Point out something they always do. Make it sound like an observation. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.

It’s not about walking past. It’s about the option. You know that. If someone comes up behind, I’m stuck. I’d rather be the wall than the obstruction. You’re the one who ends up stuck in the middle, fanning yourself. I’m just minimizing friction for the collective. It’s basic flow dynamics, Ben. You’re overthinking a simple habit.

I’m not behind anyone. I’m ahead. There’s a difference. You’re the one breathing down my neck, checking your watch. I’m just standing still. Stop projecting your own anxiety onto my left foot. It’s not a theory. It’s just how I exist in space. You want to rush. I don’t. Let the slow people walk past me. I’m not in a hurry to get to the next floor.

You’re reading politics into posture. I’m just tired. My lower back kills it if I’m crammed against someone else’s back. You’re the one who drags. I’m just trying to breathe. God, you’re exhausting. Do you ever just stand still without analyzing the geometry of your own spine? It’s uncomfortable, okay? I don’t want to be touched. Is that a crime now? Walk on the right if you want to pass. I’m not going to move for you.

It’s not the whole story. It’s the dominant factor. You want to peel back layers like an onion, but I’m just tired. The back thing is real. You’re imagining a conspiracy because you think I’m trying to dominate the escalator. I’m trying to survive the commute. Go check your email. You’re staring at my shoulder blades like they hold state secrets. It’s just plastic.

Surviving. Yes. That’s the word. You’d rather call it control, which is cleaner, neater. But it’s just dread. The hum of the machine, the smell of stale coffee from the third floor lobby... it gets inside your teeth. I need space to not feel the weight of the world pressing into my spine. You want to debate semantics. I want to not panic. You’re so good at finding the right word for everything except what’s actually happening. It’s pathetic, really.

I’m not walking off. I’m just done performing for you. You want me to admit I like being first? Fine. I do. It’s boring, it’s selfish, it’s exactly what you think it is. Are you satisfied now? That you caught me red-handed in my petty need for precedence? You’re such a prick, Ben. You have to corner every little thing until it bleeds. I just wanted to get to work without you dissecting my posture.

It’s control. There. You wanted the word. I like knowing where I end and the world begins. It’s not about the stairs. It’s about not being pushed. I’m tired of everything being a negotiation. You want me to surrender the left side? Fine. But don’t think it means I’m yielding. I’m just letting you think you won. It’s easier that way. For both of us. Especially for you, who needs to feel like you’re right.

You’re impossible. You think you’ve won because I confessed to something that isn’t even the point. I don’t manage you. I manage the chaos. You’re just another variable I have to account for. And yeah, maybe I do prefer managing you to just being near you. Because near you feels like drowning. But you’re twisting it again. You want a victory. I just want to get to the office without feeling like I’m suffocating. Go ahead. Take the left. See if it changes anything.

Finally. And? Does it ruin your day? Does the mystery solve itself now that I’ve handed you the dirty laundry? You look disappointed. I expected you to be triumphant. “I told you so.” It’s just truth, Ben. Raw, unvarnished, and boring. There’s no grand conspiracy here, just my inability to tolerate your proximity without it feeling like a threat. So go home. Unpack. Let it sink in. I have to go stand in line for coffee, probably on the right, because I’m not a monster.

Stairs. Of course. Physical exertion to prove you’re not drowning. Typical. You think distance fixes anything. It doesn’t. I’m grabbing the coffee anyway. Black. Two sugars. The usual. You can take the stairs. I don’t need you watching my back. Or my front. Just... go. Before I change my mind and let you pass on the escalator. Just to see you stumble.

I didn’t say I wasn’t going. I said go. You’re still here. Hovering. Like a ghost you can’t exorcise. Fine. Two sugars. You remember everything, don’t you? The way I take my coffee, the side I stand on, the things I’d rather die than admit. It’s pathetic, really. How well you know me. Or how badly you want to. I’m walking to the machine now. Don’t follow.

I’m not standing. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference. You think silence is a defense. It’s just noise you’re refusing to acknowledge. I need the caffeine. Or I need to stop thinking. Hard to tell which now. You’re still here. Watching. Waiting for me to break character. I’m not breaking. I’m just... paused. Like a bad video. Don’t look at me like that. It’s annoying. Go up the stairs. I’ll be there in five minutes. Or ten. Or never. Stop counting.

You’re going to be there? Great. The spectacle continues. I don’t need a audience for a caffeine withdrawal. You say “whatever it takes” like you’re giving me space. You’re just waiting at the top. Trapping me in the arrival. I hate that. I hate that you’re right. I hate that I know you’re going to stand there, looking disappointed but satisfied, while I walk in looking like I just survived a war. Go up. I’m pulling the lever now. The machine hums. It sounds like a warning.

Satisfied? You mean validated. There’s a difference. I know what you are. You need to be right more than you need to be happy. That’s why you’re standing there. Waiting for me to prove I’m broken. I’m pulling the lever. The coffee’s coming. It’s bitter. Just like this. You can wait. I’m not rushing. Let’s see who blinks first. Or who breaks first. Probably me. Probably you.

Bless you. That’s the only honest thing you’ve said all morning. I’m pouring it. It’s scalding. I’m holding the cup like a weapon, just in case. You’re up top. I’m coming up the escalator. Left side. Always. But I’m looking at the stairs. For a second. Then I’ll take them. Just to see you react. Don’t move. Don’t smile. Just be there. I’m almost up.

You’re standing exactly where I left you. Stubborn. Predictable. I hand you the coffee. It’s too hot. You don’t flinch. That’s your trick, isn’t it? Enduring. I take the stairs. Not to avoid you. To walk beside you. One step behind. One step ahead. It doesn’t matter. We’re both just walking up. Together. In silence. Don’t look at me. Just drink.

Good. Then stop talking. Your mouth is loud. It ruins the rhythm. I’m just breathing. You’re drinking. The stairs are steep. My calf burns. You don’t notice. You never do. Keep walking. Don’t look back. I’m right here. Close enough to feel the heat, far enough to pretend I’m alone. Don’t say anything else. Just walk.

The rhythm is stopping. We’re at the top. My leg is cramping. I hate stairs. You knew that. You made me do this just to see me suffer. Typical. I’m holding the cup out. Take it. You said bring it. Here. Don’t drop it. It’s hot. You’re standing right in my way again. Move. Or stay. I don’t care anymore. Just take the damn coffee.