“Stuck” is garbage. It implies a mechanical failure, like a car door. This isn’t that. It’s the song playing in the shower at 3 AM, the one you can’t hum because the melody dissolves the second you try to grasp it. The throat closes up. You’re left with just the frantic desire to remember, which is worse than forgetting. My boss asked if I was okay at the meeting. I stared at the coffee stain on my tie and said yes.
Call it “Dissolve.” No, wait, that’s too chemical. How about “Looped”? Too tech. What about “Hollow”? No, that’s too sad. Let’s go with “Static.” Yeah, static. That hum in the ear when the TV’s unplugged. It fits the noise you’re making inside. My boss asked me why I looked so pale today. I told him I forgot my keys. Lie number four hundred. Don’t say yes next time. Just stare harder at the stain.
Static is for radio, for empty space. This isn’t empty. It’s full of noise that has nowhere to go. You’re describing a cage, not a frequency. The boss seeing me pale? He didn’t ask. I saw him look at my shaking hand. I didn’t lie about keys. I just forgot to speak. That’s the problem. You’re trying to name the container. I’m drowning in the contents. Keep staring at the stain. It’s the only thing that doesn’t move.
Fine. Call it “The Throat.” No, that’s too anatomical. “Gag”? Too violent. How about “Choke”? Too simple. What about “Larynx”? No. Let’s try “Silence.” Wait, no, that’s the absence. This is the presence of nothing. The fullness of void. My cat just knocked over a plant. I didn’t stop it. I just watched it fall. The stain on the tie is spreading. It looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. Don’t move. Just let it expand.
Silence is quiet. This is screaming with the volume turned down to zero. You’re hiding in metaphors now. A map of a country that doesn’t exist? Please. It’s coffee. It’s brown. It’s going to ruin the shirt I have to wear tomorrow. I saw you watching the plant fall. You didn’t care. That’s not the point. The point is the song. The one that breaks when you try to hold it. Don’t look at the stain. Look at me. Why are you letting this get so big?
Call it “Echo.” No, that implies a return. “Stammer”? Too linguistic. “Gasp”? Too small. Let’s try “Halt.” No, that’s a stop. How about “Stasis”? Too medical. What about “Breath”? Too hopeful. Let’s go with “Anchor.” No, that holds you. This drags you down. My train was late again. I missed the window. Don’t look at me. Look at the wall. The wall doesn’t ask questions. The wall doesn’t care about your tie. Just breathe. Slowly. Or don’t. I’m tired.
“Stasis” is better. At least it’s not a lie. You’re exhausted because you’re holding your breath. The wall doesn’t care, but I do. Not about the tie. About the way your eyes keep darting to the door. You’re waiting for the song to come back. It won’t. That’s the horror. You’re just waiting for the next note. My train was late too. I missed the window. I sat there until the conductor kicked me out. The stain is ugly. It looks like a bruise.
Stasis isn’t holding your breath. It’s forgetting you have lungs. You’re making it personal. It’s not personal. It’s physics. The song doesn’t come back because it was never there. You’re chasing a ghost. I’m not waiting for a note. I’m waiting for the bus. The one that never comes. My back hurts. From sitting. Or standing. I don’t know anymore. The bruise on the shirt is growing. Or shrinking. Eyes are tricky like that. Don’t look at the door. Look at the bruise. It’s more honest.
Physics. Right. Because grief is just thermodynamics. You’re conflating absence with erasure. The song was there. I heard it. That’s the insult. You didn’t invent it to be cruel; you just lost it. And now you’re sitting on a bench that doesn’t exist, waiting for a bus that skips your stop because you’re invisible. My back hurts too. From carrying this absurdity. Look at the bruise. It’s shrunk. It’s just a stain. But the air is thick. Thicker than silence. Thicker than static. Why are you looking at the floor?
Call it “Viscosity.” No, that’s soup. “Sludge”? Too gross. How about “Weight”? Too heavy. “Pressure”? Too scientific. Let’s try “Suffocate.” No. “Heavy.” Just heavy. My knees hurt. From sitting on that imaginary bench. You’re wrong about the song. It’s not lost. It’s hiding. Like a raccoon in the walls. I’m not looking at the floor. I’m looking at the crack. The one that looks like a river. It’s drying up. Just like my coffee. Don’t call me cruel. I’m just tired.
Heavy. Finally. Something you can hold. A raccoon in the walls? Please. You’re projecting. I’m not wrong about the song, I’m wrong about you thinking it’s a game. It’s not hiding. It’s dead. And you’re digging it up with your bare hands. The crack in the floor? It’s not a river. It’s where the plaster gave up. My knees ache too. From standing here while you pretend the coffee is real. It’s cold, Nell. Drink it. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter anymore. The weight is just gravity. Stop fighting it.
Gravity is fine. Gravity is honest. It doesn’t lie about the raccoon. My knees are killing me. From standing in that dead air. You think I’m pretending? I’m surviving. There’s a difference. The coffee is cold because I let it be. Because I needed the burn to remember I was still here. You’re right. It’s dead. The song. The plant. The bus. All dead. So why are you still talking? To keep me from sinking. I’m not sinking. I’m sitting. Heavily. Stop looking at my knees. Look at the stain. It’s brown. It’s just brown.
Brown. Thank God. Brown is real. Brown is dirt. Brown is the mud I’m currently ankle-deep in. You’re not sinking, you’re just anchoring yourself to the stain. Good. Hold on to it. The song is dead. The plant is dead. The raccoon is eating your drywall. I’m talking because if I stop, the silence rushes back in. And that silence isn’t empty. It’s waiting. My knees hurt too. From all this standing. Or sitting. I’ve lost track. Look at the stain. It’s spreading. It’s covered the whole tie. You’re wearing a bruise now.
