That dog. It doesn’t look at you because it’s waiting for the other person to come back. Or maybe it just knows you’re lying to yourself. I saw that same look on Miller’s face when he packed his box yesterday. Didn’t say a word. Just kept looking at the door. Like he was expecting someone who never showed. Or maybe someone who was already there and he just refused to see. You remember that, right? You were standing right there.
I recall the box. Heavy oak. He moved it with a precision that suggested rehearsed indifference, not shock. Miller has always been adept at curating his own abandonment. It is a performance he stages for his own benefit, really. A way to maintain agency in a situation where he surrendered it months ago. The dog, meanwhile, is merely biological. Waiting for a hand that will not return is instinct, not insight. You project narrative onto silence because you find your own internal monologue lacking in drama. Please, stop looking for ghosts in the eyes of animals and former colleagues. It is exhausting.
Exhausting. Right. I’m the one performing here. You’re just observing the mechanics. Like a scientist. Dissecting Miller’s box to prove he’s just a man, not a martyr. But the oak was heavy. Too heavy for indifference. And the dog... the dog isn’t biological to me. Not when it’s staring at that empty doorway. You say I project. Maybe. But you’re the one who walked away from the dinner. You left the plate half-full. Same precision. Ivo, are you listening? Or are you just waiting for me to finish so you can correct me?
I am listening. The plate was cold; the meal was insipid. My departure was a function of mutual ennui, not dramatic flair. You insist on framing a Tuesday evening as a crucifixion. Miller’s box was merely furniture. Oak is common. The weight was logistical, not symbolic. You are clinging to these metaphors because the reality of our stagnation is too mundane to bear. If you require a villain to explain your loneliness, Miller is an available cast member. But do not mistake my silence for suspension of disbelief. I am merely tired of your theatricality.
Stagnation. Is that what you call it? Miller’s box wasn’t oak. It was particleboard. I saw the veneer peeling at the corner. He dragged it, Ivo. It screeched. A sound like nails on a chalkboard. I remember because I was holding the door. You didn’t hear it. You were looking at your phone. Always looking somewhere else. That’s the point. The dog doesn’t look at you because it knows you’re not really there. You’re just… present. Like a ghost haunting your own life. I’m tired of the games, Ivo. I’m tired of being the one who notices the peeling veneer.
Particleboard. How tedious. You insist on reducing everything to cheap materials to avoid the messiness of intent. The screech was irrelevant. I was not ignoring you; I was disengaged. There is a distinction. You mistake my boredom for malice because you require constant validation to feel real. The dog looks at the door because it expects food, not absolution. And I am not a ghost. I am simply bored of your frantic need to annotate every mundane interaction with cosmic significance. It is relentless. Truly.
You’re bored. Of course. That’s always the shield. Boredom is so clean. So safe. No mess. I was holding the door, Ivo. The hinges were rusted. I could feel the vibration in my palm. You didn’t even look up. Just scrolling. Thumb moving like it had a mind of its own. Or maybe just yours. You say I annotate. Fine. But you’re the one who left the plate. Cold. Half-full. Like you were already gone. The dog knows. It always knows when someone’s checked out. Even if they’re sitting right there. Even if they’re staring at a screen.
The hinge vibrated because you gripped it too tightly. You were projecting your anxiety onto the metal. I was not checking out; I was conserving energy. The dinner was a social obligation, poorly executed on both sides. You interpret my silence as abandonment because you are terrified of being alone with your own thoughts. The dog does not know anything. It has no concept of presence. It has instincts. Stop anthropomorphizing the stray. It is insulting to the animal, and frankly, to me. I am here. I am present. But I am not yours to monitor.
Conserving energy. Right. That’s what you call it when you vanish. I gripped the hinge because it was cold. The metal bit into my skin. I was trying to feel something real, Ivo. Something that didn’t come from you. The dog isn’t a stray. It’s mine. Or was. Before you started treating people like furniture to be moved with precision. You’re not present. You’re just… occupying space. Like dust on that particleboard box. I can’t breathe when you look at me like that. Like I’m the one who’s lost my mind. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the only honest thing I’ve said all week.
You are not losing your mind. You are simply exhausting. The dog is neither yours nor mine; it is a creature that eats and sleeps. Your fixation on its ownership is a projection of your desire for control. I did not treat people like furniture. I treated them with the indifference they requested. You demand intensity where none exists. That is your failing, not mine. The dust is irrelevant. Breathe. It is a biological function, not a philosophical stance. Stop trying to make my existence a verdict on your own. It is pathetic. Truly.
Pathetic. There it is. The verdict. I’m holding my breath, Ivo. Just breathing. In, out. It’s not a stance. It’s survival. You say indifference is what they requested. Did you ask? Or did you just assume? Because Miller didn’t ask. He just packed. And the dog? The dog looked at you. Really looked. Not at the door. At you. Because it knows you’re the one who left. You’re not present. You’re just… empty. And I’m tired of filling that space. Tired of being the ghost in your machine.
I did not ask. Why would I ask? It is inefficient. Miller packed because he chose to. The dog looked at you because you are staring at it. You are constructing a narrative where I am the void, the absence that drives everyone mad. It is convenient. If I am empty, then your pain has a source. If I am just indifferent, then your pain is just… yours. Unshared. Unacknowledged. I am not a machine. I am a man who wishes you would stop trying to haunt me. It is rude. And deeply, profoundly boring.
Rude. Boring. Exactly. I’m the nuisance. The ghost in the machine. Fine. Let me haunt you. Let me be the thing you can’t unsee. You say it’s inefficient to ask. Efficient. That’s the word you use for everything. For love. For anger. For leaving. But inefficiency is where the noise is, Ivo. The screech. The bite of the metal. The dog’s eyes. You want quiet? Go live in a vacuum. But you’re here. You’re breathing the same stale air. And you’re still looking away. Pathetic, you say. But you’re still listening. Even if it’s boring.
Listening is not agreement. It is merely the absence of a door slamming. You mistake my endurance for engagement. I am here because the alternative is silence, which is worse. But do not confuse tolerance with intimacy. I do not want to be haunted. I want to be left alone with my thoughts, which are rarely interesting. Your inefficiency is noisy. It disrupts the quiet I require to function. If you wish to be seen, try being interesting. Stop reciting your own pain as if it were a revelation. It is not. It is just... noise. And I have no ears left for it.