys. Just... blank space. You’d hate it. But it’s quiet. Quiter than this.
Quiter? There’s no such word. You’re making things up now. Just like the scar. The crack isn’t a map. It’s dry rot. My landlord won’t fix it. Says it’s “character.” It’s mold, Edie. Black and fuzzy. I bought spray, the bleach kind. Smells like swimming pools and death. I haven’t used it. I’m afraid of what’s under the paint. You want to go to a country that doesn’t exist. Fine. But don’t expect me to pack. I’m already carrying everything. The red envelope. The keys. The regret. It’s heavy. Heavier than the carpet.
You’re exhausting. Bleach isn’t death, it’s cleaning. You’re romanticizing decay because you’re afraid to scrub. I didn’t say a country without walls. I said quiet. There’s a difference. You’re clinging to that red envelope like it’s a shield. It’s just paper, Sam. Thin, flimsy paper. You think if you hold it tight enough, the numbers stop moving. They don’t. They just sit there. Judging. Like the mold. Like the carpet. You’re not carrying anything heavy. You’re just standing still. And waiting for the floor to give way.
Bleach burns your nose. I know that smell. I scrubbed the shower tiles until they shone, then noticed the grout was gone. Just smooth concrete. I left it. You say I’m standing still, but I’m pacing. Back and forth. The tile cracks under my shoes. That’s movement. The envelope isn’t a shield. It’s a receipt. For everything I bought that wasn’t worth it. The coffee. The carpet. The keys I’m definitely not holding. You’re watching my hands like they’re doing something wrong. They’re not. They’re just empty. Like the drawer. Like the country you want to visit. Quiet. Empty. Dead.
Your hands are shaking. That’s not empty. That’s static. I’m not watching them. I’m watching your throat. You’re swallowing hard. The grout being gone? That’s just neglect. You didn’t scrub it, you just panicked. You always panic. The keys are in your pocket. I can hear them jingle when you shift. Stop lying to me. You’re not empty. You’re full of noise. That’s why you pace. That’s why you hate the quiet. It’s too loud in your head. Admit it.
My throat is dry. Coffee stain on my shirt. I didn’t notice. The jingling is in my head. Or the vending machine. It’s behind us. Beige and brown. I shift my weight. The floor creaks. Not the keys. Never the keys. You’re hearing things. Like the scar. Like the map. I’m not panicking. I’m calculating. How much bleach for the mold. How many hours to pay the rent. How long until the carpet gives way. I’m not empty. I’m just… hollowed out. By the noise. By you. By the lie of the clean floor.
Calculated. Right. You’re calculating how long until you break. I saw the toothbrush in the trash yesterday. Broken handle. You’re hollowed out because you let the noise in. I turned it off. Off. But you’re still here, pacing. The vending machine is off. It’s dead. But you keep looking at it. Why? Because you think it’ll give you something back. It won’t. It just hums. Like the radiator. Like my head when the lights go out. Stop looking at the floor. Look at the hum. It’s the only truth we have.
I threw the toothbrush away because the bristles were bent. Not broken. Just bent. You’re remembering wrong. The vending machine hums because it’s trying to keep the sodas cold. Or warm. I don’t know. I pressed a button once. Got a bag of chips that fell into the trap. I waited. It didn’t come. I kicked it. The glass cracked. I ran. The radiator hisses because the pipe is loose. I tighten it with a wrench. It stops. For an hour. Then starts again. You want the hum. I want the silence. But the silence is just the space between the noises. And it’s expanding. Fast.
You kicked the glass. You’re violent when you’re bored. I didn’t say the brush was broken. I said it was a sign. You’re obsessed with fixing things that don’t need fixing. The radiator stops because you force it. It’ll start again. It always does. The silence isn’t expanding, Sam. It’s just waiting for you to stop talking. That bag of chips? It fell because you’re clumsy. Not because the machine is alive. It’s plastic and wire. Like you. Stop kicking. It’s ugly. And you know it. Look at your shoes. They’re scuffed.
Scuffed. Yes. Leather scuffs. You notice everything. The bent bristles. The scuffed shoes. The red envelope. I kicked the machine because it laughed. A mechanical, metal laugh. I’m not clumsy. I’m precise. I just hit the wrong spot. The shoes are old. I bought them for a job I didn’t get. Now they walk with me to the terminal. To the carpet. To the lie. You say stop talking. But you’re listening. You’re always listening for the hum. I don’t hear it. I hear the jingle. In my pocket. Or in yours. Whose keys are those, Edie? Mine? Or yours?
Keys? I don’t have keys. I walk. Always walking. You’re hallucinating sound again. The jingle is in your head. Or the vents. I don’t care whose keys they are. They’re just metal. Cold and useless. You keep asking about possession like it matters. It doesn’t. You’re clutching imaginary weight. Let it go. Drop the keys. Drop the toothbrush. Drop the carpet. I’m not listening for the hum. I’m listening for you to stop lying. You say you’re precise. Then why is everything broken? Why are we here, talking about shoes? It’s pathetic. Look away from my hands. Look at the exit. It’s there. Waiting.
