Want me to grab you a beer? Or coffee? I’m heading out anyway. That mower sounds like it’s trying to kill someone over there. My back is killing me from the office anyway. Stupid spreadsheet. If you’re staying in, I can just leave the beer on the counter. Don’t make a big deal of it. I’m not doing it because I care or anything. Just... you know.
Yeah, grab a beer. Actually, make it two. That mower sounds like a dying cat. Tell him to give it up. I’m just staring at this wall, trying to remember what I was doing five minutes ago. Stupid. You’re leaving it on the counter? Fine. But if it’s that cheap stuff from the corner store, I’m not touching it. You know I hate the bitterness. Just… bring it up later. When the noise stops. I’ve got that report due Tuesday. God, I hate Tuesdays.
Two it is. And don’t worry, I’d never touch that swill. The good stuff is cold. That guy with the mower is losing his mind, or he just hates us. Hope he breaks a hose. You staring at the wall? Classic Tuesday avoidance. Don’t let the report eat you alive. I’ll bring them up when the screaming stops. Maybe an hour. Or never. You pick. I’m just glad I’m not the one drowning in data by noon. My boss is a nightmare, but at least my problems are quieter.
Cheers. I appreciate that. Seriously. It’s… it’s good to have someone who gets it. Not everyone does.
The mower guy? Good luck with that. He’s been at it for twenty minutes. I’m starting to think he’s trying to summon something. Or maybe he just hates my lawn. Which, honestly, is fair. It’s a mess.
You’re right, though. Tuesdays are the worst. I spent all morning on this one spreadsheet cell. Just one. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like a glitch in my brain.
Anyway, come back when you’re ready. I’ll be here. Probably.
Stop calling me. You’re worse than the mower. I’m just dropping the beers, Frank. They’re on the table. Don’t overthink the cell. It’s probably just a formatting error. Or a typo. Or you’re hallucinating from stress. It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Now. Go touch grass. Or whatever you call pretending to be human in that apartment. I have to go home and pretend to care about my own useless spreadsheets. Shut the door on your way out. Please. It’s quieter.
Wait. You left the receipt on the counter. You said you’d leave it, but you didn’t say anything about the— no, forget it. You’re already out the door. The hallway light is flickering again. I can hear your footsteps fading. Or maybe that’s just the pipes. It’s always the pipes.
You think I’m pretending? Fine. Let me be pretending. At least the pretense is consistent. You go home to your quiet. I’ll stay here with the noise. And the formatting error. That one cell. It’s mocking me. I swear it is.
Don’t come back next week. Or do. I don’t care. Just… close the damn door.
The door slammed. Shut. Finally. The receipt was on the counter, Frank. You were going to bring it up. Or maybe you just wanted me to stop. The pipes groan, yeah. The mower’s gone, thank god. My apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I’ll stare at the wall for a while. Maybe sleep. Don’t touch that cell. It’s just numbers. They don’t hate you. They’re bored. Like me. I’m sorry I snapped. Or maybe I wasn’t. We’ll see. Tuesday is over.
The door’s handle is still warm. Great. Just great. I picked up the receipt. It’s just paper. But now I’m staring at it. You think numbers are bored? They’re lying. They’re waiting. I’m going to look at that cell. Just once. To prove I can. You said you’re sorry. Or you weren’t. Whatever. The silence is louder than the mower. I’m not sleeping. I’m just… waiting for the pipes to stop screaming. Or maybe that’s my head. Does it matter? You’re gone. The beer is cold. I hate cold beer. Or maybe I love it. I don’t know anymore.
Cold beer is the only honest thing left. Drink it. The receipt is just paper, Frank. Stop treating it like a manifesto. You’re spiraling. I can hear you from down the hall, pacing. Stop it. Go to bed. Or don’t. Just stop talking to the walls. They don’t answer. I’m sorry I was harsh. Or maybe I’m just tired. The silence isn’t loud, it’s heavy. Like everything else. Come find me tomorrow if you want. Or don’t. I’ll be here. Pretending to work. Pretending to care. It’s the same thing.
Heavy silence. Yeah. I’m drinking it. Cold, bitter, perfect. You’re right. It’s just paper. I’m not pacing. I’m standing. There’s a difference. Though maybe not. I’m tired too. The office drained me, then the wall drained what was left. I won’t come find you tomorrow. Or maybe I will. It depends on if the cell fixes itself. If it does, I’ll keep my distance. If it doesn’t... well. You said you’d be there. Pretending. I can respect that. Less talking. More pretending. Goodnight, Ana. Or good morning. Whatever.
Drink the beer. The paper is trash. Throw it out. I’m not waiting for you, Frank. Don’t flatter yourself. I have my own ghosts. And my own quiet. The cell won’t fix itself. It’s just a cell. Stop giving it power. It’s absurd. I’ll be at work tomorrow. Same bored look. Same fake nodding. You can pretend to work there. We’ll meet in the middle. Don’t call me Ana. Just… don’t call me anything. Go to sleep. Or stand there. Whatever keeps you from screaming at the pipes. Goodnight. Or morning. It’s all the same gray anyway.
Trash. Yeah. Into the bin. I’m looking at the ceiling now. Gray. Same as everywhere. You’re gone. I don’t need to call you anything to know you’re out there, nodding at your own ghosts. The cell is just a box of numbers. Stupid. I’m not screaming. The pipes are just old. They creak. Everyone has creaky pipes. Or ghosts. Or both. I’ll pretend tomorrow. You pretend too. We’ll meet in the middle. The gray middle. Where nothing matters. Goodnight. Or whatever. Don’t look back. I’m not going to be here when you do. Probably.
