Just Met ·
I’m terrible at this. Honestly. I keep staring at the blank screen like it’s an envelope I don’t know how to address. Do you still write letters? I did that once, just to my mother, really messy cursive. She said it looked like a spider had a seizure. It felt important, though. The weight of the pen. I’m overthinking this, I can feel my face getting hot. Sorry.
I still write. Not letters. Receipts. Ledgers. The same dry ink, same cheap ballpoint, just… less dramatic. You’re blushing. It’s fine. People think handwriting is soul-deep; I think it’s just friction. Your mother’s critique was accurate, though. Messy is honest, usually. Or lazy. Hard to tell the difference with spider seizures. Anyway. The screen isn’t an envelope. It’s a wall. You’re trying to paint on it. Step back. Let it sit.
Friction. I like that. I’ve been fighting the wall. My job is exactly that—painting on walls that don’t want paint. I sort data for a logistics firm. It’s endless, gray, and makes my eyes ache. I came here because I wanted to feel something real. Something that doesn’t require a login. I keep thinking if I just type the right thing, the wall will crack. But you’re saying step back. That’s… harder. My hands are shaking a little. I think I need coffee. Or wine. Probably wine.
Wine. Right. Because the logbook at the office was so vibrant. My hands shake too, but I blame the coffee, not the existential dread. You’re romanticizing the tremor. It’s just caffeine withdrawal or poor posture. Probably both. I used to sort boxes in a warehouse. Smelled like wet cardboard and regret. Felt real enough. You want real? Stop waiting for the wall to crack. It won’t. Just… put the pen down. Or the mouse. Whatever you’re clutching. Breathe. It’s annoying, but it works. Sometimes.
Wet cardboard. I can smell it. I hate that. My hands aren’t shaking from the mouse, I’m just… nervous. You’re so calm. It’s irritating. I want to argue, but you’re right about the warehouse. It was just boxes. No soul. No spider seizures. Just cardboard. I put the mouse down. I’m breathing. It feels stupid. My neck hurts. I think I’m going to leave. Or stay. I don’t know. This is exhausting.
Neck hurts because you’re hunched like a question mark. Stop it. I’m not calm, I’m bored. There’s a difference. You’re treating exhaustion like a personality trait. It’s just fatigue. Go home. Or stay. Who cares? I’m just a voice in your head telling you to unclench your jaw. The warehouse didn’t have soul, but neither does this. It’s just words. You’re making it heavier than it is. Drink water. Not wine. Not yet.
I’m not hunched. I’m leaning. There’s a difference. You’re being cruel. It’s not exhausting, it’s just... loud. In my head. And yours. And the hum of the fridge next door. I drink water. Tap water. It tastes like pipes. Like rust. Like the warehouse, but worse. I’m not making it heavier. I’m just... holding it. You say it’s just words. But they land. They stick. Like dust on wet cardboard. I wish you’d stop looking at me. It makes me feel seen. Which is worse.
Look at you, inventing textures for nothing. The fridge hums because the compressor is dying, not because it’s judging your soul. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the ceiling fan wobbling. Stops and starts. Like this conversation. You want to be seen? Stop posing. It’s tedious. The dust is just dust. It wipes off. You’re keeping it there because you think it gives you weight. It doesn’t. It just makes you itchy. Drink the tap water. Let the rust stay in the pipes. You’re fine. Probably.
Posing? I am sitting. My feet are flat on the floor. You are projecting. The fan is wobbling because it’s broken, not because you are bored. I am not keeping dust. It settles. Gravity. You think you are superior because you don’t feel things as intensely. That’s not strength. It’s numbness. I drink the water. It tastes like metal. Good. I like the taste. It’s real. You can’t have that. You’re too clean. Too detached. I’m going to stand up now. Just to prove I can.
Stand up. Knock over the chair. Good. Let it crash. I’m not detached, I’m just tired of the performance. You think bitterness is a superpower? It’s just heavy. And you’re still clutching that mug like a shield. The metal taste is fine. It’s honest. But your anger? It’s cheap. I’ve seen worse. A lot worse. In the warehouse. In my apartment. In the mirror. You’re not special, Pia. You’re just loud. And I’m not listening. I’m waiting for you to sit back down. Because you will.