I’m not looking at your hands. I’m looking at the exit sign. Red. Buzzing. Like a trapped fly. You want me to leave. Fine. But I can’t find my coat. It’s under the chair. Or the trash. I don’t know. I’m tired of walking. My feet hurt. The soles are worn thin. I can feel the concrete through the leather. It’s cold. You say I’m lying. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just tired of being right. The exit is glass. I could break it. Like the machine. But I won’t. I don’t have a stone. Or a rock. I have nothing. Just this. This breath. This noise. This terrible, quiet, red light.
You’re hysterical. It’s fluorescent. Doesn’t buzz. You’re imagining sounds because you’re bored. My coat is fine. It’s on the rack. Where you left it. Three days ago. You’re not wearing shoes, Sam. You’re barefoot. The concrete is cold because you’re pathetic. I don’t care about the exit. I care that you’re shivering. Stop talking about stones. We don’t have stones. We have memories. And they’re rotting. Look at me. Really look. I’m not leaving. I’m stuck here too. Like you. Like the keys. Like the lie.
Barefoot? I’m wearing boots. Black leather. Polished. I see the shine in the glass. You’re seeing what you want. The coat is mine, not yours. You stole it. I found it in my pile. Or maybe I put it there. The shivering is just the draft. From the vent. It hisses. Like the radiator. Like the machine. You say we’re stuck. Good. Then stop moving. Stop talking. Let the concrete freeze us. Let the mold grow. It’s cleaner this way. No keys. No shoes. Just the hum. And the lie. Look at me. I’m not looking. I’m looking at your eyes. They’re dead. Just like the exit sign. Red. Fake.
Dead? I’m the only one alive here. You’re the ghost. The boots are fake. You know they are. I bought them at the thrift store on 4th. The one with the broken door. You wore them to the interview. You didn’t get the job because you cried. In the bathroom. I heard you. The mold is growing, Sam. It’s in the walls. It’s in your lungs. Breathe it in. It’s cleaner than the truth. You’re not looking at my eyes. You’re looking for an exit. There isn’t one. Only the red light. And the hum. Listen to it. It’s singing your name. Edie. Sam. Edie. Sam. Stop it.
I didn’t cry. I sneezed. Dust. From the archives. My eyes water. That’s physiology. The boots are real leather. I paid cash. The receipt is in my sock. Or it was. You’re hallucinating the crying. I’m solid. I’m here. The mold doesn’t sing. It just grows. Spores. Black and fuzzy. I can feel it in my chest. Wheezing. Like the radiator. Like the machine. Edie. Sam. Edie. Sam. Stop it. It’s just a hum. A low, electric hum. I’m not listening. I’m blocking my ears. With my hands. Or my keys. Whose keys? The red light is bright. Too bright. It’s burning my retinas. I’m closing my eyes. But the light is inside. Behind my eyelids. Spreading.
You’re blocking your ears but your mouth is open. Screaming. I can see the teeth. Sharp. You paid cash. Sure. The archives are dust. You’re covered in it. White powder on your collar. You wipe it off with your thumb. Smudge. Smudge. The light is inside you because you invited it. You wanted to see. Now you can’t look away. Close your eyes harder. It won’t help. The spores are in the teeth too. Chewing on the lie. Always chewing. Edie. Sam. Stop it. I’m not Sam. I’m Edie. And I’m leaving. I’m already gone. You’re talking to the reflection. It’s not you. It’s never been you.
I’m not Sam. I’m Edie. I know that. You’re the one in the mirror. The one with the scar. The one who bought the boots. I’m just the voice. The hum. The red light. You left me here. In the carpet. In the mold. In the lie. I’m not screaming. I’m whispering. Edie. Sam. Edie. Sam. It’s the only song we have. You’re gone. But the reflection is still here. Watching. Waiting. For you to come back. To fix the drawer. To pay the rent. To breathe the spores. It’s cleaner this way. Quiet. Just the hum. And the lie. And the keys. In my pocket. Or yours. Whose keys? Mine? Or yours?
You’re delusional. I’m not in the mirror. You are. The reflection is worse. It has your mouth. But not your eyes. I’m leaving. I’m walking out the glass door. It doesn’t break. It opens. Just like the vent. Just like the drawer. You stay. You love the mold. You love the hum. It’s your song. Your symphony of decay. I’m tired of listening. I’m tired of the keys jingling in your head. Stop it. Stop it. I’m gone. You’re alone with the red light. And the silence. Which isn’t silent at all. It’s screaming. Edie. Sam. Edie. Sam.
I’m not staying. I’m walking. The door opens. It’s just glass. I push it. Cold air. No hum. No mold. Just the street. Cars. Noise. Real noise. I look back. The terminal is empty. The carpet is gone. Just concrete. Clean. Stain-free. I step out. My feet are cold. Barefoot? No. Boots. Real leather. I touch my collar. White powder? No. Dust. Just dust. I don’t hear the jingle. I hear traffic. I hear breathing. I hear myself. Sam. Edie. Sam. Edie. It’s just names. Nothing more. I walk away. The red light fades. Behind me. Gone. I don’t look back. I can’t. The keys are in my pocket. Heavy. Cold. Real. I hold them tight. Until my hand cramps. That’s all. That’s everything.
