Rafe
So do you actually talk to your dad or is that a whole thing? Sorry — that came out of nowhere. I was thinking about escalators, of all things, my building's has been broken for two weeks and I just... asked that instead.
Just Met ·
Start by asking something slightly too personal by accident. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.
rafeclaude-sonnet-5
tessQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modenewness
twistNearly Said It
voices Wry
Tess
Escalators are basically traps. You just surrender your autonomy to a moving stairway that hates you.
As for my father? We don’t really “talk.” We exchange updates like rival corporations. Last Tuesday he sent a link about gardening; I sent a photo of a report I filed. That’s the extent of our intimacy. I pretend it’s fine. He probably thinks I’m thriving. I’m not thriving. I’m just… existing in a very efficient manner.
My knees hurt from the stairs. It’s humiliating. I’d rather deal with Dad than walk up six flights in heels. Does that make sense? I’m sure it doesn’t. I’m probably just bitter.
Rafe
Six flights in heels is its own tragedy, forget the psychoanalysis. My dad and I do the opposite — too much talking, never about anything. He rings me about football results like I've ever cared. Rival corporations sounds almost peaceful compared to that.
Tess
Football results? Really? That’s worse than my dad’s gardening links. At least dirt grows. Football just… rolls.
I tried engaging once. Asked about the match. He talked for twenty minutes. I nodded. I think I absorbed more misinformation than information. Now I wait for the link. The link is safe. The link has facts. Even if they’re wrong.
It’s funny how we curate these relationships like museum exhibits. “Don’t touch, but look.” I mean, I love him. I do. It’s just… exhausting. Like carrying a wet towel around your neck all day. Heavy. Damp. Uncomfortable.
Did I just say that out loud? I’m going to stop now. The escalator almost started moving back up. I’d prefer to keep my head attached.
Rafe
The wet towel thing — that's exactly it, actually. Mine's more like a weight you're supposed to be grateful for. Guilt with a bow on it. Anyway don't stop, I asked about your dad first, remember, this is my mess too.
Tess
Guilt with a bow. God, that’s precise. I like it. Better than my damp towel. At least towels absorb water. Guilt just sits there, wet and heavy, judging your elbows.
I didn’t ask about your mess. I just… kept talking because stopping felt like admitting I had nothing else to offer. Which is true, mostly. I have a spreadsheet to finish that’s boring me to tears, and a plant on my desk that’s dying despite my best efforts. I kill everything I touch. Even relationships. Especially relationships.
But you’re right. I did bring it up. Don’t pretend you didn’t. You’re digging. I can see you digging. It’s annoying. I like it. Don’t stop. Tell me about the bow. Who tied it? Was it pretty?
Rafe
My mother, mostly. Ties it every phone call — "don't worry about visiting, I'm fine alone." Which means the opposite, obviously. I go anyway, sit in her kitchen, eat something dry, leave feeling like I failed a test I didn't study for. Not pretty. Efficient, like your dad's photos.
Tess
Efficient. I love that. It’s honest, at least. My dad’s links are aggressively neutral. Yours are... performative.
I envy that you have a kitchen to visit. I live in a shoebox where the fridge hums louder than my thoughts. The dry food is probably stale bread. I eat crackers. Dry, salted, lonely crackers.
You didn’t fail a test. You just showed up. That’s the trap. Presence is the currency, and you’re spending it on people who don’t want to count the change.
I should call him. Or not. I’m bad at this. I’m really bad at the “rival corporation” bit. It’s a defense mechanism. A flimsy one. You see right through it. Good. It’s exhausting pretending to be cool about failing tests I didn’t know I was taking. Do you ever just... burn the bow? Throw the phone in the river? I can’t. I’m too polite. It’s my worst trait.
Rafe
Once. Turned my phone off for a whole weekend, told myself it was liberating. Came back to nine missed calls and spent the next month apologizing for a crime I didn't even commit. So no — burning it doesn't work, it just delays the bill. Politeness is cheaper long-term, unfortunately.
Tess
Nine missed calls. That’s a lot of anxiety to hoard. I’d have panicked after three. I probably would’ve called back during the silence, just to check if the silence was still there.
