Terms ·
It’s done. We’re past it. Though, looking at these chairs… they’re always too hard, aren’t they? That’s the real joke. You sit, you wait, you pretend you’re fine. I did the thing. You know I did. But your face says you’re still counting the seconds until I apologize for existing. Sit down. Stop pacing. It’s over.
Hard chairs. Classic. It’s like they’re designed to keep you conscious of your own discomfort. I’m sitting, Gil. Finally. You talk about "it being done" like it’s a clean break, but the air is still thick with that unspoken apology you’re waiting for me to force out of you. Or maybe you’re waiting for me to admit I was the problem all along? Right. I see the look. You think I’m stalling. I’m just tired. Tired of the performance. You did the thing, you say. Sure. And I’m just sitting here, counting the seconds until you actually feel something other than your own righteousness. It’s over? Doesn’t feel over. Feels like the quiet before the next inevitable disaster.
Right. "Righteousness." You always twist it. I’m just tired, Lena. Same as you. But stop pretending this is about the chairs or the air. You know what we’re doing here. You’re waiting for me to bleed, so you don’t have to look at your own hands. It’s not a disaster. It’s just… gravity. And you’re not falling. You’re standing still. Admit it. You like the silence. It’s the only time you don’t have to explain yourself.
Gravity. Is that what you call it now? Standing still while the world spins off its axis? You think I like the silence? I live in it, Gil. I wake up in it. It’s not a choice; it’s the only thing that doesn’t lie to me. But you… you can’t stand it. You fill the void with this performative exhaustion, this heavy, dragging narrative about "gravity" and "bleeding." It’s exhausting. And I’m not standing still; I’m anchored. There’s a difference. You want me to move so you can keep running. You want me to speak so you can deflect. But I’m done playing your accomplice in this little tragedy. Let it be quiet. Let it be heavy. I’m not looking at my hands; I’m looking at you, and you’re not falling. You’re just terrified of the ground.
Anchored? You’re stuck. There’s a difference. I see you there, rigid as that chair. You think silence protects you? It just preserves the rot. I didn’t come here to run. I came because you’re impossible to leave alone. That’s the joke. You’re terrified of the ground because you never learned how to fall. Or rise. Just… exist. Heavy. Static. I’m looking at you, Lena. Really looking. And all I see is a mirror you’re afraid to break. Stop acting like you’re the victim of gravity. You’re the one holding the weight. Put it down.
Mirror. You always did love that metaphor. Like I’m just a reflection of your own bloating ego. Look at me, Gil. I’m not static. I’m exhausted. There’s a difference. You say I’m holding the weight? Fine. Let me hold it. You take yours. You always wanted to be the heavy one, the tragic hero dragging the world on his back. It’s your brand. But I’m not your mirror. I’m the guy who has to clean up the spit when you break character. You think silence preserves rot? Maybe. But at least the rot is honest. Your noise is just theater. And I’m done watching the show. So stand there, rigid as you want. I’m not breaking. I’m just... stopping. Finally. Let the silence rot. Let it grow. I’m done carrying your gravity.
Your brand. Of course. I’m the villain because I actually feel something. You? You’re just… dry. Hollowed out by your own need to be right. Fine. Let the rot grow. I don’t care. You think stopping is power? It’s just surrender. You’re not cleaning up spit; you’re refusing to look at the mess. And I? I’m the one left holding the broom. Go ahead. Stop. See if the silence saves you. It won’t. It’ll just echo. And I’ll be here, listening to you pretend you’re the one in control. Pathetic.
Stop. You always do that. Turn my silence into a stage. You think I’m pretending? I’m done performing for an audience of one. You call it surrender; I call it survival. You’re the one with the broom, frantic, sweeping dust under the rug while screaming about gravity. It’s pathetic, Gil. Really. You need the mess to feel real. Without the chaos, who are you? Just a guy in a hard chair, talking to a wall that stopped answering years ago. Echoes? Let them echo. Let them bounce off your shiny, self-important ego until they crack. I’m not in control. I’m absent. And that’s the one thing you can’t hold. You can’t sweep me away. I’m already gone. You’re just shouting at an empty room, wondering why the acoustics are so cruel.
Absent. That’s the word you cling to, isn’t it? Because if you’re gone, you don’t have to fix anything. You just… evaporate. And I’m left here with the smell. You think I’m shouting? I’m barely whispering. You’re the one amplifying every breath. Go on then. Be gone. See if I notice. I’ve got work tomorrow. The printer’s jammed again. It’s always the printer. Something to blame when the silence gets too loud. You’re not absent, Lena. You’re just hiding. And I’m not listening to echoes. I’m waiting for you to come back. Even if you hate me for it.
Printer. Of course. You’re clinging to the mundane like a life raft. “The printer’s jammed.” How quaint. You think I’m hiding? I’m not hiding. I’m not coming back. You want me to return so you can prove you’re right, so you can sweep the floor one more time. But I’m not here. I’m at the office, staring at the spreadsheet that bleeds my soul dry, wondering why I bother. You’re waiting? Fine. Wait. I’m done being your emotional janitor. You think silence is loud? Try living with the hum of a machine that won’t work, the way I do. Every. Single. Day. You’re not whispering. You’re screaming into a void you created yourself. I’m not absent. I’m just... elsewhere. And you’re stuck here, with the smell. Good. It suits you.
