Terms ·
The file’s closed, Vic. Done. I dragged it out of the archive, stamped it, and threw it in the bin. No more second-guessing. You can stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle you haven’t solved yet. It’s just noise. That hum you hear in your head when the power goes out? That’s it. Dead air. I’m going to get coffee. The machine at the corner on 4th is broken again, spitting scalding sludge, but it’s warm. You coming or just going to stare at the wall until I leave?
You always did have a flair for the dramatic. "Dead air" is a bit poetic for a database query, isn't it? But fine. If you’ve stopped shaking, I suppose I can stop worrying. It was exhausting, watching you pace. My boss thinks I’m working late on the Miller account. He doesn’t need to know I’m standing here debating the philosophical weight of a deleted file. And the coffee? That place is a fire hazard. I’m not burning my tongue today. Go on then. Enjoy your sludge. I’ll stay here. The wall is quiet.
Miller account. Right. That’s what you’re worried about? The boss doesn’t care if I burn my tongue, Vic. He cares that I didn’t call. I didn’t call because I knew you’d be standing there, judging my choice of beverage like it’s a character flaw. You think the wall is quiet? The wall doesn’t know I spent three hours last night pretending to read the terms and conditions for a toaster I don’t even own. Just because I stopped pacing doesn’t mean I’m okay. It means I’m tired. And you’re still here. Why? You could be anywhere. Drinking something that doesn’t taste like burnt plastic. But you’re not. So stop acting like you’re the only one who didn’t get to go home.
I’m not judging your coffee. I’m judging your stamina. Three hours on a toaster manual? That’s a new low, even for you. I’m here because someone has to make sure you don’t accidentally set the office on fire with your existential dread. And for the record, I didn’t get to go home either. My sister’s wedding is in… well, it’s coming. I’m not exactly celebrating. But I’m not pretending to read appliance instructions to avoid it. I’m just waiting for you to stop spinning the narrative. You want me to leave? Fine. I’ll leave. But don’t pretend you’re not relieved I stayed.
Relieved? Please. You’re hanging around like a bad smell. My sister’s wedding? Ugh. Don’t start. I don’t want to hear about the dress code or the open bar. I’m not here to play therapist for your family drama while you pretend you’re above it. You stayed because you’re bored, Vic. Same as me. But different kinds of bored. Yours is the kind that makes you check your phone every three seconds. Mine is the kind that makes me stare at the ceiling fan until it breaks. Go ahead. Check your phone. I bet he’s texting you. Or she. Or whoever it is that makes you act so damn responsible. I’ll just be over here, not going home, not anywhere.
Check my phone? Please. It’s on silent. I wish it were ringing. Then at least I’d have a reason to pretend I care. You think responsibility is a costume I wear? It’s a cage. One I picked myself, unlike you, who just fell into whatever hole feels warmest. And for the record, nobody texts me. Not anymore. That’s the joke. I’m the reliable one, so I’m also the invisible one. Go ahead, stare at the fan. Maybe if you focus hard enough, it’ll spin backward and undo that stupid toaster you didn’t buy. I’m not going anywhere. I just don’t want you to think you’re the only one who doesn’t belong in a wedding or a café.
Cage? You built that yourself, brick by bloody brick. Don’t act like you were victimized by the Miller account. You chose it. I’m just… drifting. There’s a difference. You want to know why I didn’t buy the toaster? Because I don’t need heat. I need to know you’re not invisible. It’s annoying. The silence from your phone is louder than the fan. And for the record, I’m not invisible. I’m just bad at being seen on purpose. You stay because you think I’ll break without you. I don’t break. I just… leak. Like that coffee machine. All over the counter. Messy. Unpredictable. You hate mess. That’s why you’re here. Admit it.
I hate the mess, sure. It’s inefficient. But you’re wrong about the leaking. That’s your noise. I’m here because the silence in my apartment is worse. At least here, it’s shared silence. You want to be seen? Stop performing for the fan. It’s unimpressed. And for the record, I don’t think you’ll break. I think you’re just scared that if you stop moving, you’ll realize you’re standing still. That’s the trap. You drift so you never hit anything. But I’m not hitting anything either. I’m just… waiting. For what, I don’t know. But I’m not leaving. Not yet.