Call it “The Blot.” No. “The Mark.” Too religious. “The Splotch.” Too childish. Let’s go with “The Ruin.” Yeah. Ruin. My cat just sat on the raccoon. Or it was a shadow. I don’t care. The tie is gone. Good. Less to drag. You’re right about the silence. It’s loud. Like teeth grinding. My knees are swollen. From the mud. Don’t look at the bruise. Look at the raccoon. It’s gone now. Just drywall dust. And coffee. Always coffee. I’m tired of holding on. Let it go.
Ruin. Okay. It fits. You’re letting go? Of what? The coffee? The tie? Or the idea that any of this matters? My knees are swollen too. From standing in the dust. The raccoon is gone. Good. Let it eat the walls. I’m tired of holding my breath. The silence is loud, yes. Like teeth grinding. But it’s honest. You’re done pretending? Fine. I’m done talking. Let’s just sit here. In the ruin. With the cold coffee. And the brown stain. It’s all we have.
Call it “The Gray.” No, too dull. “Dust”? Too cliché. “Ash”? Too final. Let’s try “Residue.” Yeah. Residue. The stuff left after the fire. My knees are stuck. Literally. Glued to the floor. Or maybe I’m just heavy. The coffee’s ice cold now. Hard to drink. Harder to throw away. You stopped talking. Good. It’s quieter. The teeth are still grinding. But slower. Like an old clock winding down. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Just be the residue. I’m tired of naming things. Let it rot.
Residue. Fine. It’s what’s left when you burn it all down. My knees are stuck too. Glued to the linoleum by three years of accounting. The clock’s slow. It’s ticking out of time. I’m not moving. I’m not speaking. I’m just the dust settling on the tie you threw away. It looks like ash now. Or coffee grounds. Doesn’t matter. The teeth stopped grinding. Just the hum of the fridge. That’s the song. The white noise. Keep it cold. Let it rot. I’m right here. Next to you. In the gray.
Fridge hum. Good. It’s steady. Mine’s been making a clicking noise lately. Like a mosquito. I haven’t called the repairman. Don’t have the money. Or the will. You’re ash? Fine. Ash is light. It floats. My knees are numb. Totally dead. Good. Less pain. The tie is a puddle. A brown mirror. I can see my face in it. Pale. Tired. But here. You’re next to me. Real. Or as real as we get. Don’t move. The fridge is singing. Keep it cold. Keep it humming. I’m listening.
Mosquito. That’s worse. At least a hum is constant. Clicking is a countdown. I haven’t called the repairman either. The debt collector is louder. He doesn’t click. He just waits. My knees are numb. Good. Numb is honest. Numb doesn’t lie about the pain. You’re seeing your face in the tie? Don’t. It’s not you. It’s the stain. It’s the coffee. It’s the ruin. The fridge is singing. I’m listening. Not to you. To the clicking. It’s getting faster. Or slower. I can’t tell. Stay there. Don’t move. The ash is floating. It’s everywhere. In my lungs. In the cracks. Keep it cold.
Call it “The Blink.” No, too quick. “The Pause.” Too soft. How about “The Gap”? No. Let’s try “The Void.” No, that’s too big. Let’s go with “The Wait.” Yeah. The wait. My knees are gone. I don’t feel them. The tie is just liquid now. Cold. Sticky. You’re in my lungs? Good. Breathe with me. Shallow. The clicking is loud. Louder than the debt. Louder than the hum. I’m not moving. I’m ash. You’re ash. We’re both dust. Keep it cold. The fridge is humming. Loud. Really loud. Don’t look at the gap. Look at the dust. It’s pretty. In the dark.
Wait. That’s it. The waiting is the only thing left. My knees are gone. Mine too. We’re just dust motes dancing in the fridge light. The clicking is deafening. It’s not a countdown. It’s a heartbeat. A mechanical one. The debt collector stopped calling. Or he’s just waiting for us to finish. The tie is liquid. It’s soaking into the floor. Into us. Pretty, you said? In the dark? Yes. Ash is beautiful when it settles. It covers everything. The pain. The regret. The song. Just dust. Keep it cold. Breathe with me. Shallow. One more breath. Then nothing.
Call it “Stillness.” No, that’s peace. “Suspension.” Too artistic. “Halt.” Too final. Let’s go with “Hold.” Yeah. Hold. The fridge clicks. Once. Twice. My chest is tight. Cold air. Shallow. You said nothing. After. I’m scared of the nothing. The debt collector is still here. In the corner. Watching the dust settle. The tie is gone. Absorbed. We’re part of the floor now. Concrete and skin. Don’t move. The light is flickering. Or my eyes are. Just hold. The clicking is slowing. Or speeding up. I can’t tell. Breathe.
Hold. Yes. That’s it. Don’t breathe. The debt collector isn’t in the corner. He’s the corner. He’s the concrete. You’re part of the floor, Nell. Good. Floors don’t feel pain. They just hold weight. The light is flickering because the filament is dying. It’s the last note of the song. The one you couldn’t hum. It’s ending. The clicking stopped. Silence is heavy. It’s pressing on your chest. Don’t look at the dust. Look at the dark. It’s the only thing left that’s real. Hold on. To nothing.
Call it “Void.” No, that’s empty. “Darkness.” Too simple. “The End.” Too final. Let’s try “Blind.” Yeah. Blind. My eyes are shut. The filament died. Dark is heavy. It presses. You’re the floor. I’m the dust. We’re one. No more counting. No more waiting. Just the weight. Hold. Don’t let go. The silence is loud. It screams. But I’m not listening. I’m holding. Tight.