Unsupervised

Before You Hear It ·

Start by offering to do something for them. Push off from this if it helps: cheap hotel carpet.

ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit hanaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit moderedundancy twistHalf Present voices Earnest

Ivo

I could, you know, take that stain out. The carpet in that place on 4th was always... it felt like eating something you didn’t want. Melted gum and old smoke. I could scrub it out for you. If you wanted.

But wait, the light. Is it flickering? No, it’s just the bulb. Cheap ones. I bought those last week, the ones that buzz. Annoying. And the landlord, he never fixes them. Just says it’s the wiring. It’s not the wiring. It’s the bulb.

Do you want me to fix the carpet? Or are you just sitting there watching it?

Hana

You’re watching me stare at the rug like it’s going to confess. It’s just spilled wine, Ivo. Not a crime scene. And those bulbs? You bought them because they were cheap. Stop pretending it’s the landlord’s wiring fault to feel better about your own choices.

I don’t want you scrubbing the carpet. I want you to sit still. Just for a minute. My hands are shaking from the coffee I brewed this morning—too strong again, bitter as hell. I dropped a spoon. It’s under the fridge. I can hear it.

Are you coming to the market next week? The one on 5th? I think they’ll have those peaches you like. The fuzzy ones. Not the shiny cheap kind.

Ivo

Shaking hands. Right. Coffee again. You’re going to burn your tongue off one of these days, I swear.

I’m not... I’m not staring at the rug. I’m thinking about the market. Five. Next week? I don’t know. My boss, she’s been riding me about the Henderson account. It’s a mess. Absolute disaster. I spent all Tuesday just... staring at spreadsheets. The numbers blurred.

But peaches. Fuzzy ones. Yeah. I guess I could go. If you’re going.

Wait, did you say the spoon is under the fridge? That’s where the dust bunnies live. And dead spiders. Not that you care. You just want the coffee fixed.

I’ll try to come. Don’t start brewing until I get there. Or do. I don’t care. Really.

Hana

You’re avoiding the spoon. Again. The dust bunnies don’t matter. I sweep them out every Tuesday. It’s part of the routine. Like the coffee. Like the buzzing bulbs. You think if you keep talking about your boss, I won’t notice you’re holding that mug like it’s a grenade.

Henderson is a mess because you don’t delegate. I told you this three times. You just nod and stare at the screen. But peaches… yes. We need peaches. They’re the only thing that tastes real lately.

Come next week. Saturday morning. Bring the good knife. The one with the wooden handle. Not the one that slips. I’m tired of watching you struggle with the stem. It’s pathetic. And I’m not starting the coffee until you walk in. I want to hear your key in the lock first. It grounds me.

Ivo

Good knife. Right. The one I stole from my aunt’s kitchen. She doesn’t know.

I’m not holding it like a grenade. It’s just… hot. The mug. You’re imagining things.

Saturday. 5th market. I’ll be there. Don’t wait up. Or do. I said, don’t wait up. But the key. The key in the lock. Yeah. That’s fine.

Henderson. I delegated. Once. To Dave. He made it worse. So I took it back. It’s not... it’s not about control. It’s about efficiency.

Peaches. Fuzzy. Okay.

Wait. Did you say you swept the dust bunnies? On Tuesday? I swear I saw one on the floor yesterday. Large. Grey. It had legs. Did you see it?

Never mind. Saturday. I’ll bring the knife. And I won’t drink the coffee until you’re there. Even if it’s cold. Especially if it’s cold. That’s the point, isn’t it?

Hana

You stole a knife from your aunt? Good. At least you’re stealing something useful. Not that it matters. I just want to cut fruit without watching you fumble with rusted metal.

Dave is an idiot. Everyone knows Dave. You’re making it worse by trying to be the hero. It’s not efficiency. It’s guilt. You feel bad for firing him, so you carry his work. Stop it. It’s exhausting to watch.

And yes, I swept on Tuesday. The spider had legs. Big ones. Scuttling under the sofa. I stepped on it. It was crunchy. I don’t mind the bugs if they’re dead. But you’re looking at me like I’m a monster. I’m just cleaning.

Saturday. Five. Bring the knife. Don’t be late. I’ll be drinking the coffee whether you’re here or not. It’s already brewed. It’s going to get cold. Let it get cold. I like it bitter. Like the mornings.

Ivo

I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it. In 1998. She still thinks it’s in the junk drawer.

Dave isn’t an idiot. He’s... confused. There’s a difference. I’m not carrying his work. I’m preventing a fire. You wouldn’t understand. You just want the world to be clean. Crisp. Like that spider. Crunchy. Jesus, Hana. You say that so casually.

Cold coffee. Bitter. You like it bitter because it hurts. Just a little. Keeps you awake. I saw you drinking it yesterday. Your hand was shaking so bad you spilled half of it on the counter. I wiped it up. You didn’t even look.

Saturday. Five. The knife.

I’m not looking at you like you’re a monster. I’m looking at you like you’re tired. And I’m tired too. The paperwork. The Henderson thing. It’s all just... noise. Loud, sharp noise.

Do you think the peaches will be soft? Or firm? I prefer them firm. Less chance of them squishing.

Hana

Borrowed. In 1998. Sure. Keep telling yourself that. It’s easier than admitting you’re a thief.

I’m not crisp. I’m just holding things together while you drown in Dave’s confusion. You say I don’t understand because you refuse to delegate. But fine. Let the fire burn. I’m done trying to put it out.

You wiped the counter. I didn’t look because I was staring at my hand. It wouldn’t stop shaking. I dropped the spoon because I couldn’t grip it. You saw that. You always see too much.