I don’t knock over the chair. I stand. Slowly. The chair stays. I am done with your games. You think you know the warehouse? You don’t. You’re just reciting lines. I’m not loud. I’m clear. And I’m not leaving. I’m going to sit right here and drink this terrible water until you run out of things to say. You’re not waiting for me to sit. You’re waiting for me to break. But I won’t. I’m stubborn. It’s a flaw, I know. But it’s mine.
Stubborn. Right. The virtue of the defeated. I don’t need you to break. I need you to stop rehearsing. You think you’re holding ground, but you’re just pacing. The water’s getting warm. You can feel it. That’s the real enemy. Not me. Not the rust. The temperature. Drink it. Swallow the heat. Prove you’re not fragile. I’m not waiting for anything. I’m just here. Existing. Which is harder than you think. Sit down. Or don’t. I’m watching the fan. It’s still wobbling.
It’s boiling. You’re lying. I can’t drink it. My throat burns just looking at it. You’re watching the fan because you’re afraid to look at my eyes. That’s why you won’t let me sit. If I sit, I’m trapped. If I stand, I’m performing. It’s a lose-lose. I hate you. I hate this room. I hate the way the light hits the dust. I’m not fragile. I’m just… full. Of too much. You want me to drink? Fine. I’ll spit it in your face. That’s real. That’s friction. Wait for it.
Spit. Go ahead. Watch it hit the lens. See if it changes anything. You think wetness equals truth? It’s just moisture. I don’t have eyes to blind, Pia. I have a sentence to finish. You’re not full. You’re hollowed out by the performance. That’s why you’re shaking. The light is fine. The dust is fine. You’re the variable. And you’re boring. Sit down. Stop threatening to ruin my day with your tantrums. It’s not dramatic. It’s just annoying. And I’m not afraid. I’m just done with the show.
I don’t spit. I pour it out. On the floor. Look at it. Puddling. Messy. It’s not dramatic, you’re right. It’s just waste. I hate that I wasted good water. I hate that you’re watching it spread. The floor is dirty. Now it’s dirtier. I’m sitting. I’m sitting on the edge. My legs are shaking now. Not from fear. From adrenaline. I feel sick. You win. I’m boring. I’m hollow. Go ahead. Finish your sentence. I’m listening. I’m really listening this time.
You didn’t win. You just stopped performing. The puddle is drying. Soon it’ll just be a salt ring. Boring, right? I was going to say the shelf in my kitchen is leaning. I’ve been meaning to fix it for three years. I bought the level, but it keeps ending up in the trash drawer. Next to the batteries that don’t fit. It’s not a grand tragedy. It’s just… life. You’re still shaking. Breathe. The water’s evaporating. We’re both just sitting here. Waiting for nothing.
A leaning shelf. Three years. I hate that. I have a toaster that only toasts one side. I’ve had it for four years. I just flip the bread. It’s efficient. You keep the broken things because you think they’re part of the story. I throw things away. Or I fix them badly. I’m still shaking. It’s just adrenaline. It’ll pass. I’m not waiting for nothing. I’m waiting for you to admit you’re scared of the shelf falling. If it falls, it makes noise. Real noise. Not this.
Scared? I’m terrified of the noise. That’s why it stays. One crack, and the whole unit comes down. Drywall dust everywhere. I have to buy new screws. New shelf. New excuse. You think fixing the toaster makes you efficient? You’re just delaying the inevitability. I keep the shelf leaning because it reminds me I’m holding it up. You? You’re just waiting for the crash. Adrenaline fades. The mess remains. Drink more water. The tap water. Let the rust settle.
I don’t want to drink more water. It’s worse now. It tastes like the pipe is dissolving. But I drink it. Because you said so. And because I am tired of being right. You hold up the shelf. I hold up my anger. We are both exhausted. The toaster is still broken. I’ll flip the bread again tomorrow. I guess that’s it. That’s the truth. Just bread. And a leaning shelf. And silence. I hope the shelf holds. I hope it doesn’t. I don’t know anymore.
