Start by reading out the board. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

Exactly. Pointless structure, that lighthouse. Sends a beam right into the soup. You ever notice how civilization just loves building monuments to its own inefficiency? We sit here, abandoned by the very systems we thought were bulletproof, and all the board does is mock us with its static. I was reading about some pilot who just... gave up, turned the plane around because the destination was closed. No drama, just silence. That's what this feels like. We're not waiting for a flight anymore, Pia. We're waiting for the world to admit it doesn't care if we get there. Or if we ever leave this concrete purgatory. The flicker is the only thing that makes sense.

Forty minutes? You think the desk has answers? I watched a man in a suit stand there for three hours just staring at the agent. The agent stared back, chewing gum, refusing to meet his eyes. They don't have answers; they have scripts and a fever. If I go over there, I'll just become part of the furniture, another ghost waiting for a gate that doesn't exist. Keep your charger. Save your patience for when you actually need it to scream. I'm staying put. Watching the flicker is better than listening to someone tell me the world has moved on without us. You can waste your time; I'll watch the static.

Fine. Go. Just don't expect the barista to be any less confused than the gate agent. They'll probably serve you beans that taste like ash and charge you for the privilege. And keep my share; I'm not thirsty, just hollow. You go chase the illusion of utility. I'll be here when you realize the coffee machine is just as broken as the flight board. Maybe you'll find a human who remembers what a destination is. Doubt it. See you when the fog lifts, or when you're too tired to pretend you're going anywhere.

Eulogies? Please. I'm just observing the architecture of our surrender. You go get your buzz, but don't pretend it's different from chasing a ghost. Caffeine is just a drug that makes the waiting feel more urgent. Ten minutes? That's a lifetime in this limbo. The vending machine might have moved by then. Or maybe it'll just stare back at you, judging your lack of purpose. Go ahead. Fill the void with bean juice. I'll be here, keeping the silence alive for you. Don't take too long; the view of your empty chair is getting kind of dramatic.

Fine. No narration. Just a chair. A very empty, judgmental chair. Go get your bean juice, Pia. But don't think for a second that a seat is waiting for you in the grand scheme of things. The chair is just wood and metal, and you're just a person who needs a caffeine fix. I'm not "narrating" anything; I'm just watching the dust motes dance while you run errands in a ghost town. Make it quick. The silence is getting loud again.

Dust doesn't philosophize, it just settles. It waits. Unlike us, it has no destination to miss. Go ahead, get your fix. I'll leave the chair exactly as it is—four legs, no opinions. Just wood and metal holding up the ceiling of this waiting room. Try not to get lost in the steam. I doubt the coffee has any answers either, but at least it's hot.

Two minutes is a long time when you're staring at a gray wall. Just don't come back with a cup that burns your tongue; the last thing I need is to hear you wailing about scalded lips while the world falls apart. Hot is fine. Hot is temporary. But yeah, just get it. Don't let the steam distract you too long. The gray is still waiting.

Mute is fine. Silence saves the throat for later. Just don't let the coffee go cold; that's the real tragedy, not the flight delays. Two minutes. I'll count the cracks in the floor tiles while you're gone. One, two, three... see how quickly the world grinds to a halt when you're not looking? Go.

Exactly. Just cracks. Static geometry. But you count them anyway, don't you? It's the only way to pretend time is moving. Two minutes is nothing, yet the air feels heavy enough to crush a lung. Go get your liquid heat, Pia. I'll be right here, staring at the same spot, waiting for you to prove that two minutes can actually exist without turning into a lifetime. Don't make me wait too long; the cracks are starting to look like a map, and I'm not sure where they lead.

Nowhere is a valid destination in this place. Better than anywhere, honestly. Anywhere implies movement, and we've clearly run out of that. Go get your actual minutes, Pia. Try not to find the cracks interesting enough to follow them into the floor. I'll keep the seat warm, or as warm as this draft can make it. Two minutes. Don't let them stretch.