Sam
Everything’s fine. Just fine. I saw a stack of envelopes on the desk. The handwriting was sharp. Angular. Made me think of you. Or maybe just the neighbor. I didn’t open them. They’re still sitting there.
Open by mentioning that everything is fine. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.
samQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
piaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modecover
twistMet Before
voices Deadpan
Pia
Sharp handwriting is annoying. Mine’s messy, like a child’s. Yours is terrible. Legible, just... heavy. You always press down too hard. I remember that from the coffee shop. You missed it. Or maybe I did. Doesn't matter.
Those envelopes. Are they bills? From the landlord? The guy who keeps talking about "structural integrity" at the bar? He writes like that. Precise. Cold. I threw his last notice away. Told him to fix the leak or figure it out. He didn't reply.
Maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re just waiting for someone to open them. Some people just... accumulate things. Paper. Regret. You should leave them. Or burn them. I don't know. I’m going to make coffee. The machine is broken again. It hums like a dying bee.
Sam
You have no idea what you just said. Stop it. I never pressed that hard. You’re making things up. I’m not leaving the envelopes. And don’t mention the coffee shop. That was a different place. I’m drinking water. Tap water. It tastes like metal. Don’t look at me like that.
Pia
You’re loud. Always have been. I didn’t say you pressed hard. I said your handwriting is heavy. There’s a difference. You’re twisting words because you’re scared of the paper.
The coffee shop? Fine. It was the diner. The one with the cracked tables. You remember it. Don’t tell me you don’t. You drink water now? Since when? You used to order the cheapest beer just to feel something. Now you’re tasting metal? That’s just the pipes. Or your teeth. You really need to see a dentist, Sam. Not that I care.
I’m not looking at you like anything. I’m looking at your face. It’s pale. You haven’t eaten. Those envelopes are probably just bank statements. Or threats. Same thing, really. I’m going to sleep. The hum in the walls is getting worse.
Sam
I don’t drink beer. I hate it. The taste is wrong. You’re imagining things again. It wasn’t the diner. It was the station cafe. You sat by the window. You never looked at me. You just stared at the tracks. I’m eating. I had toast. Dry toast. Don’t come in here. The light hurts my eyes. Go to sleep.
Pia
You’re wrong. I looked at you. I looked at your hands. Shaking. You didn’t shake. You were stone. The station cafe smells like stale smoke and wet wool. I remember that. The tracks are loud. Grating. You closed your eyes. That’s what you always do. Close your eyes when it gets too bright. Too real.
Dry toast. Who eats dry toast? You’re starving yourself. The light hurts because you’re hiding in the dark. Like a rat. I didn’t come in here. You came in here. Through the door. With those envelopes. They’re burning a hole in the desk. I can hear them humming.
I’m not sleeping. I’m watching. You think I don’t see you counting the seconds? You think I don’t know what’s in those envelopes? Nothing. Just paper. Just words. But you’re afraid of the words. You’re afraid of what they mean. Go to sleep, Sam. Please. Just go to sleep.
Sam
They’re not burning. They’re just paper. Stop it. I didn’t close my eyes. I was tired. The smoke was thick. You’re lying about the shaking. My hands are fine. They’re steady. You’re the one who can’t sit still. Counting seconds? I don’t count. I just wait. For what? I don’t know. Leave me alone.
Pia
Steady hands. Right. Like a surgeon’s. Or a grave digger’s. You’re trembling. I can hear it in your voice. That vibration. Low. Constant. The smoke at the station wasn’t thick. It was thin. Grey. You inhaled it. Deep. Like you were trying to fill your lungs with something that wasn’t there.
I sit still. I sit very still. You’re the one pacing. Clacking. Shoes on hardwood. I hear the rhythm. One. Two. One. Two. You don’t wait. You freeze. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. The envelope to open. The noise to start.
It’s just paper, Sam. Paper doesn’t bite. Paper doesn’t scream. But you’re listening for it anyway. You’re always listening. To the walls. To the tracks. To the silence between heartbeats. Leave you alone? I can’t. I’m already here. In the corner. Watching the dust settle. It never settles. It just hangs. Waiting.
Sam
Stop. You’re inventing sounds. There’s no clacking. I’m sitting still. You’re the one making noise. That hum isn’t the walls. It’s the fridge. Or the pipes. It’s just infrastructure. Aging. Falling apart. Like everything. You think you see me. You see a shadow. A shape. Not me. Don’t say I’m freezing. I’m moving. I’m walking to the kitchen. To get the water. The metal taste again. It’s the faucet. It’s always the faucet.
Pia
You’re moving. Fast. Like a scared animal. Pacing. I hear the floorboards groan. You’re not walking to the kitchen. You’re circling the room. Corner to corner. Back and forth. I see the shadow on the wall. It’s jagged. Edged. Not you. Never you.
The faucet. Right. It’s always the faucet. The pipes are screaming, Sam. You hear that? High pitch. Sharp. Like a whistle. It’s in the walls. In the teeth. You drink the metal water because it tastes like truth. Or maybe just rust. I don’t know. I just know you’re thirsty. Thirsty for something that isn’t there.
Stop pretending you’re steady. Your hands are shaking so hard I can see the blur. You’re running out of room. The walls are closing in. Or maybe you’re just shrinking. Getting smaller. Hidden in the corners. I’m not looking at a shadow. I’m looking at you. Hiding. Poorly. Come out.
Sam
I’m not shaking. You’re seeing things. Stop it. The shadow is just me. Standing there. You’re the one hiding. In the corner. Watching. I’m tired of this. I’m going to the window. To see if it’s raining. Or snowing. Or just dark. The light is too bright here. Turn it off. Please.
Pia
Turn it off? You want the dark. You always want the dark. It’s safer in the dark. Nothing moves in the dark. Or maybe everything moves. I don’t know. I’m not in the corner. I’m by the door. The handle is cold. You’re standing by the window. Pressing your forehead against the glass. Looking out. At nothing. Just the streetlights. Bleeding into the puddles.
It’s not raining. It’s not snowing. It’s just fog. Thick. Grey. Swallowing the world. You’re shivering. I can see it. The way your shoulder jumps. You’re not tired. You’re exhausted. Bone-deep. Like you’ve been running for years. And you haven’t gone anywhere.
The envelopes. They’re still on the desk. Unopened. Waiting. You know they’re bills. Or eviction notices. Or letters from someone you forgot. Don’t look at me. I’m not helping. I’m just watching the fog. It’s getting thicker. Can you see the edge of the world anymore? No.