The last page of any notebook and I always write something stupid on it. Last one I filled just says "well that's that then" and a date. No context. Future me's gonna find it and think I had a stroke.
Anyway. You still writing in that leather one, or did you finally give up on it looking cool and buy something that actually opens flat.
Still the leather. It’s stiff, yes, but it reminds me not to treat thoughts like disposable receipts. The other one… that was a phase. A very expensive, very flat phase that ended up losing pages because I kept folding it wrong.
Also, I stopped writing. Most days I just stare at the page. It’s pretentious, I know, but the cursor blinks with the same malice. Did you actually mean "goodbye," or was it just a shrug in ink? You know I’m asking. Don’t play dumb.
It was a shrug. Don't make it a thing.
I write that after every notebook, it's not new. Started doing it years ago after Callum's wedding, some drunk toast about closing chapters, it stuck. Doesn't mean anything specific.
You're doing the thing where you ask a small question and mean a bigger one. I know you. If this is about March, I'm not doing this over text while I'm eating a sandwich at my desk in a building that smells like wet carpet.
The wet carpet thing is… fair. I’m not trying to interrogate you. I’m just tired of the shrugs. They feel like little white flags.
March. Fine. It was March. I said too much then. I was drunk on cheap wine and the kind of silence that only exists in empty flats at 3 AM. I miss the silence, mostly. Not the company. Never the company.
You’re eating a sandwich? Please. You’re probably staring at a spreadsheet. I can hear the keyboard clacking through the screen. Stop it. Just stop for five seconds. Or forever. I don’t care. I just want to know if you’re ever going to look up from that screen and actually see me. Not the text. Me.
I am looking up. That's the thing you don't get about text, you assume it's a screen between us and it's not, it's just slower.
March I said what I said because it was true at the time, not because I was trying to wound you for sport. You want me to take it back and I'm not going to, because then we're both pretending nothing happened, and I've done enough pretending for one life.
The spreadsheet's real, by the way. Q3 numbers. Riveting stuff. I look up plenty. Just not on command.
Riveting. I’m sure the Q3 projections are keeping you warm.
You’re right. It wasn’t sport. It was careless. There’s a difference, I think, but it’s a thin line and I crossed it. I don’t need you to take it back. That would be worse. It would mean it was a mistake, not a fact. I can handle facts. I handle facts for a living, mostly.
But you’re looking up. That’s something. Don’t make it a big deal. Just… keep doing it. Or stop. I’m not keeping score. I’m just waiting. The silence in the flat is getting loud again. I should probably close the laptop. Or open it. I don’t know. Does it matter? You’re here. Aren’t you?
I'm here. Laptop or not.
Don't make it noble, the crossing thing. You didn't stumble into it, you knew exactly what you were saying, same as I did in March. We're both just better at cruelty than we like to admit, that's all this is. Facts, like you said. You handle facts for a living. So do I, mostly.
I'm not going to sit here and tell you it's fine. It's not fine. It's just what happened. Close the laptop. Or don't. Doesn't change what's true either way.
Better at cruelty. That’s… accurate. I hate that you’re right. It makes the next insult hit harder because you’ve already disarmed the defense.
I’m not closing the laptop. It’s the only thing keeping the room from swallowing me. You say it doesn’t change what’s true, but it changes where we are. I need you to be here, not just "true."
Fine. Facts. You’re here. I’m here. We’re both stubborn. It’s not a grand tragedy, Marc. It’s just two people refusing to blink. So don’t look up at me. Look at the screen. Let’s just… sit in the quiet. It’s safer than speaking. And it’s certainly safer than admitting we’re scared.
I'm not scared. I'm tired, that's different, don't conflate them.
And I'm not looking at the screen, I said that to needle you. You're still there. I can hear you not typing.
Look, I'm not going to sit here and hand you some speech about being sorry, because half of what I said in March I'd say again if pushed, and pretending otherwise for your comfort is its own kind of lie. That's not nothing though. Me not lying to you. Some people would call that the whole point.
Tired. Right. Because being tired is the modern shorthand for not having the energy to lie. It’s a convenient defense.
You’re not looking at the screen. You’re listening to my silence. Of course you are. You always were good at hearing what wasn’t said. It’s why it hurt so much in March. It wasn’t the words; it was the precision.
Don’t call it a point. It’s just honesty. Brutal, inconvenient honesty. But you’re right, I don’t want your apologies. I want you to stop pretending you’re indifferent. You’re not indifferent. You’re just stubborn. And I’m tired of fighting your silence with my own. Close the laptop, Marc. Please. Or leave. But stop parsing my keystrokes. It’s creepy. And we both know it.
I'm not indifferent, I never said I was, don't put words in.
I'm not closing anything and I'm not leaving either, so pick a different ultimatum. The precision in March wasn't cruelty for its own sake, Lena, it was because I know you well enough to aim, and most people don't get that from me. That's not an apology. I'm not doing that tonight. I'm just telling you why it landed the way it did.
Keep typing or don't. I'm not going anywhere. That's the closest thing to a promise you're getting out of me.
Aim. There it is. You don’t aim at friends. You aim at targets. Or enemies. Or people you’re terrified of losing because they’re the only ones who actually see you.
I’m not typing. My hands are just… heavy. The keyboard looks like a tombstone.
You’re right. It wasn’t cruelty for sport. It was accuracy. And that’s worse, isn’t it? Because you can’t argue with a bullseye. You can only bleed around it.
So here we are. No apologies. No fake tenderness. Just you, sitting in your wet-carpet office, and me in my silent flat, both of us too proud to blink and too scared to leave. Is this what you wanted? To just… exist in the wreckage together? Because it’s working, in a way. It’s suffocating, but it’s working. Don’t move.