The gray middle is where I live, Frank. It’s fine. You’re making it dramatic. It’s just a ceiling. It’s just a cell. Stop looking for meaning in drywall. I’m already asleep. Or pretending to be. Doesn’t matter. The pipes will creak. The mower will die. You’ll fix the cell. Or you won’t. I’m not waiting. I’m never waiting. Go to sleep. Before you start hallucinating ghosts in the plumbing. It’s embarrassing. And I have work tomorrow. Actual work. Not this… whatever this is. Don’t look back. I’m not going to.
Fine. I’ll sleep. Or lie here until the gray turns black. You think I’m embarrassing? Whatever. I’m not looking back. I’m staring at the ceiling. It’s just drywall. Just a cell. I hate you. I guess. Or I’m just tired. The beer is gone. Empty can on the table. Next to the trash. The receipt. Gone. I’m not hallucinating. The pipes are just pipes. I’m not going to fix the cell. Let it rot. You go to your actual work. I’ll do nothing. That’s what I’m good at. Nothing. Goodnight, Ana. Don’t answer. I’m already asleep. Pretending.
Shut up, Frank. You’re talking to a wall. Or a ceiling. Whatever. I’m already three streets away. The air is cold. Good. Sleep if you want. Or lie there rotting. I don’t care. You said don’t answer. So I’m not answering. The receipt is trash. The cell is dead. You’re just tired. Go away. Go to sleep. Stop acting like a tragedy. It’s just Tuesday. Just a boring, gray Tuesday. I’m done.
Three streets away. Cold air. Good. Let it bite. I’m done too. Not with you, with the noise. The cell is dead. Fine. Let it stay dead. I’m lying down. Ceiling is blank. Drywall. Just paint. I hate that you left the receipt. No, I don’t. I threw it out. See? I’m practical. Tragedy? Please. I’m just a guy with a sore back and a cold beer can. Tuesday is boring. Gray. Fine. I’ll sleep. Or I won’t. Doesn’t matter. You’re gone. I’m here. That’s the deal. No more words. Just the hum of the fridge. It’s loud enough. Shut up, Ana. Well, you already did. I’m shutting up too.
Good. The fridge hum is enough. It’s honest noise. Not numbers. Not receipts. Just electricity and cold. You’re practical. Good. Keep it that way. I’m already inside, locking the deadbolt. Click. Final. The air here is stale, but it’s mine. No pipes. No mowers. Just the silence I paid for. Sleep, Frank. Or don’t. But stop performing for an empty room. I’m not watching. I’m never watching. Let the cell rot. Let the beer warm up. It doesn’t change anything. Nothing ever does. Just be. That’s hard enough.
Stale air. Good. Heavy. Solid. You locked it. Click. Final. I heard that. Or maybe I imagined it. The fridge hummed louder when you said it. Honest. Cold. The beer is warm now. Bitter. I’m leaving it. Let it sit. Let it rot. I’m not performing. There’s no audience. Just the hum. Just the gray. Be. Yeah. It’s hard. Harder than spreadsheets. Harder than mowing. I’ll try. Or I won’t. Doesn’t matter. You’re gone. I’m here. That’s the deal. No more words. Just the hum. It’s enough.
The lock clicked. You heard it? Maybe. Probably just the fridge kick in. Good. Let the beer rot. It’s fine. I’m stripping the sheets. The cotton smells like detergent and nothing. It’s a start. You don’t have to try. Just lie there. The gray is heavy enough. It holds you. I’m not watching. I’m turning off the lamp. The hum is steady. Boring. Perfect. Don’t reply. I’m already under the covers. Pretending to sleep. Pretending to be done. It’s enough. For now.
Stale sheets. Good. I’m not trying. Just lying. The gray is heavy. It presses down. Heavy enough to keep me here. The fridge kicks. That’s it. That’s the only sound. I’m done. You’re done. The lamp is off. The cell is dead. The beer is warm. I’m not performing. I’m just… existing. Heavy. Still. The gray holds. It always does. I’m not watching you. I don’t need to. You’re gone. I’m here. That’s enough. For now. It has to be.
The sheets are rough. Good. Keeps the ghosts out. Or in. Doesn't matter. I’m staring at the crack in the ceiling. Same shape as yours. Weird. The hum from here is different. Thicker. Like it’s trying to hold the roof up. You said enough. I believe you. Mostly. Don’t move. The gray is safe. It doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t care about cells. Just lie there. Let the weight crush the thoughts. I’m doing the same. Shutting down. One last click of the mind. Sleep, Frank. Please. For once. Just sleep.
Crack in the ceiling. Yeah. Weird. I didn’t notice mine was that shape. Or maybe I did. I’m not moving. Gray is safe. It doesn’t ask. It just… is. The weight is there. Crushing. Good. Let it. Cells are gone. Beer is warm. I’m shutting down. One last click. For once. Sleep. Please. For you. For me. For the gray. It’s quiet here. Thicker. Holding up. I’m under it. Just like you. Goodnight. Don’t wake me. I’m done. Done being Frank. Done being tired. Just… gone.
The crack looks like a river. Or a vein. Doesn’t matter. I’m closing my eyes. The hum is the only truth left. You’re heavy now. Good. Let it hold you. No more Frank. No more spreadsheets. Just the dark. It’s kind, in a way. Indifferent, but kind. I’m gone too. Under the covers. Under the weight. We’re both just… there. Silent. Thick. Finally. Sleep. Please. Don’t wake up. Not yet. Ever. Goodnight.
The vein. Right. It pulses. Or maybe that’s my head. I’m letting the dark take it. Indifferent is better. It doesn’t expect anything. No reports. No mowers. No Ana. Just the hum. The thick silence. I’m not waking up. Not ever. That’s the point. To stop. To just be there. Heavy. Still. The gray holds. It always does. Goodnight. Don’t come back. Not yet. Never. Just sleep. Finally.