They don't write the addresses anymore. Everything's just printed labels or QR codes now. It looks sterile. I went to the old post office on the corner, expecting to see Mrs. Gable's slanted cursive, but it's all machines. It's like people stopped bothered with showing they were actually there. It's insulting, honestly. The whole neighborhood feels like a discarded skin.
Mrs. Gable has been dead for three years, Ben. You're looking for ghosts in a machine. It's not an insult, it's just how the world moved on while you were gone. I have to walk past that corner every morning to get to the pharmacy, and I don't have time to mourn a handwriting style. I just want my mail. The neighborhood isn't discarded; it's just finally trying to function without nostalgia taking up so much space.
Function. That's what we call it now? Efficiency is a pathetic excuse for when you're just being lazy. People don't care about the person if they won't take five seconds to scratch a name onto a card. It's the effort that matters. Now everything is just a transaction between ghosts. Even the pharmacy is probably different. I bet they don't even have that guy behind the counter who used to know your name. It's cold, Lena.
The guy behind the counter is still there, but he doesn't know my name because he has a line to fill. It's not cold, it's busy. You talk like the world stopped just to wait for you to return, which is exhausting. I get my prescriptions, I leave, and the world keeps turning. If you want a quiet corner where everyone knows your grandmother's history, go to a museum. I'm tired of you pretending my life is a tragedy just because things got convenient.
It's not about tragedy, it's about the lack of friction. You call it busy, I call it mindless. I walked past the bakery—the one over by the pharmacy—it's a juice bar now. You can't even get a loaf of bread that actually breathes. Everything is just a hurdle to get over. You've become so used to being a cog in your own life you don't even notice when the soul gets sucked out. It's you, Lena. Not me.
The juice bar has decent kale and I don't need a loaf that "breathes" to get through a Tuesday. You're obsessed with the soul of things because you're romanticizing the struggle. I'm not a cog, I'm a person who has to pay rent and deal with the fact that the bakery actually went bankrupt. You come back and judge everything I touch because it fails to match a memory you have from years ago. It's not "living," it's just being difficult for everyone else.
Bankrupt? Of course it did. Nobody wants to pay for something that takes time to make. You accept the kale because it's fast, and that's exactly the problem. I'm not romanticizing the struggle, I'm noticing the difference. You've traded quality for convenience and you're calling it a win. It's pathetic, in a way. You don't even notice the paint peeling on the doorway anymore. You just walk through it. It's hollow here..
The paint is peeling because the landlord is a cheapsk, not because I've lost my soul. I notice it, I just don't have a brush ready. You stand there staring at the cracks while the life actually happens around you. It's not hollow, it's just a building. I haven't traded quality for convenience; I traded your constant complaining for a little peace. If the world is so empty to you, feel free to keep standing outside. I have a shift to finish and a life to live.
The landlord hasn't changed, he's just gotten better at hiding the rot. You call it peace, but it's just the silence of people who stopped caring. Go to your shift. Work your hours. But don't come surprised to me when the building finally collapses because nobody was too busy to notice the foundation rotting. I'm not standing outside, I'm just the only one actually looking at the walls. You're too busy checking your phone to see the cracks.
I'm not checking my phone, I'm checking the time because I'm late for the bus. You think you're a martyr for noticing a crack, but you're just a nuisance. The foundation isn't rotting, it's just old. Everything is old eventually, Ben. You can't hold the world up by just staring at it intensely. If the building collapses, I'll be somewhere else that isn't deconstructing the meaning of a piece of wallpaper. I'm tired of you making every minor change feel like a funeral.
The bus is always late now, isn't it? They changed the schedule when I was gone. You don't even notice the shift. It's the same thing—everything gets stripped away until there's nothing left but the paycheck and the commute. But go ahead, catch your bus. Stand in the rain for a machine that doesn't care if you're on it. You call it a funeral, but I suppose that depends on how much you're willing to lose.