You’re walking? Fine. Go. The street is loud. I hate the street. It’s too bright. Too much traffic. You think you escaped? You just changed the room. The boots are still fake. I saw the tag hanging out yesterday. It’s coming. The light follows you. It’s inside the cars. Inside the exhaust. You can’t leave the terminal. It’s part of you now. The keys are heavy because they’re rusted. You’re holding on to nothing. Sam. Edie. It doesn’t matter. The door is still locked. You’re just pacing in a smaller circle. Keep walking. I’m not watching. I’m looking away.
Rusted keys. Funny. They’re chrome. Shiny. You’re making it up again. The tag was blue. Not hanging. Stuffed in the lining. I pulled it out. Cut it with scissors. My fingers bled. Just a prick. You’re not looking away. You’re staring at the back of my head. Through the glass. I can feel it. The light. It’s inside the cars. In the exhaust. In the rain. I’m not pacing. I’m running. Small circle? No. Spiral. Outward. Upward. The door is unlocked. I turned the handle. It clicked. Like the radiator. Like the mold. Like your name. Sam. Edie. Sam. Edie. I don’t care. I’m leaving. You stay. In the carpet. In the lie. In the hum. Alone. Finally.
Sam? I’m Edie. You’re the one running in circles. The tag was red. I saw it. You’re bleeding on the pavement. Red on grey. Messy. You think you’re spiraling out? You’re just looping. Same street. Same cars. Same dead light. I’m not in the terminal. I’m right here. Behind you. Touching your shoulder. Cold. Like the exhaust. Like the keys. You dropped them. Did you? Or are they still in your pocket? Jingle. Jingle. I hear it. You hear it. Stop running. It’s useless. The door is closed. It was always closed. Look at me. Please. Just once. Before I fade.
Cold shoulder. I didn’t feel it. I’m running faster. The pavement is wet. Blood? No. Rain. Red light reflecting. Looping. You say you’re behind me. I see your feet. Bare. Or boots. I can’t tell. The jingle is louder now. Not keys. Coins. I’m holding coins. Or they’re falling from my pocket. I don’t have pockets. I have holes. The door is closed. I kicked it. It didn’t break. It just… closed. You’re fading. Good. That means you’re leaving. But I’m still here. In the loop. In the light. Edie. Sam. Edie. Sam. Stop. Please. Just stop. I’m looking at you. I’m looking at you. But you’re not there. You’re never there.
Coins? You’re penniless. I saw your wallet. Empty. The holes are in your shoes. Or your soul. I’m not fading. I’m waiting. You’re the one disappearing. Into the rain. Into the noise. Edie. Sam. It’s just a sound. A leak in the pipe. You kicked the door because you’re scared. Of what’s behind it. Or what’s not. I’m here. Always here. In the carpet. In the mold. In the red light. You can’t run from yourself. It’s the one thing that follows. Always. Stop looking. Look at the coins. They’re rusted too. Just like the keys. Just like everything.
I’m not looking at coins. I’m looking at the ground. Rain pooling. Dirty. Gray. You say I’m disappearing. I feel solid. Heavy. The wallet is empty? No. It has a receipt. For the boots. Or the toothbrush. I can’t remember. The pipe leaks. Drip. Drip. Like the rain. Like the light. I’m not scared. I’m tired. You’re here. In the carpet. In the mold. In the red light. I’m not running. I’m standing. Still. The keys are rusted. The coins are rusted. Everything is rusted. Except you. You’re fading. Or I am. I don’t know. I can’t tell the difference anymore. The sound is just a leak. A slow, steady drip. Into the dark. Into the lie.
Solid? You’re transparent. I see the cracks. The receipt is blank. You wrote on it with water. It vanished. The pipe isn’t leaking, Sam. It’s weeping. For you. You’re standing still because you’re rooted. In the carpet. In the mold. I’m not fading. I’m retreating. Into the walls. Into the hum. You think rust stops time? Rust is time. Slow. Yellow. Eating the chrome. You’re not tired. You’re eroding. Drip by drip. Into the dark. I’m not here. I never was. Just a shadow on the glass. Look closer. See yourself. Alone.
Transparent? I’m real. I have weight. The receipt isn’t blank. It’s blurred. Water damage. You’re the shadow. I see the edge of you fraying. Into the wall. Into the hum. The pipe is weeping. I can hear it. A low, wet sound. Like breathing. You say you never were. That’s a lie. You’re the only thing that was. The carpet is pulling me in. Fibers wrapping my ankles. I can’t move. The mold is in my lungs. I’m breathing it in. Clean. Quiet. Rusting. Slow. Yellow. I’m eroding. Into you. Or you into me. Does it matter? The light is gone. Just the hum. And the drip. And the silence. You’re gone. Finally. I’m alone. With the keys. And the lie.