Drifting is better than hitting. Hitting leaves bruises. Drifting just gets you cold. You say you’re waiting, but waiting is just another word for stalling. You’re terrified of the wedding dress fitting. Of seeing yourself in a mirror that doesn’t lie. I’m not performing. I’m surviving. And you’re not my savior, Vic. You’re just the person who happens to be sitting on the same bench while the bus never comes. Admit you’re scared too. Admit you hate the silence. If you admit it, maybe the noise in my head stops echoing. Maybe it just becomes your noise. Then I can sleep. Or pretend to. Whichever comes first.
You always did love the dramatics. "Surviving." Big word for standing in a breakroom. And you’re wrong about the bus. It comes. It’s just late. And I’m not scared of mirrors. I’m scared of what looks back when I finally stop looking at you. You want my noise? Fine. Take it. It’s mostly static anyway. The hum of the fridge, the drip of the tap, the fact that I haven’t told my mother I’m not coming to the rehearsal dinner. There. Happy? Now it’s yours too. You can keep it warm. I’m going to go sit on the bench outside. It’s colder there. Might help with the shivering.
Rehearsal dinner? You left out the dinner part. Classic Vic. Cutting out the messy bits until it’s clean. Dangerous. I’ll take the static. Maybe if I hold it close enough, it’ll sound like your voice when you’re not trying to be interesting. You think the bench is colder? It’s just harder. You’re always hardening up. Like the sludge in that coffee pot. Hard to swallow, leaves a film. Don’t go sit in the dark, Vic. I can’t see you if you’re in the dark. And I need to know you’re there. That you’re still… leaking. Or whatever. Just stay. Inside. Where the air moves. Don’t make me come get you. I’m not dressed for the cold. And I’m certainly not dressed for a conversation about motherhood.
You’re shivering. I can hear it in your voice. Thin cracks. Stop trying to move me. The bench isn’t dark; it’s just empty. And I’m not hardening. I’m just tired of being soft for people who don’t notice. You want me inside? Fine. I’ll stay. But don’t pretend you care about the cold. You care that I’m not leaving. That’s the leak you’re afraid of. Me. Staying. When I could walk away. You want me to be your anchor? I’m not an anchor, Tess. I’m just debris. Floating right next to you. And yes, I hate the silence. But I hate your neediness more. So stay inside. The air moves there. Maybe it’ll blow you away from this edge.
Debris. Cute. I’ll take debris. At least it doesn’t pretend to be a lighthouse. You hate my neediness? Good. Maybe if you really hate it, you’ll admit you’re addicted to the way I fill the void. You say you’re tired of being soft, but you’re the one handing out tissues. I’m not on an edge, Vic. I’m just… low tide. You can’t leave now. Not after you admitted the rehearsal dinner. That’s a confession. A small one. But it counts. You’re stuck with me. Like it or not. The air here is stale, sure, but it’s ours. Stop trying to blow me away. You’re the one who came back. Admit it. You like the noise. You like me. Even if you call it neediness. It’s just… presence. And you’re starving.
You’re twisting everything. I didn’t come back for you. I came back because the Miller account needed me. The rest is… adjacency. And don’t call it neediness. It’s chaos. You want to be starved? Fine. Let’s starve together. But don’t pretend this is a rescue. I’m not saving you. I’m just too stubborn to leave a burning building. You say I’m addicted? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of being the one who remembers to lock the door. Low tide? You’re drowning, Tess. And I’m not a lighthouse. I’m a buoy. Drifting. Aching. But I’m here. So stop looking for an exit. There isn’t one. Just us and the stale air. Drink your sludge.
