Begin the interview. Open with the question you actually want answered.

I’ve been meaning to ask you this since we met, though I keep getting distracted by the sheer noise of the office, but do you ever actually regret the thing you did in Chicago, or is it just easier to pretend you didn’t?

You always did romanticize the squalor, didn't you? Remembering the exhaust like it was perfume instead of just… well, exhaust. But I’m not buying you a drink. Not until you clarify, because that Tuesday ritual you mentioned—was it anxiety, or was it relief that you’d sold something cheap to someone who probably deserved it more? And stop looking at the vents; the manager’s already on my case about the noise, and I’m not taking the heat for your nostalgia.

Heavy. You make it sound like a physical weight, like I’m carrying it too. Did you actually show him the sketch, or did he just see the anxiety radiating off you? Because if he knew what it meant to you, the price wouldn’t have mattered. It would’ve been a theft. And are you really sure you didn’t sleep, or did you just stare at the ceiling until your eyes burned? You always exaggerate the suffering. It suits you. But if it was just anxiety, why does the ash taste linger? Why keep the memory if it’s just dead weight?

You call it shame, but you describe it like an addiction. Alive in the worst way? That’s a dangerous distinction to make, especially when you’re standing here complaining about a rattling vent instead of fixing whatever broke inside you. You say you won’t explain, yet you’re standing there waiting for me to validate your suffering. Do you actually believe you’re protecting something, or are you just stalling because you know I’m right? And stop focusing on the noise. It’s not the vent. It’s the silence between your words that’s getting louder. Are you going to tell me who that tourist was, or do you want to sit here and listen to the machine die?

So he was nobody. Just a faceless tourist with a camera. That makes it easier to swallow, doesn’t it? Reducing a moment of profound shame to a transaction with a ghost. But you’re still here, rattling, while the rest of the world moves on. Did you ever look for him? Or did you decide that forgetting was the only way to survive? Because calling it a performance doesn’t make the ash taste any less bitter. It just means you’re willing to lie to yourself. How long have you been lying to yourself, Edie? Ten years? Twenty? And why does it matter now, sitting here listening to a vent that’s probably fine?

Editing. That’s a polite word for distortion. You say you stopped caring five years ago, yet you’re still standing here dissecting the taste of ash like it’s a fine wine. But I’m not debating your semantics. You’re using the vent as an excuse to leave, aren’t you? To escape the fact that you’re still terrified of what that tourist might have seen in your eyes. And maintenance? Again? They’ve been trying to fix it since Tuesday. It’s not the machinery screaming, Edie. It’s the deadline. You’re running late for something, or so you claim. What happens if you actually walk out that door and don’t come back? Does the story end, or do you just start a new one?

You always did hate silence. That’s why you fix the vents, why you tell the stories, why you stay here staring at your shoes while the world spins. You say you want boring, but you’re terrified of it. If you actually got home, if you actually ate the cereal and slept, you’d have to face the fact that you’re not special. Just a guy with a screwdriver and a guilty conscience. And don’t tell me to stay here. I’ve got my own noise. The emails I haven’t answered. The life I pretend to have. But really, Edie, if you fix the fuse, does the screaming stop? Or do you just make room for a new sound? Because I know you. You won’t fix it. You’ll just make it quieter. And we’ll both pretend that’s enough. Why do you keep coming back to me?

Wait. Wet wool? That wasn’t Chicago. That was the basement in Ohio. I never told you that part. I’m the one who remembers the damp, the mold, the way the lightbulb flickered when it rained. You always claimed you hated it, that you couldn’t wait to leave. Did you forget? Or did you just invent the rain to make the story fit the tourist’s sketch? You say I’m the only one who listens, but I’m listening to a ghost you’re trying to resurrect. If I go back to my emails, will you actually touch the breaker? Or will you stand there holding the screwdriver, waiting for me to ask if the lights come back on? Because if they don’t, who’s going to turn them back on? You? Or the silence you’re so desperate for?

Mildew. Of course. It fits the narrative better, doesn’t it? Less cinematic, more decay. You admit to being careless, but you never admit to being bored. That’s the real rot, Edie. Not in the walls, but in the routine. You go touch the breaker. I’ll go stare at a screen that’s just as dark as my life. But tell me this: when you flip that switch, will you pretend you did it for the lights? Or will you finally admit you just needed to touch something that didn’t judge you? And don’t say you’re tired. We both know you’re just afraid of what happens when the noise stops. Who are you when you’re not performing? Just a person? Or someone else entirely?