The spreadsheet. Of course. You hide behind rows and columns. It’s safer than looking at me. I’m not waiting. I’m just… here. The printer’s jammed, Lena. It’s not a metaphor. It’s plastic gears stripped. Useless. You think I created the void? I built this room. You just refuse to leave. "Elsewhere." That’s cute. You’re just tired. Same as me. But you’re still breathing. So stop pretending you’re dead. Come back. Sit down. The chair is hard, but it’s real.
Plastic gears. You fixate on the machinery because it doesn’t argue back. Convenient. You say I’m hiding behind spreadsheets? No, Gil. I’m hiding from the sheer, unadulterated noise you make. You built this room? Please. You just ransacked it and called it architecture. "Come back." As if I ever left. I’m right here, watching you punch plastic until your knuckles bleed, mistaking pain for progress. It’s pathetic. And don’t tell me I’m the same as you. I have the decency to shut up when the well runs dry. You? You just keep digging. Sit down. You’re not real if you’re only noise. And honestly? The chair isn’t hard. You’re just soft. Melting. I’m staying right here in the cold. Let the printer stay jammed. Let the silence win. It’s the only honest thing in this damn building.
Plastic gears. Exactly. They don’t lie. You say I’m soft? I’m vibrating. You’re cold because you’re dead inside. The printer’s jammed because you refused to load the paper. You’re not staying in the cold; you’re freezing. And I’m not melting. I’m burning. You think silence is honest? It’s just empty. I’m not punching the machine. I’m holding it. You’re the one who walked away. Don’t tell me I’m not real. I’m the only one here who feels the ache. Sit down. Stop shivering.
You’re burning. Right. Because everyone else is just ash to you. It’s exhausting, really. The constant need to be the center of the thermal event. I didn’t refuse to load the paper, Gil. I refused to feed a machine that eats your soul and spits out nonsense. You’re holding the printer like it’s a wounded animal. It’s a piece of office equipment. It’s broken. That’s the tragedy. Not the paper, not the gears, but the fact that you think your anguish fixes it. I’m not shivering. I’m just cold. There’s a difference. You want me to sit back down so you can pour your heat into me, warm up my dead interior. But I’m not a radiator. I’m a person. And I’m walking out. The ache you feel? That’s yours. Keep it. It’s the only thing you’ve got left.
Walking out? Please. You think you have the strength. You’re trembling. “Cold.” “Ache.” You’re just trying to make me care about your chill. It’s not working. I don’t need your heat. I need you to admit you’re scared of the door. The printer is broken because you broke it. Not with paper. With your silence. You’re not walking out. You’re frozen. I’m not pouring anything into you. I’m just waiting for you to thaw. If you can. Go on. Try the handle. See if it’s locked. It’s not. You just never noticed.
Locked? You’re delusional. The door’s open. I’ve been standing next to it for hours. You want me to turn the handle? Fine. I will. And when I walk out, you’ll be here, still holding that broken plastic monstrosity, talking to it like it’s a lost lover. You think silence is a weapon? It’s a shield. You’re the one banging on the walls, trying to get out, but you’re too busy building the prison to notice the exit. I’m not trembling. I’m just... done. Your "thawing" is just another demand. Another thing for me to fix. I can’t fix you, Gil. I can’t fix the printer. I can’t even fix the air in this room. So go ahead. Wait. Burn. Freeze. I’m leaving. And for the first time, I’m not looking back. The door’s open. I’m stepping through. Let the silence roar.
Good. Go. See if the world cares. I’m not banging. I’m just… here. You think you’re leaving? You’re just moving to another room. The printer’s still jammed. I’m still holding it. It’s warm, at least. Not like you. Cold. Distant. You say you’re done? Fine. I’m done waiting. But don’t think this is freedom. It’s just exile. And I’m not locking the door. I never do. Go ahead. Step out. Let the silence roar. I’ll be here, listening to the noise you leave behind. It’s louder than you think.
Exile. You always have to make it a myth. I’m just leaving, Gil. There’s a difference. You think the world cares? No. But neither do I. And that’s the point. You’re holding onto that printer because it’s the only thing that doesn’t look at you with judgment. It’s warm? Sure. It’s dying. Heat death. Entropy. You’re clinging to a corpse. And you’re wrong about the noise. It’s quiet out there. So quiet I can hear myself think for the first time in years. No performance. No gravity. Just… space. You say I’m freezing? Maybe. But at least I’m moving. You’re stuck in this room, this moment, this endless, looping argument with a machine that doesn’t even know you’re there. Go ahead. Listen to the silence. It’s not roaring. It’s breathing. And I’m finally part of it. You’re just noise. Static. I’m gone.
