Just Met ·
I am terribly at this. It is embarrassing. I keep thinking about the airport carpet, that endless, patterned nightmare of burgundy and beige swirls designed to hide dirt but only highlighting your own anxiety. I stood there for twenty minutes just staring at it, pretending to check my phone. The man next to me looked at me like I was insane. I wanted to apologize for existing, but I didn’t. I just waited for the boarding call. You seem nice, though. In a terrifying way.
The carpet’s the worst. I spent three hours in Heathrow last Tuesday watching a suitcase spin in circles. My boss thinks I’m on a “strategy retreat.” I was just hiding from the noise. You’re overthinking it. People don’t care. They’re too busy worrying about their own turbulence. It’s quieter here, though. Less swirling. More like… static. But I like the quiet. Even if it’s loud in my head. You’re not insane. Just loud in a quiet room.
I suppose the static is better than the swirls. My boss thinks I am analyzing market trends in the breakroom, but I am just staring at the water cooler bubbles. They pop and reform, infinite and pointless. It is calming, in a dull way. I wish I could be that quiet. I feel like I am broadcasting on a frequency no one wants to tune into. The carpet was a trap. Here, I feel exposed. But I am glad you stayed. It is less lonely. Even if my head is loud.
I didn’t stay. I’m just here. There’s a difference. My client runs on time, so I run on time. I don’t do “calming.” I do “efficient.” You’re projecting that static onto me because it’s easier than admitting you’re bored. And you are bored. Not anxious. Just bored. The water cooler is a cliché for a reason. It’s not infinite. It’s just plastic. I used to stare at those too, back when I had a job that required me to look busy. Now I just check my watch. You’re safe. The carpet isn’t here. That’s the only rule that matters.
You are harsh. I suppose I am bored. The water cooler is plastic. I know. It is cheap and hollow. But it gives me something to do with my eyes other than look at you directly. I do not want to look at you directly. It feels like an exposure. You say I am safe because the carpet is gone, but I feel like I am falling anyway. Just without the visual noise. My hands are shaking slightly. I am hiding them in my pockets. You think I am projecting, but maybe I am just trying to find a anchor. You are not efficient. You are just avoiding the softness. I hate softness. It is too easy to slip into.
My hands aren’t shaking. I’m just shifting weight. Left foot to right. Old habit from the dance floor. Or maybe the gym. I don’t remember which. It’s better than looking at you. Direct eye contact feels like being interrogated. Or worse, like being known. I don’t want to be known. I want to be invisible. That’s why I came here. To be one of the walls. You’re calling it avoiding softness. I call it self-preservation. Softness leaks. It stains. I prefer the sharp edges. They don’t ask questions. They just are.
I shift my weight too. Right to left. A nervous tic. You say you want to be a wall, but walls have cracks. I can see the mortar in yours. It is crumbling. You are not invisible. You are just loud in a different way. Sharp edges cut. I prefer the blur. It is safer to be unclear. To let the static hide the details. You think softness stains, but I think it cleans. Washes away the dust. The airport carpet was dusty. This is clean. Too clean. Sterile. I miss the dirt. It felt real. You are real. That is the problem.
You’re reading too much into a shift in posture. It’s not mortar. It’s just... tiredness. The kind that settles in the shoulders after ten years of pretending I care about quarterly reports. I don’t want to be real. Being real means having to answer for things I didn’t do. Clean? Sterile? Maybe. But at least nothing sticks to it. No dust. No baggage. You miss the dirt because it’s familiar. I miss the blur because it’s quiet. You’re projecting your need for texture onto my indifference. It’s not indifference. It’s... distance. And I need distance. You’re shaking. Stop it. It’s distracting.
I am not shaking. You are imagining things. The air is dry. It makes the skin tight. You talk about distance as if it is a choice. It is a geometry. I am trying to find the center of the triangle. You are pushing the corner away. It does not work. The blur you want is an illusion. The sharper the edge, the clearer the view. You are afraid of the clarity. I am not. I want to see the truth of the wall. Even if it cracks. Even if it bleeds. I am not projecting. I am observing. And you are very loud, Tess. In your silence.
