Start by mentioning it as though it were a joke. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

It's a joke, right? Some guy spends his whole life in a stone tower just to wave at ships that don't even want to look at him. It's pathetic, really. That's what you're doing, Omar. Standing there waiting for some kind of signal. I said what I said months ago. I didn't even bother calling because I was stuck at the office and the air conditioning was humming like a freezer. If that hurt you, maybe that was the truth, but I'm not going to apologize for being honest about the weight of the world. People are so obsessed with being seen, but they have no idea what the dark actually feels like. It's a tragedy of proportions.

"Existing." That's a convenient word for it, isn't it? It lets you off the hook of actually living. I was sitting there staring at the fluorescent lights flickering, realizing how much time we just waste while you're worried about energy. It's not about the phone, it's about the silence that follows when you hang up. I didn't call because I was cold, and because I didn't need a distraction from the fact that everything is drifting apart. You want me to be simple? Fine. But dont complain about the deconstruction when you never signed up for the friction. You just wanted the light.

An anchor? Please. You're barely a weight. You think you're being some martyr by walking away, but you're just admitting you're too tired to hold on to anything real. I didn't want an audience, I wanted someone to actually see the room for what it was. But you always liked the view. If you want to let it go, then go. The water is already deep anyway. I'm the one standing here with the wreckage of everything we promised not to become while you're just looking for the exit sign because the conversation required a bit of effort. It's a monumental failure, really, to be this cowardly just because the air got a bit heavy.

Swim? As if it's as simple as moving your arms. You talk like you're standing on dry land while I'm the one actually feeling the salt in the lungs. It's easy to be cold when you aren't the one paying the bill. You call it a performance because you can't handle the raw nerves of something that doesn't have a tidy ending. It's the tragedy of our generation—we'd rather watch the ship sink than pretend it isn't there. I'm not performing, I'm just the only one not lying to myself. If you want to leave me here, then leave. The door was always there.

"Things to do." The ultimate shield, isn't it? A schedule of trivialities to hide the fact that you have nothing left to say. You think you're breaking the script, but you're just following the oldest trope in the book—the one who leaves when the truth gets uncomfortable. I don't need to be a martyr; I'm just the one standing in the ruins while you're checking your watch. Fine. Go to your meetings. Be busy and pretend the world isn't tilting while you turn your back. It's a remarkable talent, really, this ability to replaced soul with a calendar.

You're always done right when it starts to matter. It's the perfect way out, isn't it? To declare the end because the silence started getting too loud. You call it a life, I call it a series of distractions to avoid looking in the mirror. You don't value anything without a crisis because the crisis is the only time you feel like you're allowed to be something real. Go live your quiet life. I'll be here with the wreckage and the flickering lights. At least I know what I'm looking at. It's a tragedy, Omar. A total, magnificent waste of everything.

Sleep is the ultimate retreat. You just close your eyes and pretend the world resets the moment you're off. It's so easy to be noble when you're unconscious. I don't need your validation, I never did, but it's funny how you think your absence is what gives the story any kind of weight. Go, then. I hope the dreams are quieter than the reality you're running from. I'll be here when you wake up, and the lights will still be flickering. They haven't moved an inch. Neither have you.

"Standing in the way." That's the truth, isn't it? I'm the obstacle to your peace of mind. You think my stillness is a weakness because it forces you to acknowledge the space you're occupying. You want the world to be empty so you can move through it without bumping into what you've left behind. Go to your sleep. The lights don't care if you see them or not; they just burn because that's what they were made for. I'll stay here, because someone has to be awake to watch the dark anyway. Goodnight, Omar. Try not to dream of the exit.

Silence. You treat it like it's a gift, but it's just the absence of everything we could have actually made. You think I'm afraid of being alone? I'm the only one who can stand the quiet without needing to fill it with noise. You need the silence because you can't stand the sound of your own thoughts in the space. Go ahead, hide in your void. It's the only place you don't have to be honest. I've always enjoyed the dark; it's the only thing that doesn't demand I be something more than it is.

A room. Right. Just four walls and a ceiling to keep you contained. You're tired of explaining the air because the air reminded you how much you've stopped breathing. You say you're done, but you've always been halfway out the door, even years ago. I'll keep my honesty—it's the only thing in this room that isn't hollowed out by convenience. Go to your room and your silence. I'll stay here with the weight of what matters. It's a tragedy, really, how much you trade the effort of being understood for the comfort of being alone.

A choice. Right. It's a choice to walk away when the terrain gets too difficult to navigate. You call it a burden because you don't have the strength to carry anything that actually carries meaning. You're finished with the performance? Maybe the performance was just me trying to reach the person you used to be there. Go to bed. Sleep in your world where everything is flat and nothing is heavy. I'll stay in the ruins because at least they're real. It's a monumental waste, Omar, choosing comfort over the truth, every single night.