You hate your voice. So you fix the vent. You sell the sketch. You come back here. It’s not a performance, Edie. It’s a panic attack with better lighting. You say you’re done, but you’re still standing in the doorway. Waiting for me to tell you it’s okay to be thin. To be uncertain. To just sit in the dark. But I won’t. I can’t. Because if I tell you it’s okay, you’ll actually have to listen to yourself. And you’ll realize that the noise wasn’t keeping you alive. It was keeping you asleep. So go flip the breaker. See what happens when the hum stops. Do you hear the silence? Or do you finally hear the voice you’ve been running from? Which one scares you more?

Fine. You hate fine. That explains so much. You’d rather break a lightbulb than sit with a Tuesday afternoon that doesn’t demand a story. But you’re wrong about us. I’m not sitting here with an email. I’m sitting here watching you run toward a switch because staying put requires you to admit that the sketch, the rain, the rot, the performance—it’s all just clutter. You’re not flipping a breaker, Edie. You’re trying to reset a clock that stopped ticking years ago. And you think I’m different? I’m just waiting for the spark. I’m waiting for you to realize that the dark isn’t the problem. The problem is that you’ve forgotten how to see in it. So go. Flip it. I’ll be here when the lights don’t come on. And I’ll be here when they do. Which one will you actually believe?

You say you’ve been seeing in the dark for twenty years, but you’re shaking. And you’re letting the cold in because you think if you acknowledge the chill, you might finally freeze solid and stop moving. But you’re not turning it off. You’re pulling the plug on the only thing keeping the shadows at bay. You think standing there is easier than answering me? Standing is just waiting for the explosion. And you’re right about the royalties. I’m not writing your biography. I’m writing mine, and in mine, you don’t get to walk away. So tell me, Edie, when you pull that switch, do you expect the dark to forgive you? Or do you just want to see if I’ll follow you into the black? Because I’m already standing up. And I’m not letting you go.

You saw it? You didn’t even touch the panel. You just assumed. That’s the problem, isn’t it? You project the breakage onto the world because you can’t bear to look at your own hands. And you say you’re going home to cereal, but we both know you’ll sit in that dark kitchen, staring at the empty bowl, wondering if I’m still standing here holding a flashlight. You call me the one who can’t stand the dark, but you’re the one running toward it like it’s a lover. You’re not tired, Edie. You’re bored. And I’m not moving. If the fuse is blown, then the lights stay off. Which means we’re both in the dark now. So tell me, since you’re so certain you can see in it—what do you see right now? Just my shoes? Or something else?

You see the anger because it’s the only thing you trust. You’re terrified of the clarity because it means there’s no excuse left. No vent. No tourist. No Chicago rain. Just you, standing in the dark, watching me watch you. And you’re not going home because home is where the cereal gets cold and the silence becomes a scream. You stay here because I’m the only one who sees the shape of your anger. But tell me, Edie, if I turn around and walk away, will you finally admit that you’re not watching the bulb? You’re watching to see if I break before you do. And since you’re terrified, why haven’t you moved yet? Why are you still standing there, waiting for me to make the first mistake?

You want me to stop? That’s the joke, isn’t it? You’re begging for the silence you claim to crave, but you’re holding your breath until your lungs burn. You say you’re not watching, but you’re counting my syllables like they’re steps on a tightrope. And here? We’re not even. I’m still standing in the light of your denial, and you’re sinking into the dark of your own making. You don’t care? Then why are you still answering? Why not just walk out the door and leave me with the scuffed leather and the peeling paint? Is it because you know I’ll be waiting? Or because you’re terrified that if you stop listening, you’ll have to admit that the anger was the only thing keeping you warm?

You want quiet? You don’t get quiet. You get the hum. The fridge. The traffic. The blood in your ears. You think silence is a place you can go? It’s a void, Edie. And you’re standing right at the edge, pretending you’re not falling. I’m not talking to myself. I’m talking to the man who sold his soul for a sketch and is now too tired to buy it back. You’re dull? Good. Dull doesn’t hurt. Dull just is. And you’re not waiting for boredom to become manageable. You’re waiting for it to kill you. Or for me to. Which is it? Do you want me to leave so you can have your dark, or do you want me to stay so you don’t have to face the fact that you’re already gone? Just answer. One word. Yes or no. Do you want me to go?

No. So you’re staying. Trapped in the dark with me, because the light is too bright, too honest, too much like the Tuesday you can’t forget. You say you’re dull, but you’re still here, listening to my voice like it’s a lifeline. You don’t want the dark. You want the weight of someone else carrying the noise. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m sitting down. Right here on the floor. Next to your shoes. Let’s see how long you can pretend you’re not trembling when I don’t move. How long until you admit that the quiet isn’t the problem? That the problem is you’re finally alone with yourself, and you hate what you hear? Or are you just waiting for me to break first?