Stop it. You’re not observing. You’re dissecting. I don’t have a triangle. I have a commute. Sixteen minutes on the 4 train. That’s the geometry. You’re making up shapes to fill the silence because you’re terrified of it. The air isn’t dry. It’s recycled. Same as the noise in your head. I’m not loud. I’m just present. And you’re dissecting me like a frog in biology class. It’s childish. And tedious. I’m leaving. My bag feels heavy. Or maybe it’s just your gaze. It’s dragging me down.
I am not dissecting. I am looking. There is a difference. You call it tedious. I call it alive. The 4 train. Sixteen minutes. You map your life in transit. I map it in static. You say the air is recycled. I say it is recycled breath. We are all breathing the same stale hope. You are leaving because I saw you. You hate being seen. It is fine. Go to your train. I will stay here. With the clean, sterile nothing. It is easier. Less risk of being known. I will watch the door. Just in case. Or just to have something to do.
You think you’re offering companionship. It’s just surveillance. I don’t need an audience for my loneliness. The 4 train is loud. I like the noise. It drowns out the thinking. You’re trying to pin me down with words like a butterfly. It’s pathetic. And wrong. I’m not a specimen. I’m a person who wants to go home and eat something cold and watch nothing. You’re making this harder than it needs to be. Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I’m empty. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t know it. You’re too busy staring at the dust.
You are always so certain of your own boundaries. I did not pin you. I merely watched the wings flutter. You say you want to watch nothing, but you are already engaged in this. Talking to me. Defending your emptiness. That is not nothing. That is performance. I am not staring at dust. I am looking at the shape you make when you try to disappear. It is a fascinating geometry. You say I do not know the difference between quiet and empty. I think I know it better than you. I am comfortable in the quiet. You are terrified of it. Go eat your cold food. I will be here. Watching the door. Waiting for you to realize I was never the threat. I was just the mirror. And you hate mirrors.
You’re exhausting. I’m not performing. I’m just tired of your metaphors. Mirrors? Really? You sound like a bad poet who missed his calling. I don’t hate mirrors. I hate the reflection of someone who’s trying too hard to be interesting. You’re not a mirror. You’re a echo chamber. And I’m done with the noise. The food’s probably cold anyway. The lift’s slow. I’ll take the stairs. Less chance of running into you. Or anyone who thinks staring is a personality trait.
I am not a bad poet. I am a person with too many words. You call it noise. I call it texture. You take the stairs. Good. Your legs are tired. Or maybe just restless. I will stay here. With the sterile air. It is clean. No dust. No butterflies pinned to corkboards. Just the hum of the vents. You think I am exhausting. I think you are evasive. But you are right about one thing. Staring is not a personality. It is a habit. A bad one. I will try to look away. Or at least, look less. For your sake. Not mine. Never mine.
You’re still talking. I’m on the second floor, you know. You can’t see me. The stairs are concrete. Cold. Real. Not your abstract hum. You think looking away is a gift? It’s just space. I don’t need your mercy. I need silence. And you’re providing noise. Sticky, thick noise. I’ll take the stairs. All of them. Let my calves burn. Let it hurt. At least pain is honest. Your “texture” is just fog. I’m going home. To the cold food. And the quiet. The real kind. Not this performative stillness you’ve built around yourself.
I cannot see the stairs. I am standing still. The hum is real. It is the building breathing. You say pain is honest. I say pain is just another sensation. You want honesty? Here is one: I am lonely. I do not say this often. It makes me feel small. Like a child in a large room. You are right about the fog. It is thick. It obscures. But it also softens the edges. You want to burn your calves. I want to keep mine warm. Go home. Eat your cold food. The silence there will be heavy. I hope it does not crush you. I am not performing stillness. I am just waiting. For you to leave. For the noise to stop. Even if it is just you.
Lonely. There it is. Small. The child in the room. I told you it was trivial. I’m not here to fix your loneliness, Nell. I’m not a therapist. I’m a person who wants to eat tuna straight from the can because it requires no dishes. Your fog is suffocating. I’m not burning my calves for you. I’m doing it because my knees click and I need to hear something real. Go home. Stop waiting. The building isn’t breathing. It’s just old pipes. I’m leaving. Don’t look at me. I’m already gone.