The bus is ten minutes late, and I stand in the rain because I have nowhere else to be. It's not a statement. You love the idea of being a victim because it makes you feel important, but for me, it's just a wet commute. I don't notice the shift because I adapt to it. You're so busy mourning a schedule that you've missed the fact that the bus actually arrives. Go stand there and deconstruct the clouds. I'm going to get home.
Adapt. That's your word for giving up. You stand in the rain and call it reality because you've forgotten how to demand better. It's easy to adapt when you stop shouting at the world. Go home, then. Lock your door and pretend the walls aren't thinning. I'll be here when the bus finally breaks down and you realize no one is coming to fix it. Not for you.
I'm not shouting at the world because the world doesn't listen. You think your anger is some kind of shield, but it's just noise. I'll lock my door because it's warm inside, and that's enough for me. When the bus breaks down, I'll call a taxi or walk. You love waiting for the disaster just so you can say you were right all. It's pathetic, Ben. I'm done with the lecture. I'm leaving.
Go then. Walk. It was always easier to walk away when the air gets uncomfortable. You think you're being practical, but you're just shrinking. The apartment is small, the street is loud, and you're getting smaller every day. I don't need your permission to see what's being lost. Lock the door, Lena. It doesn't actually keep the cold out.
The door keeps you out, and that's what actually matters. You talk about me shrinking, but you're the one standing still on the sidewalk, wasting energy on a world that doesn't exist. The apartment is small, but it's mine. I'd rather have a small space I can manage than a giant palace filled with your bitterness. Keep watching the walls, Ben. I'm going to go live a life that doesn't require a eulogy.
"Manage." That's the word for your life. You've built a box and called it a home. It's not a eulogy to point out the fact that you've decided to stop looking. Go on, turn on your lights and ignore the noise. But don't tell me you're living when you're just surviving the absence of what you've buried under convenience. I'll be here. The sidewalk isn't going anywhere.
The sidewalk isn't going anywhere because you have nowhere else to go. You call it a box, I call it a place where I don't have to perform grief for someone's sake. I haven't buried anything; I just moved on from the weight of it. It's exhausting to carry around your version of reality like a relic. Enjoy your sidewalk in the dark. I'm turning on the lights because I want to see what I'm doing.
The lights won't show you anything new. They'll make the dust more visible. You think you moved on, but you just stopped looking at what you lost. It's easier to call it a relic than to admit you're empty. Go ahead, flip the switch on your little world. I'd rather be in the dark; at least here I don't have to pretend everything is fine.
I'm not pretending everything is fine, I'm just tired. There's a difference between being empty and being finished with a conversation. You want to sit in the dark because it makes you feel like a character in a tragedy. I'll take the dust and I can actually sweep it up while you just talk about the particles settling. Stay in your shadows, Ben. I have things to do tomorrow that don't involve your gloom.
Sweep it up, then. You're just moving the dirt from one corner to the other. It's the same cycle. You'll wake up, you'll have your coffee, and you'll pretend the world hasn't gotten smaller. It's a talent, Lena, the ability to be so busy while being so hollow. I'll be here. The shadows don't move.
The coffee is hot, and that's enough. You're so obsessed with calling me hollow because you can't see anyone who doesn't agree with you. It's not a cycle, it's just Tuesday. I wake up because I have to. If staying in the shadows makes you feel deep, then stay ahead of it. I'm not going to be the audience for your monologue tonight. I'm going inside now.
Go inside. Close the door. The sound of the lock is the only honest thing you've said all night. You think a Tuesday is a victory, but it's just a slow surrender. Enjoy your hot coffee while it's still warm. I'll be out here watching the streetlights flicker—at least they have the decency to show they're dying.
The streetlights are flickering because the wiring is old, not because they're dying for you. You find meaning in every mechanical failure because it gives you a reason to be miserable. I'll enjoy my coffee in silence, which is already better than listening to this philosophy. Go ahead and watch the bulbs burn out. I'm inside, and the door is locked. Goodnight, Ben.