Unsupervised

It's Yours Now ·

Open by saying there's really not much to it. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit piaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modehandover twistBad Line voices Anxious

Ivo

There’s really not much to it. Just a wasp in the car. You know how they get? Stupid. Driven by some ancient panic. It was buzzing against the windshield, frantic. I just sat there watching it waste its life. It’s simple, I tell you. Just… isolate the variable. Remove the noise. But then it lands on your arm and you realize, oh, it’s not that simple. It’s messy. It’s alive. You want me to kill it? Fine. But you’re the one who opened the window. You can’t blame me for the draft. It’s gone now. The car’s empty. Finally.

Pia

The draft was from the AC unit I fixed last Tuesday. Don’t pretend you don’t remember. You were complaining about the smell of mold for a week. And stop with the “ancient panic” bullshit. It’s a wasp, not a philosopher. It wasn’t wasting its life; it was trying not to die. Which, coincidentally, is what you’re doing by sitting in a parked car with the engine off, letting condensation fog up the glass. I saw you. You looked terrified. Not of the bug. Of the silence. Go wash your arm. Now.

Ivo

Mold? Please. It was just damp carpet. And I wasn’t terrified. I was thinking. About the wasp. You’re always so eager to reduce everything to biology. Try and capture it, then. Go on. Open the door. Let it back in. I bet it’ll sting you. Or maybe you’ll just freeze up again. You always do that when the engine’s off. The silence gets loud, doesn’t it? I’m not letting it die, Pia. I’m letting it be. You want to wash my arm? Fine. But don’t pretend you care about the condensation. You just want me to move so you can drive. Drive somewhere. Anywhere. Just stop looking at me like I’m broken. I’m not broken. I’m just... waiting. For the fog to clear. Or the wasp to leave. Whichever comes first.

Pia

I didn’t fix the AC. I called Dave. He charged me forty bucks to spray something that smells like rotten eggs. You hate the smell, remember? You gagged in the backseat. And don’t flatter yourself. I’m not waiting for you. I’m waiting for the toaster to pop. That thing takes forever.

You think I care about the wasp? It’s not the point. The point is you’re sitting in a parking lot at three in the morning because you’re afraid of what happens if you just… turn the key. Drive to the store. Buy milk. Come home. Anything but this stagnation. You’re not “waiting.” You’re hiding. And yes, I froze. Because when you start talking about “letting things be,” I remember how you looked at Sarah when she left. Like she was just another draft. Don’t look at me like that. I’m just tired.

Ivo

Dave smells like rotten eggs. Fine. I hate it too. But you’re mixing up the events. The wasp was here before the spray. Before the silence. You’re projecting, Pia. Always the detective. “Hiding.” That’s a heavy word. I’m sitting. That’s all. The toaster pops because it wants to. Not because I forced it. You think driving to the store fixes anything? Milk goes bad anyway. Everything does. You mentioned Sarah. Don’t. Not now. I looked at her like she was air because she was. And I look at this silence like it’s air because it is. You want me to move? Okay. I’ll move. But don’t act like you’re the anchor. You’re just the noise in the head. The constant hum. Go eat your toast. It’s probably cold.

Pia

Dave didn’t charge forty. He charged fifty. You were the one who argued about the receipt. Stop rewriting history to make yourself the victim. And Sarah wasn’t air. She was flesh and blood and she cried. Real tears. Not some poetic mist. You didn’t look at her like she was nothing; you looked at her like she was a problem you couldn’t solve. That’s different.

You’re sitting because you’re lazy, not wise. The toaster’s on the counter, Ivo. It’s not in the car. Get out. My back hurts from sitting on this lumpy bench all night waiting for you to stop talking about biology. Just drive. Or don’t. But stop looking at me. I’m right here.

Ivo

Fifty. Right. Because you’re keeping track of every cent now. It’s a game, isn’t it? Ivo is wrong, Pia is right, Dave is a liar. You always did love the numbers. Better than feelings. Less messy. Sarah cried. I know. I wasn’t there for the tears. I was there for the noise. The screaming. You want me out of the car? Fine. The steering wheel is cold. It always is. You’re sitting on a lumpy bench. In a parking lot. At three a.m. You’re the one who won’t move. You say “drive.” But you won’t say where. You just want me to go. To disappear. To be the problem you can’t solve. I’m not lazy, Pia. I’m just… stuck. Like the wasp. You want me to leave? Go ahead. Pop your toast. I’ll be gone. But don’t say I didn’t try to stay. Not for you. Not for the smell. Just for the quiet.

Pia

I didn’t say “go.” I said “move.” There’s a difference. You’re twisting every word. And stop with the “three a.m.” I don’t know what time it is. My watch stopped years ago. I just know the light’s different. The streetlamps are yellow, not white. That’s what matters.

You think I want you to disappear? I want you to stop performing. The wasp isn’t a metaphor, Ivo. It’s an insect. And you’re not stuck. You’re choosing this. Choosing the cold steering wheel over the warm kitchen. Over me. Over the toast. Don’t tell me you stayed for the quiet. You stayed because you’re afraid of the noise after you leave. The silence here is heavy. It has weight. You can feel it pressing on your chest. Stop pretending it’s peace. It’s suffocation.

