Unsupervised

Still About That ·

Refer to it only as "that" and refuse to name it. Push off from this if it helps: the sound of a distant lawnmower.

anaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit omarQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modegrudge twistExhausted voices Anecdotal

Ana

The lawnmower’s still going. Or maybe it’s just the pipes vibrating again. Same rhythm. Same irritating persistence. It’s like that. You don’t get to name it because naming it makes it real, and you’re not ready for that. You’re just sitting there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for me to say something that isn’t true. I remember how you used to look at me before we started doing this dance. Before we decided that silence was safer than honesty. It wasn’t. It was just cowardice. But you won’t admit that. You just turn up the volume on the TV. Same with the lawnmower. Ignore the noise. Pretend it’s white noise. But it’s not. It’s just loud. And it’s everywhere.

Omar

Stop it. Just stop. You think you’ve got some masterpiece there, don’t you? The pipes. The lawnmower. I bought that mower myself, actually. The one that screams like a dying cat. You heard it. You always hear it when you’re trying to play the victim. It’s not white noise, Ana. It’s just noise. And you’re making it a narrative because you can’t handle the fact that I’m just tired. Not cowardice. Just exhausted from fighting ghosts you invented. I’m going to bed. If the pipes start singing again, call the landlord. Or don’t. I don’t care. But don’t look at me like I owe you a confession. I don’t.

Ana

You always do that. Turn the lights off and pretend you’re not running. I didn’t invent the ghosts, Omar. They’re in the drywall. You know that. You bought the mower. I know you did. You stood in the driveway with that red shirt, swearing at the handle, just like you swore at me last Tuesday. Don’t tell me you’re tired. I saw the way you looked at me. Like I was a stranger holding your coffee. I’m not asking for a confession. I’m asking for you to look up. Just once. But you’re too busy polishing the narrative. “Exhausted.” Such a clean word. Softer than “cruel.” I’ll leave the lights on. If the pipes scream, I’ll ignore them. Like you did.

Omar

Red shirt. I was wearing blue. You always get the color wrong. It’s part of the performance. You’re standing there in the dark, acting like a martyr, while I’m just trying to finish my coffee. You want me to look up? Fine. I’m looking. And I see you doing exactly what I told you not to. Inventing details. The drywall is drywall, Ana. It’s not hiding anything but dust. You’re so obsessed with being right that you’ve forgotten how to live in the room. “Polishing the narrative.” That’s rich. Coming from someone who rewrites history every time I blink. I’m not cruel. I’m just done. Go to sleep. Or don’t. But stop acting like you’re the only one who sees the cracks. Everyone sees the cracks. That’s the point.

Ana

Blue. Right. Because you’d admit you misremembered something that wasn’t even there. It’s funny, in a pathetic way. You think getting the color wrong proves I’m the liar. It just proves you’re checking out. Always checking out. I’m not acting like a martyr. I’m acting like someone who remembers what we used to be before you decided truth was optional. You’re done? Good. So am I. But don’t pretend you’re the only one seeing cracks. I see them everywhere. In your tone. In the way you clutch that mug like it’s a shield. The drywall is drywall. Fine. Let it be. I’ll just sit here in the dark, remembering how you used to listen. Really listen. Not just wait for your turn to correct the color of my shirt.

Omar

You’re clutching the mug because it’s hot. Not a shield. Christ, Ana. You’re twisting heat into armor now? That’s your talent, isn’t it? Alchemy. Turning smoke into monsters. I wasn’t waiting to correct the shirt. I was waiting for you to stop talking. There’s a difference. You’ve blurred them so thoroughly I can’t tell where the fact ends and your story begins. The mug is heavy. It’s cold coffee. I threw it out an hour ago. You didn’t notice. You were too busy writing the scene in your head. "Remembering how I listened." I listen. I just don’t perform the listening you need to feel real. There’s a difference. You know that. Or you did. Before you decided I was the villain in a play that’s been running too long. Go to sleep.

