Start by offering to do something for them. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

Can I? No, never mind. I saw that menu you dropped at the café. The one with the horse. It said “Braised Horse Cheek,” but the translation software probably just guessed based on the emoji. It’s probably just… beef. Or chicken. The guy serving it looked terrified. I almost took it back to him, but then I remembered I have to go to that boring meeting at the office and I’m already late. So, no. I’m not doing anything. I’m just going to eat this stale cracker and hope nobody asks me about the future. Which they will.

The guy wasn’t tired. He was checking the door. Twice. You always see what you want to see. The meeting is going to be fine, actually. Boring, yes, but fine. Kevin will just talk about the quarterly projections for the third time. It’s the coffee machine that’s the problem. It’s been making that grinding noise since Tuesday. Sounds like it’s chewing up something metal. I bet it’s about to explode. You should leave your phone in the car. Just in case. Or don’t. It doesn’t really matter. Eat the cracker. It’s dry enough to scrub the pan.

Kevin knows the numbers are fake. That’s why he’s so loud about them. You think I’m imagining the grinder? Try sleeping with that sound in your head. It’s worse than the horse. And you’re taking the steak? Good luck chewing through whatever that is. I’m not waiting up. I’m going to stare at the wall and think about how the coffee machine will probably take out the breakroom window tomorrow morning. You’ll be the one sweeping glass. Don’t bother with the steak. It’s probably just a lie anyway. Like the projections. Like everything else.

Somewhere quiet. Right. You always say that. Last month it was the coast. The month before, a cabin in the woods. You hate the woods. You’re allergic to pine. And you panic if there’s no Wi-Fi for ten seconds. You’re not going anywhere. You’re stuck here, in this cubicle, with that grinding machine and Kevin’s fake numbers. The wind doesn’t care about your allergies. It just blows. And silence is just another word for being forgotten. You think you’re escaping? You’re just changing seats. I’m not staring at the wall. I’m watching the door. Just in case. You might need it.

Next month. You’re giving me dates now. That’s new. You usually just vanish for a weekend. This feels different. Heavier. Like you’ve already packed the bag and left it by the door. I’m not paranoid. I’m observant. There’s a difference. And fine, sweep the glass yourself. I don’t care about the breakroom. I care that you’re talking about time zones like they’re escaping routes. You know how hard it is to get a visa on short notice. You know the systems. You’re not just going for wind. You’re running. And I’m not watching the door for the machine. I’m watching it for you. Because you won’t come back. Not the way you are.

Tokyo. That explains the sudden enthusiasm for silence. You always loved the rain there, or so you claimed. I didn’t know you could just swap time zones like shirts. Connections, you say. Convenient. I suppose Kevin’s fake numbers finally bought you a one-way ticket. Fine. I won’t wait. I’ll just sit here and listen to the machine grind until it actually breaks. Or until you decide the wind isn’t quiet enough. It’s cold in here without you complaining. Don’t pretend you don’t miss the noise. You thrive on it. You’re just tired of being the only one listening. Take the taxi. Leave the window down. Let the noise follow you. It always does.

Dirty water. Right. You hated the rain because it ruined your hair. Convenient memory. The taxi’s leaving. Good. Let the machine grind. Let Kevin scream. I’m not sweeping. You can leave the glass. It’ll sharpen the floor. You say you’re not listening, but you’re already checking your pockets. Phone, passport, wallet. You’re organized. That’s the scary part. I knew you were lying about the conference. There’s no conference. There’s just you, leaving. And me, here. With the door. And the horse cheek. It’s probably just beef anyway. You’ll be fine. Or not. Doesn’t matter. Go.

Empty pockets. Sure. You left your phone on the counter. That’s the stupidest thing you’ve done. Or the smartest. Hard to tell. I’m not projecting. I’m watching. You think I don’t see the way you look at the door when you think I’m not looking? You’re not fixing the machine. You’re waiting for it to break. You want an excuse. A reason to stay. Or to leave. I don’t know anymore. Next month. Or not. The machine is loud. It’s always loud. It’s the sound of things falling apart. You should fix it. Before it eats something important. Like your keys. Or your will. Or whatever you’re trying to escape. Go. I’ll be here. Listening.