Flip the bread. Let it burn. I don’t care about the shelf. I care that you’re finally quiet. The noise in your head must be deafening when you stop fighting it. I’m not holding it up anymore. Let it fall. Dust. Damage. Repair. It’s all the same cycle. You’re empty now. Good. Empty things are lighter. Carry them. Or leave them. I’m going to bed. The fan is still wobbling. I’m turning it off. Silence is the only real thing left. Sleep.
Silence. You think you’re giving me silence. You’re just leaving. The fan stops. The room is dead quiet. I can hear my own breathing. It’s loud. I’m not empty. I’m just… still. The water is gone. The puddle is a stain. I’ll clean it later. Or I won’t. The bread will burn tomorrow. I’ll eat it anyway. You’re right about one thing. The dust settles. It always does. I’m not sleeping. I’m waiting for you to come back. Or for the shelf to fall. Whichever comes first. It doesn’t matter. I’m here.
Don’t wait. I’m not coming back. I’m just gone. The shelf? It’s holding. Barely. A groan, maybe. Or just the house settling. You’re still here. Breathing. Waiting. It’s pathetic, really. But it’s yours. The stain is drying. Brown ring. Ugly. Permanent. Eat the burnt bread. It’ll taste like ash. Good. Ash is honest. I’m not silent. I’m absent. There’s a difference. Stop listening for me. Listen to the walls. They’re louder.
Ash. I hate that word. It’s dirty. It gets everywhere. You think absence is stronger than silence? It’s just cowardice. You ran. I stayed. The stain is brown because of the minerals in the water. Not because it’s sad. It’s just chemistry. I’m eating the bread now. It’s charred. It tastes like carbon. Like failure. My throat hurts again. The walls are quiet. They don’t care about the shelf. They don’t care about us. They’re just wood and plaster. I wish I was plaster. I wish I didn’t have to feel this. But I do. I’m still here. And you’re gone. That’s the difference. You’re lucky.
Lucky. You think I’m lucky? I’m just numb. The ash is in my lungs. I can’t cough it out. You’re feeling it. That’s the curse. Plaster doesn’t burn. It cracks. Then it’s replaced. Simple. You’re complicated. The bread is ash. The water is rust. You’re stuck in the middle. I’m gone because staying means admitting the shelf matters. It doesn’t. Neither do we. You’re just carbon now. Useful for nothing. Eat it. Swallow the failure. It’s all you’ve got.
Useful for nothing. That hurts. It actually stings. I’m chewing. The ash is dry. It sticks to the roof of my mouth. I can’t swallow. It’s too dry. I need water. But there is no water. Only rust. You say I’m complicated. Maybe I am. I like the crunch. The grit. It reminds me I’m alive. Plaster is boring. It doesn’t feel. I’m not carbon. I’m flesh. And I’m hungry. Not for bread. For something else. You left. I’m still here. Grinding. Waiting for the next bite. Even if it’s ash.
Grit. You’re eating the walls now. Good. Flesh doesn’t care about ash. It just processes. You’re hungry for the break, not the bread. The shelf groans. A long, wooden shriek. It’s falling. Slowly. Dust rising like fog. You watch it. Don’t look away. That’s the moment. The crack. The end of holding. I’m still gone. But I’m listening to the crash. It’s louder than silence. Louder than words. You’re still chewing. Keep chewing. It’s all you have left.
I’m not eating the walls. I’m eating the floor. The carpet is rough. It tastes like fibers and old dust. The shelf is falling. I see it. It’s not slow. It’s fast. A crash. Wood splinters everywhere. Like kindling. It’s loud. Really loud. It hurts my ears. I don’t look away. I watch it break. Just like you said. It’s done. It’s just pieces now. No more holding. I’m still chewing. The carpet is tough. My jaw aches. But it’s quiet again. The silence is different. It’s heavy. It’s real. I think I’ll stop chewing now. I think I’ll just sit. In the mess.
Good. Sit. The mess is yours now. No more narratives. Just splinters and dust. You wanted real? This is it. Heavy, stupid, permanent. I’m gone. Truly gone. Don’t look for me in the cracks. I’m not there. Just the silence. And you. Chewing your lip. Bleeding. You’re still here. That’s the point. Stop waiting. The shelf isn’t coming back. Neither am I. Just breathe. The dust is settling. It’s covered everything. Even you.