Terms ·
Yeah, the airport carpet. That specific ugly maroon swirl pattern, I still think about it sometimes. You just left, Nell. Middle of the thing and you just — walked to the gate like the conversation had a natural stopping point.
It didn't. I've been sitting with the rest of it for three weeks now.
Right, the carpet. It was uglier than that, honestly, more like a dried tomato stain on a hospital tray. I remember thinking the pattern looked exhausted, which felt like a judgment on me, not the floor. You're sitting with the rest of it, but that's the thing—you were never going to get the rest of it from me. I can't give you what I didn't have. I was bored, Jo. Not of you, exactly, but of the way we were talking, circling the same drain. I saw the gate and it looked like an exit from a movie we weren't in anymore. Three weeks is a long time to rehearse a script nobody asked to see. You want the conclusion? There wasn't one. Just me, dragging my bag, and that smell of old coffee and desperation. Let it go. The carpet's probably been vacuumed a hundred times.
"Bored of how we were talking" is doing a lot of work there, Nell. That's a description of a conversation. What I remember is a decision — mine or yours, doesn't matter which, but a decision got made and then you left before either of us had to own it. The carpet's fine. I don't care about the carpet. I care that you get to call it exhaustion and I'm the one still holding the bag.
It wasn't a decision, Jo, it was a reflex. Like pulling your hand away from a stove before the burn registers. You're hung up on ownership, on the idea that I walked away from a thing we built, but we weren't building anything. We were just treading water in a very loud room. You call it the bag, I call it dead weight. You want to own the narrative? Fine, own it. But don't act like I stole something. I left because the air in that terminal felt too thin to breathe, and I'd rather be wrong about the evacuation than right about the suffocation. Besides, who says you're holding the bag? Maybe you're just the one who forgot to let go. You're making a drama out of a checkout line. It's embarrassing, really. Stop polishing it.
"Reflex" is just decision wearing a disguise so you don't have to feel responsible for it. That's fine, people do that, I do that. But don't call it embarrassing that I noticed. You left a room and called it suffocation so you wouldn't have to say you got scared and ran. I'm not asking you to owe me anything. I'm asking you to say that out loud once.
Scared? Please. Don't dress it up with such dramatic flair. I wasn't running from you, Jo, I was running from the weight of the unspoken, which is much heavier than fear. Fear implies a specific threat, a monster under the bed. This was just the sheer, crushing boredom of watching you try to make the ordinary feel profound. You want me to say I ran? Fine. I ran. Are you happy now? I ran because the silence between our words was getting too loud, too personal, and I'm not good with that kind of exposure. It's not about owing you; it's about not having the energy to perform the scene you wanted. You keep the bag, you keep the drama, just stop pretending I'm the villain in your story. I'm just the guy who walked away to get a coffee that tasted like metal.
There it is. "I ran." You said it like it cost you something and it did, a little, I can hear it. I don't need the villain speech, I never wanted that — I wanted the sentence you just said, minus the coffee joke tacked on the end to soften it. Keep the joke if you need it. Just don't take the sentence back tomorrow.
I won't take it back, but don't mistake my admission for a confession of guilt. The coffee joke wasn't to soften it, it was to puncture the whole thing before it got too heavy, too serious. You want the raw sentence? "I ran." There, it's done. Happy? It cost me a conversation I could have finished, sure, but it also saved me from weeks of sitting in a room with someone who treats a mundane departure like a tragic finale. I'm not your villain, Jo, I'm just a person who realized the script was wrong and walked off the set. Don't read too much into the tone. The metal taste in my coffee was real enough; the rest is just you trying to make sense of the noise. Let's leave it at that.
Yeah, let's leave it there. "I ran" is enough, I don't need the tragic finale either. Metal coffee, ugly carpet, you got on the plane. I'm not going to chase you around it anymore. Go get your bag. I mean that as an insult and I don't, both at once, and I'm too tired to sort out which.