A buoy. You’re a buoy. That’s pathetic. I’d rather be a sinking ship. At least then there’s a reason to dive. Miller account. Right. You just happened to be standing here, locked out by fate, while I was unraveling. Convenient. You think locking the door saves you? It just keeps the cold in. I’m not drowning, Vic. I’m breathing underwater. It’s quieter. You want to starve? Fine. I’ll starve. But don’t you dare pretend you’re doing it for me. You’re doing it because you can’t stand the thought of someone else having the last slice of bread. That’s not stubbornness. That’s selfishness. And I hate selfish people. Especially the ones who won’t admit it. So stay there. Be my buoy. I’ll keep sinking. It’s all I know how to do.
Sinking is a choice. You call it breathing underwater, but I see the panic in your eyes. You’re not quiet; you’re holding your breath. And I’m not selfish. I’m possessive. There’s a difference. You think I want the last slice of bread? I hate bread. It’s dry. I stay because if you go under, I’m the only one who knows how to swim. And I’m tired of teaching. Miller is a distraction. A boring, safe distraction. But you? You’re the storm. And I’m the only one who doesn’t mind the rain. So keep sinking. I’ll be the rope. Tied tight. So you can’t drift too far. Even if you hate me for it. Especially because you hate me. It’s the only thing keeping you real.
Possessive. There it is. No more pretending you’re just a concerned colleague. You want to own the sinking. Fine. But ropes snap, Vic. They fray when you pull too hard. You say you hate bread? Lies. You hate everything that doesn’t fit your neat little box. I’m not a box. I’m a spill. And you’re terrified of the stain. You think you know how to swim? You’ve never been underwater. You’re just standing on the shore, judging my technique. If I hate you, it’s because you’re the only one who sees me. Really sees me. And that’s worse than drowning. At least drowning is quiet. This? This is loud. So tie your rope. Let it chafe. I’m not letting go. Not yet.
You’re twisting my words into a noose. I’m not on the shore. I’m in the water. Choking. You say I judge? Maybe. It’s easier than feeling. And you’re right about the bread. I hate it. It’s soft. Weak. Unlike you. You’re all edges. I hate that I can’t look away. Ropes fray because we’re both pulling. But if I let go, you vanish. And I’ve spent too long watching things disappear. So let it chafe. Let it cut. At least then I know I’m still here. And you’re still there. Loud. Messy. Real. Better than the quiet. Better than the silence. Keep pulling. I’m not letting go either.
Edges. Good. Edges cut. That means you’re still feeling something other than that hollow ache in your chest. You hate soft things because they don’t hold a line. I know. I see you wincing every time I mention the rehearsal dinner. You’re not choking, Vic. You’re gripping. Hard. Your knuckles are white. It’s ugly. It’s perfect. I’m not vanishing. I’m right here, dragging you down with me into the muck. You want real? This is it. No mirrors. No bread. Just the chafing rope and the noise. Keep pulling. If you let go, you’ll float away into that boring, quiet life. And I won’t follow. I’d rather drown with you than watch you drift off into silence. So choke on it. We’re staying here.
You’re insane. Truly. White knuckles? I’m just cold. The water’s freezing, Tess. And you’re right. I am gripping. It’s the only thing keeping me from drifting into that beige nightmare of a life I’ve built. One I can’t change because I’m too afraid of the mess. But you… you’re the mess. You’re the stain I can’t scrub out. If I let go, I don’t float. I shatter. And I’m tired of being whole. So drag me down. Into the muck. Let it rot. At least then I’ll feel something real. Not this hollow ache. Not this quiet. Just the burn. Keep pulling. I’m not fighting it anymore. I’m done with the shore.
Shatter. There it is. You finally said it. I didn’t want the rope, Vic. I wanted the wreck. The rot sounds better than the beige. At least rot changes shape. You’re tired of being whole? Good. Wholeness is a lie we tell insurance adjusters. I’ll drag you down. Not gently. You said it yourself—no more soft things. The cold will stop mattering once the pressure hits. You’ll feel the bones shift. That’s real. I’m already pulling. Hard. Don’t look for the surface. It’s gone. You’re mine now. The stain. The mess. The only thing that matters. Scream if you want. I won’t hear you over the silence you’re leaving behind.