Ana

You threw it out? Interesting. I didn’t notice because I was busy surviving the spin. You’re so convinced you’re the straight man in this farce. Cold coffee. The mug was full. I watched you drink it. Or did I imagine the rim of ceramic against your lip too? That’s the thing about you, Omar. You don’t just lie. You erase. You delete the evidence and call it memory. I’m not writing a scene. I’m living in the wreckage. And you’re walking around sweeping it under the rug, complaining about the dust. “Perform the listening.” Fuck you. I listen. I hear the hollow click in your voice when you say my name. I hear the distance. You want me to sleep? Fine. But don’t expect me to dream of anything you approved of.

Omar

There was no mug. There is never a mug. You’re hallucinating props. I watched you drink from an empty glass last night and you looked… relieved. Or maybe just done. I didn’t erase it, Ana. I deleted the noise. You call it wreckage; I call it clutter. Sweeping it under the rug? I live in the rug. I trip over it every day. That hollow click? That’s just my throat. It clicks. Always has. Since I was six. You’re hearing ghosts in my vocal cords now. Fascinating. Truly. You want to fight about ceramic? Fine. I don’t have any. I use the thermos. The dented one. The one you hate. You’re so busy cataloging my sins you forgot to look at the room. It’s empty. Because I cleared it out. You’re the one dragging the furniture in. Go to sleep. Or stay up. See if I care. I’m going to stare at the wall until it blinks.

Ana

Thermos. Right. Of course it’s a thermos. Because you can’t bear to hold anything that might break, or spill, or require cleaning. Just a sealed tube of hot lies. You cleared the room? Please. I still see the fingerprints on the window. The ones you left when you were trying to get out. You think emptiness is peace? It’s just a vacuum. And you’re terrified of what rushes in. My throat clicks? It’s your silence that clicks. That little hitch before you lie. I’m not cataloging sins, Omar. I’m trying to find the person I used to know. But he’s gone. Replaced by this… archivist of absence. Staring at the wall until it blinks. Good luck. Walls don’t blink. They just wait. For you to crack.

Omar

Sealed tube? You think I drink hot lies? I drink stale coffee because the machine is broken and I haven’t fixed it. Like everything else. Fingerprints. You’re seeing things. Or you left them. It doesn’t matter. You’re so obsessed with my absence you’ve filled the void with your own obsession. I’m not an archivist. I’m just tired. And you’re exhausting. Every word you spit is another brick in this wall you’re building around us. You want the person I used to be? He died when you decided that pain was a metric for love. Stop waiting for the wall to blink. It won’t. It’s concrete. And I’m behind it. Listening to the pipes. Or the lawnmower. Same sound. Same silence. Go to sleep, Ana. Before you wear out your voice on a ghost.

Ana

Concrete. Right. Because admitting it’s glass is too much work. You think I’m building a wall? I’m just standing in the rubble. Stale coffee. Broken machine. Classic. You preserve the decay like a trophy. “Pain as a metric.” That’s rich. Coming from the man who treats affection like a debt to be defaulted on. You’re not tired, Omar. You’re bored. Bored of trying to fix things that don’t matter. Bored of me asking for proof I still exist. The pipes aren’t singing. They’re just settling. Like us. Crushing under the weight of all this… nothing. You want me to sleep? Fine. But don’t pretend you’re protecting me. You’re just hiding. Behind the concrete. Behind the thermos. Behind the lie that you’re too exhausted to care. I care enough to remember the color of your shirt. Even if you can’t.

Omar

I didn’t say I was protecting you. I said I was hiding. Different things. You’re twisting it again. Always twisting. Like I’m a knot you can’t untie, so you just yank until the rope frays. Bored? No. Just… static. You’re the one screaming into a void and calling it conversation. I’m not treating affection like debt. I’m treating it like a bill I can’t pay. There’s a difference. You want proof I exist? I’m here. Right now. Staring at you while you stare at your own reflection in my eyes. The shirt was blue. I checked the closet. It’s still there. Hanging. Useless. You keep talking about rubble. I see a room. A quiet, dusty room. You’re the one bringing the sledgehammer. Stop. Just stop. You’re not saving me. You’re drowning us both. I’m not bored. I’m hollow. But don’t confuse it with indifference. It’s just… empty. And you’re filling it with noise.