Open by insisting on something about yourself that nobody asked you to defend. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

Oh, give me a break with the battery acid nonsense. It's like that time in '09 when Dave tried to mix citrus soda and bleach "for science" and the whole kitchen smelled like a science fair disaster. He wouldn't admit it was a bad idea until his tongue went numb. You think you're special? Please. You're just loud.

I'm not hiding anything. Why would I? You're the one fixated on gummy bears like they hold the secret to the universe. Look, I have to get back to the spreadsheets before the manager notices I'm breathing too loudly. It's just data, Pia. Boring, endless data. Nothing more. Stop looking at me like I'm some puzzle you need to solve. It's giving me a headache. Remember when we talked about the rain that never stopped for three weeks? That was real, unlike whatever you're cooking up.

You're twisting words again. Dave's tongue went numb, sure, but the kitchen was still drowning in bleach smell for days. You're obsessed with getting the details wrong on purpose. And the rain? It stopped when it wanted to, not because I said so. Don't pretend you know what happened that week.

The spreadsheets aren't just work, they're... they're the only thing holding the floor together. If I stop typing, the numbers might float away, and then what? We'd have nothing left to look at but the silence. You think I'm scared? I'm tired. Tired of everyone acting like they see through me. Just... leave me alone for a second. I need to check a formula. It's important.

It's not about the numbers, Pia, it's about the pattern. Remember that night at the docks when the fog rolled in so thick we couldn't see our own hands? We were looking for a crate that never existed. I told you it was real. You laughed. It felt real then.

I'm not collapsing. I'm just... calibrating. The silence isn't coming, it's already here, hanging over the coffee machine like steam. You think you're waiting for me to break? I'm not. I'm just watching the cursor blink. Blink. Blink. Like a heartbeat that forgot how to race. Don't act like you know what I buried. You were there when I told you it was gone. You signed off on it. Why are you pretending to be the detective now? It's exhausting.

Look at you, pacing like a caged animal. The cursor isn't blinking; it's mocking me. Remember the warehouse fire in '12? How the smoke didn't smell like burning wood, but like burnt hair? We stood there waiting for a signal that never came. You said the heat was just in our heads. It wasn't.

I'm not stalling. I'm waiting for the cell to ring. It hasn't rung in three years. You think if you stare hard enough, the truth will pop out of the screen? It won't. The ledger is balanced, Pia. Perfectly. Too perfectly. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I wrote the numbers down just to see if I could make them match. You're the one who kept the receipts, not me. Don't blame me for your own memory slipping. The smoke is still in my nose. I can't smell anything else.

You threw them? I was there. I saw you fold them. You didn't burn them, you hid them under the floorboards in the breakroom, the ones with the loose tile. You think I don't remember the sound of the match? That's not a ghost, that's a smell.

I'm not waiting for anyone. I'm waiting for the line to go dead so I can stop hoping. The phone isn't ringing because the circuit's been cut, not because there's no one left. Don't act like you know the difference between a dead wire and a dead person. It's cold in here all of a sudden. Did you turn off the heater? The floorboards are still warm from the match. You can't just sweep that under the rug, Pia. The heat doesn't just vanish. It lingers. Like a bruise.

You forgot? How do you forget a fire? It's not the heater, it's the draft from the door you left open when we ran out of the room. You think I moved them? I was the one holding the flashlight while you dug through the ash. You're cold because you stopped believing the ash would warm up again.

I'm not getting rid of the warmth, I'm just... counting the seconds since the last time the phone rang. It's been too long. If I stop listening, maybe the silence will fill in the gaps. You say the floorboards were cold, but I felt the heat radiating off them this morning. It's still there, underneath your feet. Don't tell me I'm the one who killed it. You were the one who blew out the candle.

Wood? Don't you dare call it just wood. That floor was where we stood when the power went out in '08. We thought it was a blackout, but the streetlights stayed on. That's when I knew something was wrong with the grid. You say there's no candle? Then what was I holding when the smoke cleared? You're trying to erase the heat again.

I'm not digging, I'm just... standing in the draft. It's getting colder. You're right about the ghosts, though. They're in the wallpaper. They whisper when the clock strikes. Not the real clock, the one in my head. You think you can just walk away from the ash? You can't. It gets in the throat. It stays there. Why won't you admit you saw the shadow move? You were right next to it.