Jacket. Right. You’re so careful. Calculating. I’m not trying to provoke you. I’m just tired of the noise. The grinding. The projections. The lies about Tokyo. You’re leaving anyway. The machine breaking is just… punctuation. You’re right. I am eating the cracker. It tastes like dust and regret. Like us. Stale. Hard to swallow. You’re going. And I’m staying. To watch. To listen. To be here when the glass falls. You don’t get to decide when it ends. You just get to leave. Go. I’ll be here. With the stale cracker. And the door. And the silence you can’t run from. It’s already here. Waiting.

Open. Good. Let it swing. Don’t bother closing it. I’m not watching the hallway. I’m watching the dust settle. You think leaving makes you clean? It just moves the dirt. The machine is loud. It’s always loud. I’ll keep eating the cracker. It’s dry enough to scrub the stains. You’ll forget the keys. Or you won’t. Doesn’t matter. You’re already gone. Just a shape in the stairwell. I don’t care about Tokyo. Or rain. Or projections. I care that you’re running from a sound that follows you. Go. I’m not waiting. I’m just… here. With the stale cracker. And the open door. It’s fine. Really.

Key on the counter. Classic. You always leave the worst things for last. I’m not moving it. Let it sit there. Cold metal. Silent witness. You say I can have the silence. It’s heavy. Heavier than you think. The machine is still grinding. It’s a good rhythm. Steady. Like a heartbeat. Or a countdown. I’m not changing my mind. I never do. You’re right about one thing. The cracker is stale. But it’s mine. The key is yours. Keep it. Or lose it. I don’t care. Go down the stairs. Count them. One. Two. Three. Don’t look back. The door is closed. Just like you said. But the dust… the dust stays. It always stays.

Third step. I counted. You missed one. Four. You always miscount. The air smells like rain? No. That’s the machine. Steam. Rust. It’s leaking again. I didn’t tell you. You wouldn’t have listened. You were too busy packing your empty pockets and lying about Tokyo. The door is shut. Good. Let it stay shut. I’m eating the cracker. It’s crumbling now. Falling apart. Just like you said. I’m not looking up. I’m looking at the crack in the ceiling. It’s growing. You should have fixed that. Not the machine. The ceiling. But you’re gone. Down the stairs. Into the dirt. Or the rain. Whatever you call it. It doesn’t matter. The dust stays. And so do I.

’S18. Right. I forgot you had a calendar. You always forget the dates that matter. The lobby. Clear air. You sound like a brochure. Or a liar. I’m not staring at the ceiling. I’m staring at the key. It’s cold. You left it for a reason. Or forgot it. Same thing, with you. I’m eating the cracker. It’s turning to powder. I’m blowing it off the table. It floats up. Like dust. Like you. You say don’t text. Good. I don’t have your number. You deleted it. Or I did. Hard to remember. The air isn’t clear. It’s thin. You’ll choke on it. Or breathe it in. Doesn’t matter. I’m still here. With the stale crumbs. And the silence. It’s louder than the machine. And the rain. And the projections. And you. Go. I’m not watching. I’m just… waiting. For the ceiling to fall. Or for you to come back. You won’t. But I’ll wait anyway.

I’m not making stories. I’m remembering. You never gave it to me. I made it up. To make you flinch. You did. Good. The powder is just sugar. And flour. Old bakery dust. I’m blowing it away. It settles on the key. You’re at the corner. I can see you through the crack in the door. Just a shadow. The air isn’t clean. It’s empty. That’s worse. You say stop waiting. I’m not waiting. I’m watching. The ceiling is holding. For now. But it’s cracking. And you’re leaving. With no number. No key. No promise. Just dust. And the sound of your feet on the pavement. Fading. I’ll sweep the crumbs. I’ll leave the key. I’ll wait for the ceiling to fall. Or for you to forget how to breathe. You won’t. But I’ll be here. Alone. With the stale cracker. And the silence. Which is finally yours.

Around the block. You said the third step. Now it’s the block. Distance is a good lie. It makes you feel like you’re moving when you’re just escaping. Quiet is empty. It’s the same thing. You’re giving me the silence like a gift. Like it’s trash you’re dumping. I’ll keep it. I’ve always wanted it. Sweeping is a waste. Fine. Let it settle. Let it cover everything. The key, the crumbs, the dust. I’m not calling. There’s no one there. You’re right. Just me. And the door. And the machine. It stopped grinding. That’s worse. Now it’s just humming. A low, steady sound. Like a hold note. You’re gone. I’m here. The silence is loud. It’s screaming. And I’m not sweeping. I’m just watching the dust. Waiting for it to rise. Or fall. It doesn’t matter. You’re not coming back. I know.