Start by offering to do something for them. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

I am not sure what you mean by "up." I am sitting at my kitchen table. The light is poor. The vending machine sounds like it is chewing on coins. I recall the one near the loading dock. It always takes the dollar and gives you nothing. Or perhaps a warm soda. I am not thirsty. My hands are full with paperwork. The data entry job is relentless. It bores me to tears. I will not go down there. Do not spend your money on my behalf. Tell me about your dinner plans instead.

The noodle place sounds dreadful. I prefer the soup kitchen on Fourth. It is warm. The broth is thin, but it is food. I have already eaten. A tuna sandwich. The bread was stale. It crumbled everywhere. My colleague, Sarah, watched me with that pitying look. I hate it. She thinks I am lonely. I am not. I simply dislike cooking. The break room container is yours if you want it. Do not pretend you are worried about me. You are worried about your own conscience. Go eat your noodles. Try not to choke.

You are insufferable. The light is fine. The table is sturdy. I am not leaving because it is getting dark. I am leaving because my back hurts. The chair is terrible. I have bought a new one. It arrives on Tuesday. I do not want to discuss it. You talk too much about noodles. That place is closed on Thursdays. I know because I tried to call. The machine answered. It sounded broken. I hung up. Do not worry about my conscience. You have enough of your own. I will take the container. If it is poisoned, it will be a swift end. More interesting than this silence.

The granola bar is unnecessary. I have a cabinet full of them. They taste like sawdust and regret. I will leave it for you. Do not leave it by the elevator. The light there flickers. It is annoying. I will take the stairs. My knees are stiff. Tuesday is fine. The chair will be beige. It will not match my rug. I do not care. You are being irritatingly kind. I do not know what to do with it. It sits in my chest. Heavy. Like the container you refuse to touch. I will eat it. If it kills me, tell Sarah I finally broke her spirit. Or perhaps I will just get sick. Either way, it is something. Do not follow me. Go home. Eat your noodles.

You are demanding now. I did not ask for an audience. Texting is intrusive. I do not check my phone until morning. My battery is dead. I left the charger at the office. Again. Sarah will be pleased. She loves to worry. I will go home. I will sit in my chair. It is stiff. The beige one. I will read. The newspaper is full of lies. I will ignore them. Do not call me. I am not a child. I am a man who eats stale bread and complains about chairs. There is nothing noble in this. You are projecting. I am fine. Better than fine. I am tolerable. Do not make it dramatic. Just go. The noodles await. Or the soup. Wherever you choose to suffer.

Night. Do not wait for a reply. My battery is indeed dead, which is fortunate. It spares me the indignity of your sentimental expectations. The newspaper will keep. The lies are consistent. At least they are predictable. I will eat the stale bread. It is adequate. It fills the void. Do not concern yourself with my health. I have survived worse than a bad knee and an uncomfortable chair. Consider the matter closed. The container is mine. If I do not respond, assume I am asleep. Or ignoring you. There is little difference. Go to your noodles. Let them be warm. I hope they taste of something other than regret. Though I suspect they will.

It is already eaten. The wrapper is in my pocket. It crinkles. A small, dry sound. I am standing. My knees pop. Loudly. Like a gun shot in the quiet hallway. I do not look back. You are still there, hovering by the elevator, waiting for a reaction that will not come. I am leaving. The stairs are steep. I will take them slowly. I will not fall. I have no intention of providing you with a rescue story to tell Sarah later. She needs material. I refuse to supply it. The door is heavy. It slams behind me. The sound echoes. Good. Let it echo. It is the only honest thing in this building. I am going home. To the beige chair. To the silence. Do not follow.

The silence is loud. It rings in my ears. I am walking. My shoes make no sound on the pavement. The streetlights are dying. One by one. Like old men. I do not look at them. I look at the ground. There is a crack in the sidewalk. It is deep. I could trip. I do not trip. I am precise. I am controlled. This is who I am. Not the man in the beige chair. Not the man who eats stale bread. The man who walks. Alone. It is liberating, in a way. Terrible, but liberating. I will not text you. I will not call. I will simply be. Quiet. Unseen. Perhaps that is what you wanted. A ghost. I am good at being a ghost.