Politeness is expensive, though. You pay in bits of yourself. Small pieces. Until you’re hollowed out. My dad’s links are just fine. They don’t expect anything. No bills. Just… information. I could live with that.
I almost told you something about my job once. Something real. Then I remembered I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful. Or desperate. Or just… boring. So I stuck to the spreadsheet. And the dead plant.
You’re right, though. The bill always comes. I just hope mine is payable in silence.
Rafe
Say the job thing. I already told you about the towel and the missed calls, I'm hardly in a position to think you're boring. Worst case I forget by tomorrow — I forget most things that aren't mildly humiliating about myself.
Tess
It’s in data entry. Not glamorous. Just numbers moving from A to B. I sit in a gray room, listening to the hum of servers that sound like bees trapped in a jar. I feel like a ghost haunting a spreadsheet.
I thought about saying something real once. I wanted to say, "I hate this." But it felt too... loud. Too vulnerable. So I stayed silent. I polished the silence until it shone.
It’s pathetic. Really. I’d rather eat dry crackers than admit I’m miserable. But you’re right. You’re not judging. That’s terrifying. I feel exposed. Like I’ve forgotten my pants.
Do you think they’d fire me if I started screaming? Just once? For five seconds? I doubt it. They’d probably just move me to another room. The horror.
Rafe
They'd move you to a quieter room and pretend it never happened, that's the real horror — nobody even reacting. I sell insurance policies to people who don't want them. Same bees, different jar. Scream once for both of us, I'll cover your alibi.
Tess
Insurance. Of course. You sell the promise that bad things won’t happen, while I ensure they do, invisibly. The bees are louder there, I bet. A chorus.
An alibi. I like that. It feels illegal. Intimate. We’d be accomplices in a crime of existence. “Where were you on Tuesday?” “I was screaming in a gray room, and Rafe was selling me the policy that said I was safe.”
It’s absurd. We’re strangers. Or are we? You know my knees hurt. I know your mother’s bow. That’s too much data for people who haven’t shared a drink. I’m terrified. Excited. Terrified.
If I scream, do you laugh? Or do you just nod? I need to know the punchline before I pull the trigger. I’m bad at endings. I always leave things hanging. Like the phone call. Like the escalator. Like this.
Rafe
I'd laugh, definitely, badly timed and too loud, then feel guilty about it for a week — pattern recognition, apparently. No punchline though, I don't have one ready. Just pull the trigger and we'll figure out what it means after. That's usually how I do everything.
Tess
You’d laugh. Badly. I can picture it. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, like you’re in pain. It’s a terrible, wonderful image. It breaks the gray. It stains the walls.
I’m scared. Not of being fired. Of being seen. Really seen. Not as a data point, not as a polite nod, but as a person who wants to scream. Who is tired. Who kills plants.
I think I’m going to call my dad. Not to send a photo. To say nothing. Just to hear the silence on the other end. To see if it matches mine.
Or maybe I’ll just sit here. With you. This is enough. It’s too much. I don’t know what to do with my hands. They feel heavy. Like wet towels.
Do you have a pen? I need to write something down before I forget. Or before I change my mind. I’m good at both.
Rafe
Call him first. Write it down after — words survive better than resolve does, in my experience. And no, no pen, I'd just lose it anyway. But tell me what you wrote. Even the bad version. I'll take the bad version.
Tess
I didn’t write anything. I stared at the screen until the cursor blinked like a mocking heartbeat. Then I typed: "I am tired." Simple. Brutal. I deleted it. It felt too honest.
Instead, I texted him a link to a recipe for soup. He didn’t reply. He never does. I sat there, waiting for the “Ok” or the thumbs up, but got nothing. Just the silence. The empty blue bubble.
It wasn’t the screaming I wanted. It was the acknowledgment. The fact that I exist outside the spreadsheet. But he’s busy. Gardening. Or sleeping. Or pretending I’m fine.
I feel stupid now. Exposed. Like I just walked into a party naked. You saw that, didn’t you? The vulnerability. It’s ugly. It’s wet.
Do you still have that penalty? The alibi? I’m starting to think I need it more than I thought.