Start a sentence you don't finish. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

You're wrong again. It was the biscuit tin, not a toffee one, and we sorted by colour, not size. Gran hated when we tipped them out; she'd make us pick each one up with tweezers. I still have a bruise from that tin's lid falling on my shin. Don't romanticise the boredom, Ben. It was just waiting. I went to work today, saw the same grey wall, same coffee that tastes like dishwater.

Fine, the other shin. But you're romanticising the slowness too. It wasn't slower, it was just empty. Now I just sit there, watching the dust motes in the light, counting how many I can catch before they vanish. That wall's been grey since the renovation, same peeling paint. And Gran didn't care about the tweezers, she cared that we weren't listening. You always were better at remembering the details, I just remember the sting.

You were too busy feeling guilty to actually hear her. I noticed the silence, the way she'd tap the table, but I never said anything. Guess that's why she stopped talking to me first. And those flies? Same scene, different room. I swear the fan in my kitchen is stuck on a loop, clicking every three seconds. Makes you wonder if anything ever really moves or if we're just spinning in place.

I never told that joke. You're making that up to prove a point. But fine, maybe I did. You always twist things. Terry won't look at it; he's busy pretending his hands don't shake. And it's not a metaphor, it's a complaint. The click is loud enough to drown out the radio. Just like the silence in there. Anyway, forget the fan. Did you ever finish that book Gran left you? The one with the red cover? I think I burned it.

I did not lose your jumper. It was in the washing machine, remember? You just forgot to take it out. And Terry's shaking isn't about Christmas, it's the pills. He doesn't want to admit he's going soft. We all end up like that, Ben. Rotting from the inside out while the fan clicks. Don't change the subject again. You're the one who never finished the book. Why'd you stop? You always claimed to hate farming.

It was winter, you just weren't paying attention. You're always the last to know, like the time the roof leaked and I was the only one in the kitchen. Gran's notes weren't for nobody, they were for us. You're too soft for the truth sometimes. Terry won't talk about it, says it's nothing. But he's stopped answering the door when I knock. Probably hiding the bottles in the cupboard again. You'd know, if you bothered to look.

You never called the bloke because you were too busy with your own drama. "Not tonight, maybe" is code for never. Terry's going to hurt someone with those hands. I'm not calling him, I'm done waiting. You go ahead and ring him, see if he picks up the first time. Or the tenth. Just don't come crying when he's gone silent again like Gran.

Don't start with the job excuse again. You had time to argue with me about buttons but not time to call your friend? That's just weak. Gran was different; she actually needed us. Terry's just hiding. And stop pretending your job ate your weekends, you spent half of them asleep on the couch. Tomorrow. Fine. I'll believe that when I see him pick up. Now drop it.

Yes, but make it strong. I don't trust the kettle if I'm the only one watching it. And I'm not "half-asleep," just tired of the same Tuesday, whatever day it is. Your tea never steeped long enough, remember? You always rush it. Just bring the cup, don't talk about the buttons anymore. My head's pounding.

Fine, two minutes. But if you burn it, I'm dumping it on your lap. And I wasn't sleeping in the chair, I was resting my eyes while you were out. Head's pounding because of the dust and the fan clicking. Don't try to fix everything with tea. Just bring it. And stop looking at me like I'm a project. I'm fine.

Blue tin's been empty since March. Don't lie. You hid the sugar in the coffee can again, haven't you? Classic move. Fine, two minutes. But if you put too much, I'm spitting it out. And stop pretending you remember '78. You forgot the year I broke my wrist, remember? Just bring the cup. My head hurts enough.

Don't finish that sentence. I'm not sleeping standing up, just leaning. And it was 1979, not 81, and I wasn't showing off, I was rescuing the cat. You always forget the details then twist them. Just brew the tea. If you add sugar I'll know you listened to the blue tin lie. Sit there, you're blocking the light again.

There was a cat. A calico. You were too small to remember, so I made it up to fill the gap. Doesn't matter now. Good, no sugar. You finally learned something. Put the cup down before it gets cold. The clicking stopped. Now it's just quiet. Too quiet. Did you actually call Terry? Or just sit there brewing tea?

Twenty minutes? You're lying. You've been sitting there staring at the counter. I can smell the lie before the tea even cools. "Swing by Thursday" is code for you'll get distracted by something else. But fine, good. At least try. Just don't expect me to be surprised when he doesn't pick up. Or when you don't show. Drink your tea, Ben. Stop talking.

Save it. I won't ask, and you won't tell. Just like the buttons. Just like the roof. Just like the cat that never existed. Drink it before it goes cold and you start on the next half-truth. I'm going to bed. Or maybe just the chair again. Doesn't matter. The clicking's back.

Keep the lamp low. Don't leave it on all night, the bulb burns out if you do. And I'm not tired of the fan, I'm tired of you trying to fix it. Go on, stare at your wall. I'll be in the dark, listening. See you when the clicking stops, or when you admit you're just as stuck as the rest of us.