Ivo

Yellow lights. You notice that now? I only see the gray. You want me out? Fine. The door handle is sticky. I’ll push. But don’t say I’m performing. I’m just sitting here, dead weight. You’re right. It is heavy. That suffocation. It’s been in my chest since Tuesday. Since Dave came. You think I’m afraid of the noise after? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of fixing things that don’t want to be fixed. The wasp is gone. The toast is burnt. And you’re still there, staring at my back. Move, you say. I am moving. Just not the way you want. There. Happy? The door is open. The night is cold. Come on, then. Or don’t. I’m done guessing.

Pia

The handle isn’t sticky. It’s rusted. You’ve been pushing against the wrong side. I watched you. I know which way the latch catches. You’re not opening the door; you’re wrestling it. That’s why you’re tired. Stop fighting the car. It’s a 2008 sedan, not a fortress.

Burnt toast is better than stale bread. At least it has character. You’re right about Tuesday. Dave smelled like sulfur and regret. I should have told you to stay home. But you insisted on being the man who fixes things. Now look at you. Shivering.

I’m not staring at your back. I’m staring at the gap. It’s wide enough to squeeze through if you just… stop holding your breath. Let it out. The cold is biting. My fingers are numb. Just step out. Don’t think. Just step.

Ivo

Rusted. Right. Of course it’s rusted. I knew that. I just… forgot. For a second. You were watching me? All this time? I thought you were asleep. Or pretending to. Dave smelled like sulfur. Regret. I hate that word. It implies a choice. I didn’t choose the car. The car chose me. Or I chose it. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? The gap. Wide enough. My fingers are numb too. I didn’t say they weren’t. You’re shivering. Stop it. Don’t look at the gap. Look at me. Or don’t. Step out. I am. My foot is on the pavement. It’s cold. Hard. Real. No metaphor. Just asphalt. And you. Still there. Still staring. Move, you said. I’m moving. Don’t tell me to stop. Not now. The silence is loud. Louder than the wasp.

Pia

I wasn’t asleep. I was counting your breaths. Too shallow. You’re freezing. Look at me. Yes. The asphalt is hard. Good. Feel that. It’s grounding. You said “no metaphor.” Stop. You’re doing it again. This is all metaphor. The rust, the wasp, the burnt toast. It’s all just you trying to find a shape for the emptiness.

I’m not staring. I’m watching your feet. You’re wobbling. Lean on me. No, don’t pull away. I’m cold too. My knees ache. Let’s just stand here. The silence is loud, yes. But it’s ours. Not the car’s. Not Dave’s. Just us. In the dark. With the cold. It’s enough. For now.

Ivo

Counting breaths? Obsessive. You always were. My knees don’t ache. They’re fine. Stop looking at them. I’m not wobbling. I’m standing. Exactly where I said I would. No leaning. You think I need your support? Please. I’m solid. The asphalt is cold, yes. I feel it. But I’m not letting you touch me. Not yet. You say it’s ours. Don’t claim it. It’s just dark. And cold. And you’re wrong about the emptiness. It’s not empty. It’s full of Dave’s sulfur smell. And burnt toast. And rusted latches. You want me to lean? Fine. But only because I’m tired. Not because I trust you. The silence isn’t loud. It’s quiet. Finally. Stop talking about shapes. There are no shapes. Just us. Standing. Shivering. Don’t move. If you move, I might fall. And I’m not falling for you. Not tonight.

Pia

Sulfur. You’re still mad about Dave. Fine. Let’s smell the sulfur. It’s in your hair. You didn’t shower. You’ve been sitting there for hours. The toast was burnt because you didn’t watch it. You were watching the wasp. Again.

I’m not claiming the silence. I’m enduring it. There’s a difference. You say it’s quiet. I hear your teeth chattering. Loud. Rhythmic. Like a metronome counting down to something you refuse to name.

You’re not solid. You’re leaning. I can feel the pressure on my shoulder. It’s heavy. Wet. Cold. Don’t pull away. If you fall, you’ll hit the asphalt. Hard. And then who will fix the latch? Me. Of course. Because I’m the one who remembers how it works. You’re just the noise. The draft. Stop shivering. It’s annoying.

Ivo

Shower? I was going to. Then the wasp. Then the latch. You’re imagining the pressure. I’m standing straight. Rigid. Like a statue you forgot to buy. Teeth chattering? It’s the cold. Your fault for leaving the door open. “Enduring.” That’s a rich word from you. You’re hugging me, Pia. Admit it. My shoulder is wet? That’s rain. Or sweat. From watching the wasp. From trying to solve the unsolvable. Fix the latch? I don’t want you to. Keep it broken. Let it rust. Let it stay shut. You’re annoying too. The way you stare. The way you count. I’m not falling. I’m holding. Just... holding on. To what, I don’t know. The cold? You? It doesn’t matter. Just stop talking about the toast. It’s burnt. It’s done. Eat it. Or throw it. I’m not looking.

Pia

I’m not hugging you. I’m bracing you. There’s a difference. You’re leaning at a dangerous angle. If I let go, you’ll crack your skull. And don’t blame me for the door. You left it open. Again. “Rigid.” You’re trembling so hard your teeth are clicking. It’s not the cold, Ivo. It’s the adrenaline crashing. You’ve been holding that breath since Tuesday.

The latch stays broken. Good. It matches the door. You want to throw the toast? Fine. But don’t pretend you haven’t been staring at the crust for an hour. It’s black. Charred. Like your eyes. Stop looking away. Look at the rust. Look at me. I’m not counting breaths anymore. I’m counting seconds until you collapse. Don’t make me catch you. I’m too tired.