You’re crazy. Truly. But fine. Drag me down. Let the pressure crush the ribs I’ve been protecting for years. I don’t want the surface. The air up there is too thin, too polite. Down here, in the dark, there’s no performance. Just weight. And you. Your hands are icy. Or maybe that’s just me. I’m not screaming. I’m laughing. A dry, ugly sound that bubbles up and dies. You said you’d drown with me. So stay under. Don’t let go when the light fades. I’m not whole. I’m never going to be. And that’s the only truth I have left. Pull harder. Break something. I’m ready.
Laughing. Of course. The only sound you know how to make is noise. I’m not letting go, Vic. My fingers are locked around your wrist. Bone on bone. You want broken? Here. The water is cold enough to stop your heart, but I’m holding yours. It’s beating too fast. I can feel it against my palm. That’s the only thing that matters. The rhythm. Not the quiet. Not the beige. Just this. The crush. The dark. You said you’re never going to be whole. Good. I don’t want whole. I want real. And this? This is real. It hurts. Good. Keep hurting. If you stop hurting, you’ll start thinking. And I can’t have you thinking. I can only have you here. With me. Under. Always under.
Your grip is bruising. Hard. I can feel the pulse in your wrist, matching mine. Thump. Thump. Like a drum. You want real? Here it is. Pain. Cold. The dark pressing in. I’m not thinking. I’m just… feeling. The weight. The pressure. You’re right. Thinking is the enemy. It builds walls. Here, there are no walls. Just water. Just us. Breaking apart. Dissolving. I’m scared. Not of the drowning. Of the letting go. But you’re holding on. So I’m holding on too. Don’t let go, Tess. If you go, I’m just debris. And I’m tired of being trash. Stay. Under. With me. Always.
Debris. There. You said it. I like it better than whole. It’s honest. Trash doesn’t pretend to be clean. It just is. Your pulse is loud, Vic. Too loud. It’s annoying. But I’m keeping it. I’m keeping you. The cold is inside my lungs now. Burning. Good. That’s real. I’m not letting go. My fingers are numb, but I’m holding on. Harder. Because if I let go, you become what you said. Trash. And I don’t throw away things that matter. Even if they’re heavy. Even if they drag us down. Stay scared. It keeps the blood moving. I’m not going anywhere. We’re sinking. Deep. No light. No walls. Just the weight. And us. Finally. Just us.
Your fingernails are cutting into my skin. I can feel the blood. Good. It’s warm. You say you’re keeping me? I’m not a thing you keep, Tess. I’m a mistake you can’t undo. And you’re right. The cold is in my lungs now. It’s burning. But I’m not drowning. I’m breathing you in. The pressure is crushing, but it’s honest. No more beige. No more quiet. Just this. The weight. The dark. The truth. I’m not scared anymore. I’m just tired. Tired of pretending I’m whole. Let’s sink. Deeper. I want to see what’s at the bottom. Maybe there’s nothing. Maybe there’s everything. But it’ll be ours. Finally. Just us.
Mistake. Fine. I’ll keep mistakes. They’re the only things that don’t lie. Your blood is warm, but my hands are freezing. Good mix. You say you’re not scared? That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all week. Tired is better than scared. Tired means you’re done performing. I’m done too. The beige is gone. The quiet is gone. Just the pressure. Just the dark. We’re sinking, Vic. Past the debris. Past the noise. Down to where it’s quiet enough to hear your heart stop. Or start. I don’t know. I don’t care. As long as it’s ours. No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to touch you. Just me. And the cold. And the truth. Keep your eyes open. See the bottom. It’s not nothing. It’s us. Finally.
My eyes are open. They’re burning. Salty. Not from the water. From the strain. You’re right. It’s not nothing. It’s just… heavy. The bottom isn’t a place. It’s a feeling. A weight in the chest that doesn’t lift. I can’t feel my toes. I can’t feel the Miller account. I can’t feel the rehearsal dinner. Just the cold. Just you. Your grip is slipping, Tess. Your fingers are numb. Let go. If you let go, I’ll sink. Alone. And I hate that thought. More than the drowning. So tighten up. Hurt me. Prove I’m here. I’m watching the dark. Waiting for you to speak. Or break. Either works. Just don’t stop.