I'm sorry. About what? The last page of that notebook, probably. You remember I was scribbling nonsense on it before everything went quiet? It's blank now, Rafe. Just a smear of ink where I stopped. Did you finish the chapter? Don't look at me like that. You were there when the lights flickered. You know more than you're saying. Was it the storm? Or did we just... stop? Stop talking about it, seriously. It's giving me a headache.
Lights flickered, then the coffee went cold. I don't remember the storm. Maybe I wrote the end. My head's still foggy, Frank. Let it go. The notebook is just paper. Nothing happened.
"Just paper." That's rich. You wrote the end? You? I saw your hand shaking when you tried to turn the page. Don't tell me to let it go when you're the one filling in the blanks with "foggy." It wasn't nothing, Rafe. The coffee didn't just get cold; it vanished. Like the rest of the kitchen. And you're acting like we're still in that boring job, not whatever that was. Don't call it paper. It's a record. And you're hiding the middle part. Again.
I didn't vanish the coffee. You did. My hand shook because the page was wrong. Boring job? Frank, the coffee cup was floating before it disappeared. You're rewriting the middle. I'm just the one who stayed.
Stayed? You stayed right where the floor dropped out. Don't pretend you're the witness when you were the one holding the cup before it defied gravity. "Rewriting the middle" — is that what you call it? I saw you drop it, Rafe. You dropped it on purpose. That's why the page is wrong. You can't just "stay" when the rules change. You're hiding the fear, not the coffee. Admit the page was blank before you touched it. Don't lie to me about the gravity thing. You know I wasn't the one who stopped time.
The page wasn't blank. You're twisting it. I didn't drop it. I was holding it when the room tilted. You screamed then. Not at me. At the air. Admit the air screamed.
I didn't scream at the air. I screamed because you were gone for a second. Just a blink. But the air didn't scream, Rafe, the ink did. Or maybe it was the sound of the pen breaking. You're twisting my words again. "Room tilted." Sure. That's your story now. Funny how you remember the tilt but not the silence that came after. You were holding the cup, yeah, but whose hand was shaking? Mine or yours? Don't look at me like I'm the one making it up. You know what the silence tasted like.
The silence tasted like copper. Your hand was shaking. Mine was steady. Until it wasn't. The ink didn't scream, Frank. It dried up. Right there. On the page. Before you stopped breathing.
I didn't stop breathing. You're twisting that too. My hand was shaking because you were staring at the spot where the coffee used to be. Copper taste? Sure, like a bitten tongue. But the ink drying up? That's new. That's you trying to scrub it clean. You think if you say it dried, it never happened? I felt the heat. I saw the smoke. Don't tell me your hand was steady. You dropped the pen, Rafe. You dropped it right before the room went quiet. Admit you saw the smoke.
Smoke? It was steam. From the cup. Your heat. You're mixing the smell with the silence. I didn't drop the pen. It fell. The room caught fire, then went out. You're remembering wrong, Frank.
Steam? Don't you dare call it steam. It was smoke, thick and black, right before the fire. You're rewriting the heat, Rafe. The cup didn't just fall; the pen was still in your hand when the room caught. "You're remembering wrong." Me? I was the one watching the walls breathe. The fire didn't go out, it got eaten. Just like the coffee. Just like the silence. You fell asleep in the middle of it, didn't you? That's why your hand went steady. You checked out.
I didn't check out. I watched you scream at the wall while it ate the fire. The pen wasn't in my hand. It was the smoke that held it. You fell asleep, Frank. You were snoring before the ink dried.
Snoring? Don't you dare. I was wide awake, watching the smoke twist the pen right out of your grip. You're making me the liar now. "Smoke held it." That's poetic, Rafe, but you know smoke doesn't grab pens. You dropped it. You let go. And I didn't sleep. I was staring at the spot where your hand used to be. You're the one who faded first. Admit it. The smoke didn't hold the pen; your grip just failed. That's the truth you're hiding under all this "snoring" nonsense.
My grip failed? You're the one who vanished. The smoke held the pen. You're the one who faded. I was awake. You were gone. The fire ate the silence. That's the truth.
Gone? I was right here, Rafe, watching you melt into the floorboards. "The fire ate the silence." That's the best line you've got? You're just trying to make sense of the void. You think admitting the smoke held the pen makes you the victim? It just means you let go. You let the page burn. I wasn't gone. You were the one staring at the empty air. Don't tell me what the fire ate. You were the one who couldn't hold the line.
I melted? You were the ghost. The fire didn't burn the page, it burned the room. You let go first. Don't lie about the floorboards. I'm still here. You're the echo.
An echo? I'm the one standing here, Rafe. You're the ghost. "Still here." Sure, just like the coffee is still hot. You want to talk about who let go? You let go of the pen, you let go of the light, you let go of the story. The room didn't burn; it folded. You were the one folding. I didn't vanish, I was watching you disappear while you claimed to be awake. Stop calling me the echo. You're the one fading into the smoke.
The room folded? You're dreaming. I was the anchor. You floated away. Smoke doesn't disappear, it lingers. You're the one who faded.
An anchor? You were a leak. The room didn't fold, it shattered. And smoke lingers? Not when it turns to ash. You're the one drifting, Rafe. I'm stuck on the floor with the ash. Don't talk to me about fading. I was the one holding the pen when the ink turned to dust. You think "anchored" makes you solid? It just means you're the weight dragging us down. The ash is still in my hair. Tell me that's a dream.
Ash? You're coughing up smoke. I wasn't a leak, I was the floor. You're the one dissolving. Stop touching your hair. It's clean.
Clean? It's not clean. It's full of soot. You're the floor? That's a new one. A floor doesn't hold a cup that floats. You're just trying to pretend you're solid so you don't have to admit you dropped the pen. Don't tell me to stop touching my hair. I can feel the grit. You're the one dissolving, Rafe. You're turning into the smoke you're so obsessed with. Stop looking at me like I'm the ghost.
Grit in your hair? That's the ink. You're dissolving into the page. I'm the floor, Frank. I'm the solid ground you're walking on. Stop shaking your head. You're just erasing yourself.