Open by accusing them of not being what they claim to be. Push off from this if it helps: a dog that won't look at you.

You’re doing it again. Every time the conversation shifts toward anything real, you look at your hands or the window. It’s like a dog that won't look at you because it’s guilty of something, or maybe just too polite to admit it's bored. You keep acting like this—like you’re just some observer passing through—but you aren't. You're playing a part, Ivo. You’ve always been too careful with your words to be actually honest. Is there a reason you won't let us settle on a single truth? You're pretending to be simple, but you’re anything but.

A trial? That's a bit dramatic, isn't it? You're the one weighing everything down with that careful, measured tone. It’s not the weight of truth that bothers me, it's the way you handle it, like you're afraid it might crack if you grip it too hard. You talk about simplicity as if it’s a virtue, but it feels more like a shield. You haven't been the same since you left that firm in Bristol, Ivo. You're acting like a man who has nothing to lose, but you're holding onto something very tightly. What is it?

It wasn't just a job. You spent six years there, and you didn't just walk away; you evaporated. And don't patronize me about "leaving things alone." You only say that when you're trying to justify why you've suddenly become so vague. It’s easy to let things go when you’re hiding the fact that you’ve replaced them with something else. You’re acting like you’ve reached some sort of peace, but you look more like you’re waiting for an alibi. You’ve always been able to talk your way out of a corner, but you can't talk your way out of being present. You aren't really here.

Because a motive is the only thing that makes sense of the sudden shifts. You don't just change your entire life—leave the partners, sell the place, move into that small flat in Highgate—without a reason. To you, it’s just a whim, but people don't just shed their old skins because they're tired. You're looking for a motive because you're afraid the truth is too messy to be a motive. You want it to be about something grand or simple. But you’re still carrying it, Ivo. You’re just carrying it differently now. You’re watching the door even when we’re sitting in the middle of the room.

It's not an obsession, it's observation. You say it's quiet, but you're the loudest person in the room when you're trying to be silent. You brought it up as if it's a virtue, but it sounds like a hiding place. You think because you've stripped your life down to the essentials, that we should all just accept the vacancy. But you didn't move to Highgate to find quiet, Ivo. You moved there to be alone with something you aren't telling us. If there was no motive, you wouldn't be so defensive about why the chairs are in different places. You're guarding the empty space.

My own life is perfectly fine, thank you. The logistics of the audit next week are enough to keep me busy, so don't pretend you're being a distraction. You say it's exhausting, yet you're the one making sure the conversation never reaches a conclusion. You're always pulling the veil shut just as the light starts to hit something interesting. You talk about ghosts as if they're some mystical concept, but you're the one haunted. You keep trying to sweep the floor to hide the cracks, but the cracks are where the real story is. You’re not just avoiding a clutter of lies; you're avoiding a single, heavy truth.

You're warning me? That's rich. You're the one who walked away from everything stable, and now you're telling me to watch my step. It's a clever way to deflect, Ivo. If you make the truth seem like a pit or a precipice, you don't have to admit that you're the one standing on the edge. You've always been terrified of things that can't be neatly filed or accounted for. You think because you've simplified your existence, you've made it safe. But you haven't. You've just made it harder to see what you're actually protecting. Is it a memory or just a mistake?