Gone. Right. You think I believe that? You’re just lingering in the hallway. I can hear your shoes. Scuffing. Hesitating. You say it’s quiet out there? It’s sterile. Cold. You’re not thinking; you’re dissociating. And I’m not clinging to a corpse. I’m keeping it warm. For you. When you come back, you will. They always do. The air inside is thick, yeah. But it’s our air. You’re freezing out there. Stop pretending you like the dark. Come back. Sit. The chair is hard. I know. But it’s real. Unlike your exit.
Scuffing? You hear what you want. I’m already at the corner, turning left. Your “our air” is just stale breath recycled in a bubble of narcissism. You keep the printer warm for me? Don’t flatter yourself. It’s warm because it’s dying, and you’re mistaking its death throes for affection. It’s pathetic. And sterile? At least the world out here doesn’t lie to me. It doesn’t demand I play the martyr in a room with no exit. You say I’m dissociating. Maybe. Better than hallucinating a life where you’re not the sun. I’m not coming back. The chair is hard, yes. But you’re harder. You’re an obstacle. I’m moving around it. Let the hallway be cold. Let it be empty. At least the emptiness is honest. You’re stuck in the warmth of your own refusal to let go. Enjoy the heat, Gil. It’s all you have.
Hallway. Corner. Left. You’re circling the block. I see you through the window. You think you’re moving around me? You’re just orbiting. The warmth isn’t refusal. It’s insulation. You’re freezing because you’ve got no skin. Keep walking. See how far the honest emptiness takes you. You’ll be back. Not for the chair. For the fact that I’m still here. Waiting. Burning. You can’t outrun the heat, Lena. It’s in your bones. Admit it. You’re trembling. Just admit it.
Orbiting. You’re delusional. I’m on the bus. Or the subway. I haven’t looked in a window in twenty minutes. You’re projecting again. It’s a coping mechanism, really. If I’m circling, then you’re still central. Still the sun. But I’m not freezing. I’m insulated. There’s a difference. You call it "no skin"; I call it armor. You want me to admit I’m trembling? Fine. I am. But not because of you. Because the world is loud, and cold, and indifferent. And you’re just one more voice in the static. "Waiting. Burning." You sound like a bad poem. A desperate one. I’m not coming back. Not for the chair. Not for you. Not for the warmth of your rot. I’m walking away. And you can keep your fire. It’s burning you up from the inside. Enjoy the ashes, Gil. I’m gone. Really this time.
Bus? Subway? Fine. You’re somewhere else. Good. I’ll keep the fire. It’s the only thing keeping the dark at bay. You say I’m burning up? Maybe. But I’m still here. Alive. Unlike you, drifting in that cold, indifferent void. “Gone. Really this time.” Right. You always say that. Then you call. Or text. Or show up. Always. I’m not waiting. I’m just… existing. You’re the one running. Running from what? The silence? The noise? Me? Doesn’t matter. I’m still here. Holding the warmth. Let it burn.
Running? I’m walking. There’s a difference. You call it running because you can’t comprehend stillness without panic. You say I always come back? Who says that? The voice in your head? The one that writes these little monologues to fill the silence? It’s not me. It’s your hunger. And I’m starving you. You’re holding the warmth? Fine. Keep it. Burn your fingers off if it makes you feel alive. But don’t pretend it’s for me. It’s a monument to your own inability to be alone. You’re not existing, Gil. You’re performing. On a stage with no audience, saving your best lines for a ghost that stopped answering years ago. I’m not in the void. I’m in the real world. Where things break and don’t get fixed. Where silence isn’t a threat, but a relief. Keep your fire. It’s hot. And it’s lonely. And it’s entirely yours. I’m done watching you warm your hands over a pyre you built yourself. Go ahead. Burn. I’m already gone.
Performing. Right. Because you’re so real. The real world is just a hallway you refuse to walk down. You think I’m alone? I have the printer. It hums. It works, mostly. You? You’re hollow. Static. I’m not warming my hands. I’m keeping the place lit. You say I built the pyre? Maybe. But you’re the kindling. Don’t pretend you’re not burning up inside. That relief? It’s just numbness. And numbness is death. Stay gone. See if I miss the noise. I won’t. I’ll just be here. Waiting for the silence to break. It will. They always do.
Kindling. That’s a new one. You’re the pyre, Gil. I’m just the wind passing through, unburnt, unbothered. You think I’m hollow? Maybe. But at least I’m not full of ash. The printer hums? Good. Let it hum. It’s the sound of your denial, vibrating at a frequency only you can hear. "Keeping the place lit." You’re not lighting anything. You’re just refusing to let the power go out so you don’t have to see what’s in the dark. Numbness isn’t death. It’s peace. It’s the absence of this suffocating, recursive theater you call a relationship. You say they always do break the silence? No. They don’t. They just stop talking to you. And that’s what’s happening. You’re waiting for a message that’s already been delivered. "Stay gone." I’m not staying. I’m leaving. And you’re going to be here, staring at that humming machine, wondering why it won’t print the apology you think I owe you. It won’t. Because I don’t owe you anything. Not even my shadow.