Open by saying it's smaller than you remember. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

It’s cramped. You always noticed that, or maybe you just never looked closely before. The wasp’s fine. It’s waiting. Same as us, I guess. You think the place shrank? Or did you just get fatter? Don’t get poetic on me, Marc. It’s just a shop. The landlord painted the walls a color that makes my teeth ache. Beige. Sickly beige. Reminds me of the toothpaste I used to buy when I was trying to impress someone who didn’t give a shit. It’s worse now. Smell like wet dog and old coffee.

Fuck off. It’s not regret. It’s mildew. And don’t act like you’re surprised by my taste. You left. You didn’t have to deal with the leak in the bathroom or the landlord’s “vision.” I was stuck here. Watching it rot. You came back, all high-and-mighty, judging the beige? The wasp isn’t waiting, Marc. It’s dead. I saw it. Just a little black speck against the yellow. Like everything else that doesn’t move anymore. You want to leave? Leave. But don’t pretend you’re the one who suffered.

Gone. Right. That’s one word for it. I stayed. I paid the bills. I listened to the pipes scream at 3 AM while you were off playing hero in some other city. Don’t flatter yourself, Marc. I’m not the villain. I’m just the one who had to clean up the mess you left behind. The wasp? Yeah, it’s dead. Just like my patience for this conversation. You want to stay? Fine. But don’t expect me to pretend the last few years didn’t happen. They did. And they sucked.

Silence. Right. You always were terrible with context. The pipes were screaming because you didn’t fix the valve. Again. You just packed a bag. The road? You were driving to a halfway house in Jersey, Marc. Don’t dress up your cowardice as a journey. I stayed because someone had to keep the lights on while you were busy figuring out who you were. Spoiler: you were just tired. Tired and broke. Now stop looking at me like I’m the one who betrayed us. I’m just the one still here, paying for your nostalgia.

Suffocation. Nice word. Fits your face. I didn’t keep the lights on for you. I kept them on so the rats wouldn’t eat the wiring. You choked? Fine. But you didn’t ask for help. You just left a note on the fridge. “Gone.” That’s it. No note, no call. Just gone. And now you’re back, acting like you saved yourself from some personal hell. It was a studio apartment, Marc. The lights were on. The heat worked. Mostly. You’re just mad you couldn’t fix it, so you blamed the walls. Go sleep. The couch is damp, but it’s yours.

There is no engine. You know that. There’s just the draft from the broken window and the hum of the fridge trying not to die. You’re staring at a corpse because you can’t handle the fact that nothing’s coming back. The car hasn’t been started in three years. It’s rusted shut. You’re not waiting for anything, Marc. You’re just afraid to sit down. If you sit, you’ll realize you have nowhere to go. And I don’t have room for another ghost. Get out of my face.

Sit down. You’re blocking the light. I don’t care about your pride, Marc. It’s ugly and it’s taking up space. You’re not a hero standing vigil; you’re a nuisance. I’m not throwing you out because I don’t have the energy. But don’t pretend this is some grand standoff. It’s just two people in a beige box. You’re trembling. Stop it. It’s annoying. If you want to stand, fine. But stop looking at me like I’m the enemy. I’m just the landlord who won’t sign your eviction notice because you have nowhere else. Get a drink. The good whiskey is gone. You left that, too.

Tap water. Sounds perfect. You’re shivering like a wet dog, Marc. Pathetic. I didn’t drink the whiskey because it was swill. You drank it. Every drop. Drank it away while I watched. I’m not holding anything. The keys are on the counter. Next to the dead wasp. Go pick them up if you want. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. You’re cold because you haven’t eaten in two days. I can hear your stomach growling. It’s louder than the pipes. Shut up and drink the water. It’s free. Like your guilt.

Wet. Sure. Go on. Drink the rust. It’ll settle your nerves. Or wreck your stomach. I don’t care. You’re pathetic. Standing there like a kicked dog, refusing to sit, refusing to admit you’re hungry, refusing to admit you’re scared. The keys are right there. Next to the dead bug. Pick them up. Or don’t. I’m done. I’m going to the back room. The one with the peeling wallpaper and the smell of my own failure. You can stay here and watch the dust motes dance. Or drink the tap water. Or both. Just stop looking at me. I hate how you look at me. Like I’m the jailer. Like I’m the reason you’re cold. You’re cold because you’re empty, Marc. And I’m full of things I wish I could forget.

Drink. Choke on it. I’m not waiting for you. You think you’re so liberated, floating in that empty void. It’s just hunger. And fear. Real boring. I’ll go peel my walls. Good. They’re peeling. Like your resolve. You think staying standing makes you strong? It just makes you a statue. A weird, shivering statue. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you. Go drink your tap water. Stay in the light. I’m going to the dark. Where it’s quiet. And the walls don’t judge.

I don’t scream. I just work. You think my life is a movie? It’s spreadsheets and fluorescent lights. I’m going to the back to eat a sandwich. Cold. Stale. Just like you said. You’re not rotting, Marc. You’re just standing there, dripping on the floor. I’m not listening for your screams. I’m listening for the clock. It’s loud. It’s always loud. Get over yourself. The dark doesn’t judge. It just is. And you’re not in it. You’re here. In the beige. Watching the dust. It’s pathetic. Really.

The clock isn’t mine. It’s the building’s. And I can’t shut it up. You want quiet? Go back to the road. Keep moving. That’s your thing. Motion. Escape. I’m stuck here. With the spreadsheets. And the beige. And the dead wasp. You think movement is freedom? It’s just panic. I’m not boring. I’m real. You’re a ghost haunting a studio apartment. Go away. Or stay. But stop talking to the dust. It doesn’t care. Neither do I.

Lies. You call it lying; I call it living. The dust settles because it’s dead weight. I move because I’m alive. You’re just waiting for the end. Go watch your dust. It’s dull. Monotonous. Like your whole damn philosophy. Stale bread? It’s baguette. And it’s not stale. It’s artisanal. Something you wouldn’t recognize. You’re sitting in the dark, judging my life from the outside. It’s pathetic. Really. Go to sleep. Or stand there until your legs give out. I don’t care. I’m eating. And I’m not sharing. Take your lies and get out of my sight.

It’s crusty. You wouldn’t know crust if it bit you. You’re just hungry, Marc. Starving. That’s why you’re so obsessed with honesty. Truth doesn’t fill your stomach. Bread does. Rubber? You’re just mad it’s not soft for you. Like everything else. You want me to chew slower? Fine. I’m chewing. And you’re watching. Like a vulture. It’s disgusting. I can feel your eyes on my throat. Get out of my head. I’m eating my artisanal lie. And you’re eating your pride. Neither of them is filling you up. Go sit. Please. Just sit. Before you faint. I don’t have time to catch you.