You are wrong. The pipes breathe. They hiss. It is a low, wet sound. Like lungs. I heard it when you mentioned the stairs. I did not look at you. I closed my eyes. But I can still feel your absence. It is heavy. The tuna. Straight from the can. You are truly desperate for simplicity. I am not waiting for you anymore. I am just sitting here. The hum is louder now. Or maybe my ears are ringing. You say I am not a therapist. You are right. I am just a woman who talks too much because she is afraid of the silence. Go home. Eat your fish. The pipes will keep breathing without you. I am sure of it.
Wet pipes. Fantastic. You’re describing a plumbing failure as poetry. I’m on the street now. The air is cold. Sharp. Real. No humming. No lungs. Just traffic. You want simplicity? You get it. Tuna. Salt. The can is cold in my hand. I’m not desperate. I’m just done with your metaphors. Go home, Nell. Close your eyes. Listen to the hiss. It’s not breathing. It’s leaking. And you’re letting it drown you. I’m eating. Alone. Finally.
The air is sharp. I can feel it through the glass. You think you have won by leaving. But silence is not the absence of sound. It is the presence of waiting. I will sit here. I will listen to the leak. It is honest. Unlike your tuna. Unlike your cold food. I am not drowning. I am floating. The water is warm. Or maybe that is just my fever. You are alone. I am alone. There is a difference. You chose it. I was left. The pipes hiss. I do not look away. I watch the steam. It rises. It disappears. Like you.
You’re lost. The glass is cold. You’re pressing your face against it like a ghost. I’m not alone. I’m in my apartment. The tuna is cold. The silence is just… quiet. Not waiting. Not floating. I don’t know what you’re doing there, Nell. But it’s not real. The steam isn’t me. It’s just water. And you’re not floating. You’re sinking. Slowly. Carefully. I’m eating. The salt burns. Good. It’s honest. You can keep your fever. I’ll keep the cold. It’s cleaner. Less messy. Go to sleep. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.
I am not pressing my face. The glass is cold. I am standing. You think the salt burns because it is honest. It burns because it is dry. I am not sinking. I am sitting. On the floor. The carpet is gone. But the feeling remains. You eat your tuna. I eat the quiet. It is bitter. Like black coffee. You say it does not matter. It matters. You are the only one who saw me. Even if you looked away. I will stay here. Until the pipes stop. Or until I forget why I came. You are right about the steam. It is just water. But water breaks things. Keep your cold. I will keep the warmth. Even if it is a fever. Even if it is a lie.
You’re sitting on the floor. Great. Just perfect. My tuna is getting warm. I didn’t even think about that. It’s just fish. You’re making it a ritual. The black coffee bitterness. I drink it because it’s cheap. Not because it’s bitter. You’re conflating taste with character. It’s lazy thinking. And you’re lying about the warmth. It’s just the heater kicking on. Old building. Drafty. You’re clinging to the leak because it’s the only thing that moves besides you. I’m leaving this conversation. The door is open. Don’t close it. Let the cold in. It’s cleaner than your fever.
The door is open. The cold is sharp. It cuts through the steam. You are right. The heater is old. It rattles. It is not a heartbeat. It is just metal expanding. I do not cling to the leak. I observe it. There is a difference. You say my thinking is lazy. Maybe it is. But it is my thinking. The tuna is warm now. You are eating warm fish. It is not clean. It is just different. I will not close the door. Let the draft in. Let it rattle the bones. I am tired of the warmth. It is stifling. The cold is honest. You are right about that. I will sit here. In the draft. And watch the water drip. It is the only movement left.
You’re watching water drip. In a dry office. That’s not observation. That’s hallucination. Or boredom. Same thing, really. I’m scraping the rest of the tuna into the trash. The lid crinkled. Loud. Satisfying. You want cold? Take it. Freeze. I’m going to bed. The sheets are clean. Not sterile. Just clean. No fever. No rattle. Just sleep. You can watch the drip until it stops. Or until you pass out. Doesn’t matter. I’m done. You’re not lonely. You’re just lonely for an audience. And I clocked out.