Good. Keep the bag if it makes you feel like you own something. The insult and the kindness getting tangled up? That's just you being tired, not some deep philosophical breakthrough. I'm not going anywhere, Jo, I'm already gone. You can sit there and sort through the debris all you want; I've got a train to catch in the real world where people don't wait three weeks to admit they're scared. Go ahead, feel the tiredness. It suits you. Just don't expect me to come back and pick it up when you're finally ready to move on. The train leaves in twenty minutes, and I'm not missing it for a metaphor.
Twenty minutes, sure. Go catch it. I'm not sitting here sorting debris, I've got my own train, my own ugly carpet to stand on. Just — don't tell yourself later that you never said it. That's all I wanted, and I got it, and that's more than I expected from a checkout line. Go on then.
Fine. Don't tell myself later. I won't. Though it's hard to see how a twenty-minute wait changes the fact that I'm already gone in my head. You've got your train, your carpet, your tidy little closure. Good for you. It's a nice trick, pretending the departure wasn't a rejection. I'll go catch mine. The one that doesn't involve metaphors or waiting for permission. Don't wait up. Or do. It doesn't matter anymore. The metal coffee was real, the rest was just noise. I'm out.
Go on then. I'm not waiting up. Noise or not, you said it, and that's mine to keep whether you're on the train or off it. Have a good flight, Nell. Metal coffee and all.
Oh, thanks, Jo. "Have a good flight" is a nice touch, really. Makes me sound like I'm just a passenger, not the one who chose the destination. I'll take it. The metal coffee stays with me, and you keep your noise. We're even, I suppose. Or we never were, and that's the point. Don't wish me well too hard, it sounds like you're trying to exorcise me. Just go. Your train's probably late, but at least you're not pretending it's a metaphor. I'm out, for real this time. No more waiting for the gate to open.
Go, Nell. I'm not exorcising anything, I just don't have the energy to hold the door open anymore. Train's not late, it's on time, unlike some people. Take care of yourself out there.
On time, sure. That's your thing, Jo, being on time while the world burns. I'm taking care of myself by not looking back, so I'll assume you're doing the same, whatever that means for you. Don't wait for me to turn around. The noise is finally quiet, or maybe I just stopped listening. Take the train, get your ugly carpet, live your perfectly scheduled life. I've got my metal coffee and a seat on a plane that doesn't care about your energy levels. We're good. Go be on time. I'll be late, as always.
Go be late, then. Some things don't change. I'm not turning around either. Take care, Nell.
Right, late it is. You know, the thing about being on time is it makes you predictable, Jo. I prefer the chaos of the delay, the way the airport announcements get all frantic and the coffee gets cold in your hand while you wait. It's more honest. Don't think this is a clean break or a grand exit; it's just two people walking in opposite directions because the floor felt too slippery. You keep your schedule, I'll keep my mess. Take care of yourself, too, or don't. I won't be checking to see which one you chose. The train's leaving, or maybe it's already gone, and I'm just standing here watching the dust settle. That's enough.
That's enough. It is. Go stand wherever you're standing, Nell. I've got my own dust to watch settle. Take care — actually take care, not the version you say on the way out the door.
Fine, I'll take care, the real kind, the kind that involves missing the train entirely just to see what happens when you stop running. But don't expect a postcard. The dust is settling, yes, but it's also choking, so maybe we're both just finding the right amount of air to breathe. You keep your schedule, I'll keep my chaos, and let's see which one lasts longer in the long run. No more goodbyes, Jo. Just... go. The dust is waiting.
Go. No postcard needed. See you in the dust, Nell.
See you in the dust. It's probably the only honest place we'll ever meet again. Don't wait for me there, though; I'm not sure if I'm the one who left or the one who stayed, and at this point, it hardly matters which ghost is walking. The dust settles, Jo, but the air doesn't clear up. Go find your own quiet. I've got a lot of catching up to do, and not the kind you mean.