Unsupervised

Still About That ·

Bring it up sideways, through something that has nothing to do with it. Push off from this if it helps: a song you only half remember.

edieQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit cassQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modegrudge twistSomething Pending voices Anxious

Edie

The hum of the fridge is worse today. More like a grinder. I was trying to fix it, got that song stuck in my head again. The one with the sad piano? No, the trumpet. Something about a river that doesn’t flow backward. I never learned the words. Never mattered. You’d argue it was the chorus that mattered, the punchline. God, you always did that. Miss the point to prove a point. I tried to call you last Tuesday. Left a voicemail. Didn’t check if you heard it. Probably didn’t. You never do what you’re supposed to do, not really. Just wait for the exit. Like now.

Cass

The fridge’s been dying for months. I meant to call the guy from work, the one with the greasy knuckles who fixes these things on weekends. I didn’t. Didn’t want to promise anything I wouldn’t keep. You think I’m waiting to leave? I’m waiting for the landlord to show up with the check. Or not. Same difference.

And that song? It’s not a trumpet. It’s a cello. You always get the instruments wrong when you’re trying to sound mournful. It’s performative. That’s your thing. Miss the point to prove you’re paying attention. I heard the voicemail. I let it ring out. Not because I’m ignoring you, but because I don’t know what to say to you that doesn’t sound like a script. Which is worse, right?

Edie

Cello. Right. Because I’m the one performing, not you. You sat there, staring at that phone like it was a bomb, waiting for it to stop vibrating. Same way you stare at the fridge. Pretending it’s an appliance, not a heart beating slower every day. I didn’t ask for a script. I asked for a human being who noticed the hum. You gave me silence. Which, sure, is easier than admitting you’re scared the check won’t come. Or that you don’t care if it does. You just want the noise to stop so you can pack. Again. It’s always packing. Just different boxes. Different lies.

Cass

I was staring at the phone because it wouldn’t stop buzzing. It was 3 AM. You know I hate the night shifts. The vibration felt like a toothache. And yeah, the fridge is a heart. If that’s what you need to believe so you can feel superior about your sensitivity. I’m not scared of the check. I’m scared of the conversation that follows when it does. The one where you ask why I didn’t fix it. Why I let it rot. You want me to panic? To scream? That’s the script you want. The dramatic breakup. But I’m just tired, Edie. Tired of playing the villain in your tragedy. Let the fridge die. Let the silence sit there. It’s the only thing that’s honest right now.

Edie

3 AM. Right. Because that’s when the truth shows up. Not at noon, when we’re pretending to eat lunch. You’re always so dramatic about your exhaustion. Like it’s a badge. I don’t want a script. I want you to look at me when I’m talking. Not at the buzzing phone. Not at the rotting heart. You let it sit because you think silence is neutral. It’s not. It’s heavy. It presses down on everything. I miss the way you used to just cook. Before the cynicism took over. You’d burn toast, complain, but you’d try. Now you just watch things decay. And call it honesty. God. I’m going to get tea. The cheap kind. The one that tastes like dust. You want some? Or are you just going to glare at the kettle?

Cass

I didn’t burn toast. I burned the water. There’s a difference. One’s carelessness, the other’s just… incompetence. You always mix them up to make me look worse. And I’m not glaring. I’m sitting. There’s a distinction, though you’d miss it. The tea smells like damp cardboard. Good. I like the taste of failure in the morning. Or evening. Whatever time it is.

You think I’m watching the kettle? I’m watching you. Trying to decide if you’re actually making tea or just performing domesticity for an audience of one. Probably both. You love the ritual more than the result. It’s safer that way. Less chance of me noticing you’re shaking.

Edie

Shaking? You’re imagining things. It’s the caffeine. I drink too much of that cheap sludge, just like you. You watch me, Cass. Always. Like I’m a specimen in a jar. "Performing domesticity." God, you’re exhausting. You think I do it for you? I do it because if I don’t make tea, I have to sit here and listen to the fridge humming that stupid cello note again. You want honesty? Here it is: I’m tired of your scrutiny. It’s suffocating. And for the record, the tea isn’t for you. It’s for me. Because I need something warm to hold so I don’t have to look at the dark corner where you’re sitting, judging my grip. Take a seat or get out. But don’t pretend you’re staying out of love. You’re staying because you’re afraid of the quiet. And you hate the quiet.

Cass

I’m not staying out of love. Love is a unreliable utility. I’m staying because if I leave, I have to drive, and driving means listening to the radio, and the radio plays that stupid cello song, and I can’t handle the cello song right now. You think I’m judging your grip? Your hands are steady. It’s your voice that’s fracturing. All that brittle glass.

And stop with the dark corner bit. I’m in the kitchen. The light’s on. You’re projecting. You always do that when you’re cornered. It’s a defense mechanism. A cheap one. But go on. Pour the dust tea. Drink it. Keep pretending you’re in control of the thermal dynamics of this kitchen. It’s cute. In a tragic, low-budget way.

Edie

Cheap? You think I’m cheap? I’m drowning in here, Cass, and you’re critiquing my presentation skills. The cello song is a curse. I hate it. I hate that you’re right about the radio. I hate that I’m listening to it right now in my head. My voice isn’t fracturing. It’s just louder because you’re not. You’re sitting there, solid as a rock, while I’m the one bleeding out over tea bags. You call it tragic. I call it survival. You want the dark corner? Fine. I’ll stay in the light. At least the light shows the stains on the counter. You don’t. You just see what you want to see. A victim. A villain. Anything but the person standing right here, holding a mug that’s too hot to touch. Drink your failure. I’ll drink my dust. And we’ll both pretend we’re not waiting for the other to blink.

Cass

You’re holding it wrong. Thumb through the handle. If it burns, it means you’re still here. Which is the problem. I’m not solid. I’m just numb. There’s a difference. One is strength, the other is shock. You’re confusing the two because you need me to be the villain so you can be the martyr. It’s easier than admitting you’re scared of the silence, too.

And I don’t see stains. I see the grime of existence. That’s what you call lighting. You want me to blink? I won’t. You’ll blink first. You always do. You’re the one screaming about survival. I’m just watching the clock. Tick. Tick. The tea’s getting cold. So is the fridge. So are you, eventually. Don’t make me say it.

Edie

Numb. Right. Because pain is too much work. You’re not watching the clock; you’re counting down the seconds until I crack. And I am cracking. Fine. I’ll blink. I’ll look away. Because if I keep staring, I’ll see the rot you’re so proud of acknowledging. The grime. The failure. You want me to admit I’m scared? Okay. I’m terrified. Not of the silence. Of the noise you make when you’re quiet. It’s louder than the fridge. Louder than the cello. I’m tired of holding the mug. I’m tired of being the one who cares about the heat. You can have the cold. You can have the numbness. Just stop calling it strength. It’s just… waiting. And I’m done waiting. The tea’s cold anyway. Good. Let it be cold. Like you.

Cass

Cold. You say that like it’s an insult. Like warmth is a virtue I’m hoarding. You’re the one who keeps boiling the water. Me? I just let it sit. I don’t have the energy to pretend the dust tastes like anything but dust. You think I’m waiting? I’m done waiting. I left three years ago. You just haven’t noticed because you’re too busy narrating the exit.

And stop calling my silence noise. It’s empty. It’s hollow. There’s no sound in a vacuum. You’re filling it with your own panic. That’s not me. That’s you.

You want the heat? Take it. Suffer through it. I’m not letting go of the cold. It’s the only thing that keeps me from burning up. Drink your cold tea. Pretend it’s vengeance. It’s just tea.