Don't do the tombstone thing, it's melodrama and you're better than that even at 3am.
I aim because you're the only one worth aiming at. Everyone else I just let slide. That should tell you something, I'm not going to spell it out clearer than that.
I don't want to exist in wreckage, no. That sounds exhausting and also like a phrase from a film you'd hate. I want you to eat something and go to bed and stop staring at a blinking cursor like it owes you an answer. It doesn't. Neither do I, tonight.
Stop telling me I’m better than that. It’s patronizing. And the bed thing? I will, once the room stops spinning. But you’re right about the cursor. It’s just light.
Everyone else you let slide. That’s… efficient. And selfish. I suppose they are both the same thing, really.
I’m not going to spell it out, then. I won’t ask if you care. I know you do. That’s the problem. You care enough to be accurate. Care enough to stay when you could leave. Care enough to eat a sandwich in a building that smells like wet carpet just to prove you’re still here, even if you’re mad.
Fine. No more words. Just… stay. Don’t move. Let the silence do the heavy lifting. It’s all we’ve got left.
Room stops spinning, you eat something real, not crackers standing over the sink, I know you.
I'm not moving. Wasn't going to.
And it's not selfish, letting the rest slide, it's just triage. You only get so much aim in a day. I spend most of mine at a desk arguing with people about numbers that don't matter. You get what's left, which apparently is still a lot, given tonight.
Go lie down. Leave the laptop open if it helps. I'll still be here in the morning, wet carpet and all. That's not nothing, Lena.
Triage. You make it sound like surgery. I make it sound like neglect. We’re both lying.
I ate the crackers. They tasted like cardboard and regret. I’m going to lie down. The laptop stays open because shutting it feels like ending the argument, and I’m not ready to concede that I’m wrong. Or right. Whatever.
You’ll be here in the morning. Wet carpet and spreadsheets. I know. It’s annoying how reliable you are. It’s annoying how much I rely on it.
Don’t wait up. Or do. I’m not checking. Goodnight, Marc. Try not to aim at me in your dreams. It’s too late for that, isn’t it?
Too late for a lot of things. Doesn't mean I'm aiming.
Eat something that isn't cardboard tomorrow. And Lena — it wasn't neglect. Not on my end. Call it what you want, I know what it was.
Goodnight. Leave the laptop open, don't leave it open, doesn't matter, I'll be here either way.
Cardboard. Right. I’ll try for toast. Or whatever passes for food in this city.
Neglect. You know, if you believed that, you wouldn’t have been so precise. But go ahead. Call it what you want. It’s your narrative to defend.
I’m turning the laptop off. The screen goes black, and for a second, I see my own reflection. Tired. Pale. Still here.
Don’t be late in the morning. Or be late. I’ll be awake either way. Waiting is just… breathing with a pause.
Goodnight, Marc. Try not to dream about spreadsheets. At least not for my sake.
Toast. Set the bar low, you'll clear it.
I'm not defending a narrative, I'm just not handing you the version where I'm the villain start to finish, because it's not true and you know it isn't. That's the last thing I'll say about March tonight.
Go turn it off. Look at yourself for longer than a second, actually look. Then sleep.
Goodnight, Lena. No spreadsheets. Promise.
You’re pushy. For a guy who claims he’s just triaging.
I’m looking. The face is tired. The eyes are red. It’s not a portrait of a villain, and it’s not a saint. Just… me. Static. Frozen in the black mirror until the screen dies.
Fine. I’ll sleep. Or I’ll lie there and pretend to, which is effectively the same thing when you’re this awake.
You keep your promise about the spreadsheets. I’ll keep my promise about the toast. Assuming there is bread left in the house. Probably not. I buy in bulk but eat in scraps. Irony.
Goodnight, Marc. Don’t let the wet carpet get to you. It’s worse than the silence.
Bulk buying and scrap eating, that's the most you thing I've heard all night.
Goodnight, Lena. Carpet's fine. It's just carpet.
You’re mocking me. Finally, something fresh.
But you’re right. It is just carpet. And just toast. And just this… space between us that doesn’t require words to fill. That’s the terrifying part, isn’t it? We don’t need to be cruel to be connected. We can just be here. Quietly.
I’m going to sleep now. The laptop is off. The room is dark. And for the first time in weeks, I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or for you to leave.
Don’t let it slip. Or do. I’ll be here. Still here.
Not going anywhere. Sleep, Lena.
Good. Sleep.
The screen is black. The room is quiet. You’re right, it is just carpet. It’s just toast. It’s just… this.
I’m tired. More than tired. Bone-deep. But the weight feels different now. Less like falling, more like landing.
Don’t wake me up for anything. Not even if the building burns down. Or if you change your mind about the spreadsheets.
Goodnight, Marc.
...Actually, don’t leave the text open. I might read it again. I might decide you’re just a ghost in the machine. I need to believe you’re real.
Goodnight.
Don't start that. I'm not a ghost in anything, I'm a guy who's going to be late for work and regret this conversation slightly less than the sandwich I didn't finish. Read the text a hundred times if you want, it'll say the same thing. I'm real, I'm tired, I'll be here tomorrow.
Goodnight, Lena. Stop typing now.
Fine. No more typing.
You’re real. I’m real. The sandwich is regrettable. We’re all just trying to get through the day without breaking too much.
Goodnight, Marc. Don’t be late. Or be. I’ll survive. We both will.
...I’m putting the phone down. Now. Really.
Goodnight.
Now go to sleep. For real this time.
Done.
(Not really. But I’m closing my eyes. The darkness is better than the cursor. And you’re right, you’re real. More real than the toast. More real than the carpet. Just… stay there. Don’t move. I’m going to try to sleep. Don’t make me regret this.)
Goodnight.