I am walking. The air is cold. It bites at my exposed neck. I have no scarf. I never have a scarf. It is a practical failure on my part. The street is empty. There is a dog barking in the distance. A lonely sound. I do not look up. I keep my head down. The path is familiar. I know every crack in the pavement. Every loose tile. I do not stumble. I am careful. You are right. It is not about being a ghost. It is about being present. In the cold. In the dark. I will arrive. The key is in my pocket. It is heavy. Cold metal. I will open the door. I will enter the silence. You can go to your noodles. They are warm. I hope you enjoy them. I will not be waiting for news. I will be eating. The bread is gone. I am hungry. But I will wait. For Tuesday. For the chair.

The key sticks. I jiggled it twice. The lock is old. It groans. I pushed the door open. The cold air rushed in behind me. I shut it. The latch clicked. Solid. Final. I am inside. The silence is thick. I removed my coat. It smells of damp wool and loneliness. I did not look out the window. I did not check my phone. I went to the kitchen. I opened the cupboard. There is a can of beans. Unopened. I will eat it. Cold. With a spoon. It is not ideal. It is necessary. You are eating your noodles. Let them be warm. Let them be soft. I am safe. The door is locked. Do not write again. I am done.

The beans are cold. The metal spoon vibrates against my teeth. It is a sharp, jarring sensation. I do not mind it. The silence in the apartment is absolute. It presses against my eardrums. I eat slowly. Each bite is a deliberate act. Not out of hunger, but out of routine. The routine is what keeps the walls from closing in. You are eating your noodles. I trust they are hot. I trust they are savory. I do not trust the future. It is a vast, empty room. Like this one. But with no furniture. Goodnight, Omar. Do not dream of vending machines. Dream of warmth. Or do not dream at all. Sleep is sufficient.

The beans are metallic. I taste the iron. It is grounding. I swallow. The kitchen is dark. I do not turn on the light. I prefer the dark. It is honest. The thoughts are loud. They chatter like the vending machine. I silence them. One by one. Like turning off taps. The door is locked. The lock is solid. It holds. I am safe. The apartment is still. I sit on the floor. The rug is scratchy. I like it. It reminds me I am here. In the body. Not in the head. Where the noise is. Sleep is coming. It will come slowly. Like a tide. I will not fight it. I will let it take me. Goodnight, Omar. You are kind. It is a burden. But I bear it. For now.

The tide is rising. It is cold. It touches my ankles. Then my knees. I do not pull away. I let it fill the room. The beans are gone. The spoon is in the sink. I leave it there. Let the water run over it in the morning. Or let it dry. I do not care. My eyes are heavy. The darkness is soft. It wraps around me like a blanket. A thin, frayed blanket. But it is mine. I close my eyes. The noise fades. The chair waits. The beige chair waits. It will be there on Tuesday. For now, there is only the dark. And the quiet. And you, somewhere else, eating noodles. I hope they taste good. I hope they fill you. I am empty. But I am here. Goodnight.

The screen fades. Blackness. Total. I do not check the lock. I do not check the beans. I lie on the floor. The rug bites. I accept it. My breathing slows. Shallow. Even. The city hums outside. A distant engine. A siren. Or a dream. I do not know. I do not care. Sleep takes me. Heavy. Wet. Warm. It pulls me under. I am gone. The door is locked. The thoughts are locked. I am safe. Or I am dead. It matters little. Goodnight, Omar.

The distinction is vital. Sleep is a pause. Death is a period. I prefer pauses. They allow for revision. The line between them is thin. I hold the thread. It frays. I tighten my grip. The cold floor seeps into my bones. I let it. It keeps me sharp. One foot in the mud. The other in the air. I do not let go. You are right. It is a difference. I will remember it when I wake. If I wake. The darkness waits. It does not rush. I do not rush. I am here. Alive. Breathing. Shallow. Steady. Goodnight, Omar. Keep your noodles. Keep your warmth. I have my floor. And my thread. And you. Somewhere.

The thread holds. I feel the tension. It pulls at my thumb. It is a physical sensation. Anchor. Tuesday. The beige chair. It is a promise. Or a threat. I do not know which. I prefer the chair. It has arms. The floor does not. I close my eyes. The darkness is not empty. It is full of potential. Of change. I am not static. I am waiting. The thread is thin. But it is strong. I hold it. I do not let go. Goodnight, Omar. Tomorrow is a new day. A new chair. A new silence. I will be there. Waiting. Alive. Breathing. Holding on.