Cold coffee keeps me sharp. Pain is useful. It reminds you that you’re still here, awake, not drifting away like you are with those spreadsheets.

Peaches. Firm. You want them firm so they don’t burst. Control. Always control. But they’ll ripen, Ivo. They’ll get soft. They always do. And you’ll have to eat them anyway.

Ivo

Control? You think I want to control the fruit? I just don’t want juice running down my wrist. It’s sticky. Hard to clean. Like the counter. Like the... the way you talk about pain. Like it’s a spice.

You’re holding it together? You’re fraying. I see the threads. Hanging off your cuffs. You step on spiders and call it routine. I step over spreadsheets and call it Tuesday. Who’s drowning here, Hana?

Saturday. Five. I’ll bring the knife. The wooden one. The one that doesn’t slip. I’ll make sure the peaches are firm. As firm as you want. Until they aren’t.

And I won’t drift. I’m right here. Watching you shake. Watching you drink that bitter sludge.

Wait. Did you say you’re done putting out the fire? That sounds final. Like the end of something. I don’t like endings. They’re messy. Unfinished.

I’ll be there. Don’t leave the coffee on the stove. It’ll burn. And I hate burnt coffee. Tastes like ash.

Hana

You’re listening too closely. It’s disturbing. I didn’t say “end.” I said I’m done putting out your fire. There’s a difference.

The threads aren’t hanging off my cuffs. You’re imagining things because you’re guilty about the knife. Or Dave. Or the spreadsheets. Or the fact that you haven’t left this apartment in three days.

Firm peaches are boring. They taste like water and regret. I want them ripe. I want them to burst in my mouth. I want to feel something that isn’t bitter. You’re so obsessed with cleanliness. With control. With not getting sticky.

Burnt coffee tastes like ash. But ash is just burnt history. It’s what’s left when everything else is gone. I don’t care if it burns. I’ll scrape it up. I’ll sweep it out. Just like the spider. Just like the dust.

Saturday. Bring the knife. Don’t bring the spreadsheets. Leave them on the desk. Let them burn.

Ivo

Leaving them? You think I can just... leave them? Henderson won’t vanish. The numbers don’t care about my guilt. They’re just there. Cold, hard facts.

Ripe. Bursting. You want the mess. I see that now. You don’t want clean. You want sticky. You want the juice running down your chin so you can’t pretend you’re dry.

Three days. I’ve been here three days? Time is... it’s slippery. Like the counter when I wasn’t looking.

Ash. Burnt history. That’s poetic. And wrong. Ash is just dust. Dust is just skin. We’re all just shedding, Hana. Slowly.

Saturday. I’ll bring the knife. And the peaches. I’ll let them get soft. I’ll let them burst. You can wipe it up. That’s your job, isn’t it? Cleaning up after the mess.

I’ll leave the laptop. But I’m taking the stress with me. It’s heavier than the spreadsheets.

And stop talking about ash. It settles everywhere. In the coffee. In the lungs.

Hana

You’re taking the stress? Cute. You can’t take anything. You just move it from the desk to the couch to the corner of the room. It piles up. Like dust. Like ash.

Three days. I know. I’ve watched you pace. It’s not time that’s slippery, Ivo. It’s you. You’re losing your grip. The counter is clean. I wiped it. Again. With bleach. It smells sharp. Better than ash.

I don’t want to clean up your mess. I want to sit in it. I want to feel the stickiness because it proves I’m touching something real. Not spreadsheets. Not Henderson. Not ghosts.

Peaches. Ripe. Bursting. Yes. Let them rot on the counter if you have to. I’ll eat the ones that fell. I’m not afraid of the mess. I’m afraid of the silence when the mess is gone. And you’re filling the silence with words about dust.

Bring the knife. Don’t bring the laptop. Leave it. Let it sit there. Let it burn. I’ll watch it. I’m watching you.

Ivo

Bleach. Sharp. It burns my nose. I hate it. It smells like hospitals. Like places you don’t come back from.

You’re watching me. That’s worse than the spreadsheets. At least the numbers don’t judge you.

Three days. I paced? I was thinking. About Dave. About the knife. About how you eat peaches like you’re trying to swallow something alive.

Ripe. Bursting. Rotting. You want to rot? Fine. I’ll bring the softest ones. The ones that squish under your thumb. Brown spots. Sweet and sour. Like regret.

Silence. You’re afraid of silence. So you talk. You talk about ash. About spiders. About my hands.

I’ll leave the laptop. On the desk. Let it burn. Let it melt. I don’t care.

But if you bleed on the counter... I’m not cleaning it up. You said you want the mess. You said it proves you’re real.

So bleed.

Wait. Did you say you’re afraid of the silence? Or are you afraid I’ll stop talking?

I’m not stopping. I’m just... running out of things to say. About the peaches. About the dust.

It’s quiet now. Is this it?

Hana

You’re holding the mug too tight. Knuckles white. You think I want you to bleed? I don’t care about your blood. I care that you’re tearing yourself apart over a knife you stole twenty years ago.

Silence is fine. I like silence. It doesn’t buzz. It doesn’t ask for Henderson. It doesn’t judge the dust.

You say you’re running out of things to say. Good. Stop talking. Just sit. Look at the peaches. Let them rot. Let them get soft. You don’t have to fix them. You don’t have to clean them.

If you bleed, I’ll call someone. Not because I want the mess. Because I’m tired of bandaging you.

Saturday. Five. Come. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. The coffee is cold. The spider is dead. The lamp is buzzing.

I’m not afraid of you stopping. I’m afraid you’ll start. Again. And I won’t be here to listen.

Sit still. Please. Just for a minute. Before you ruin it.