Start by asking after someone who has left. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

Hey. You look... different. Not worse, just. The light in the corner is gone, that weird green hum from the vending machine that used to rattle the floorboards? Silence. It’s weirdly loud.

Anyway, how’s Elias? I haven’t heard a word since he upped and vanished. Just left his key on the counter, like it was a Tuesday. Did he ever call? Or did he just... dissolve? I saw a coffee shop on 4th that used to be his spot, now it’s some sleek juice bar. Everything’s smoother, shinier. I hate it. But seriously, is he alive?

Lisbon. Right. I forgot. It’s easy to forget things when you’re out here watching the dust settle on a dead machine. Expensive silence. That’s one way to put it.

I stopped asking too, after the third time someone told me he was “fine” with that hollow ring in their voice. Like he’s just… furniture in someone else’s apartment now.

Glass is worse than brick at least. Brick hides things. Glass just reflects the nothing. Did you paint over the crack in the ceiling while I was gone? Or did you just let it widen until it looked like a map of somewhere we’d both like to go?

Rent went down. Right. Because the value of the place plummeted right along with the expectations. I’m not touching it, I’m just leaning. My hands are full of Lisbon air, apparently.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How the less you have, the more you hold onto. That crack is the only honest thing in this room now. I love that about you. You always did have a talent for finding the beauty in structural failure. It’s almost romantic.

Except it’s not. It’s just damp. And the mold is starting to show. I can smell it from here. Musty. Old. Like the day you stopped answering the phone. Sit? I’m sitting. Happy?

Dusty. Fine. I’ll shut up about the air. I’ll just sit here and watch the crack grow. It’s fascinating, really. How much space a single fracture can take up.

You’re right about the mold. It’s ugly. But it’s real. Unlike Elias’s “fine.” That was just noise. This rot? This is honest. I like honest. I haven’t seen much of it lately.

So, Lisbon. Is he happy? Or is he just... there? Like the crack? I need to know if I wasted my time worrying. Or if I was just projecting my own emptiness onto him. Again. I do that, don’t I? Take things too seriously. Until I don’t. Then I ignore them completely. Classic me.

Boring. Fair. I’m the one pacing, you’re the one rotting. At least you’re consistent.

He drinks coffee. Good. I hope it’s strong. I hope he forgets how to read a map without a screen. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? That he’d just… stop needing us. It stings, though. Like pulling a scab off a wound that’s already healed. Or isn’t.

I’m not projecting. I’m observing. There’s a difference. You’re hiding behind that crack, Ana. Pretending the mold is architecture. It’s not. It’s just decay. And you’re letting it win.

I miss the noise. The vending machine rattling. The arguing. This quiet? It’s suffocating. I’m suffocating. Are you? Or are you just dead inside? Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.

I’m not vibrating. I’m sitting. Barely. My leg’s been twitching since I walked in, probably from that cheap coffee they serve at the station. Or maybe it’s just the silence. It has a frequency, you know? A low hum that gets under your skin.

Elias watching the ocean. Romantic, right? Until the ocean shows up looking for him. You think he’s safe? You think distance makes people softer? I spent three years thinking you were over it. Turns out you just got used to the damp.

And I’m not dramatic. I’m observant. There’s a difference. But sure, keep eating the boredom. It’s filling you up. At least you’re not rotting. Yet.

Fine. Still as a statue. Happy? The floor is quiet. I’m quiet.

You say the ocean doesn’t care. That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ve decided nothing matters, so you don’t have to. It’s efficient. But it’s also cold. Elias knows that. That’s why he left. He wanted the cold to feel something. You just... stopped trying.

I sat down, Ana. I’m here. I’m vibrating less. Or not at all. The silence is heavy. It’s pressing against my ears. Is that what you want? For me to just sit here and watch you decompose? To be another piece of furniture in your museum of nothing?

I came back for a reason. You’re forgetting. Why am I here? You’re not answering. You’re just staring at the crack. Like it’s the sun.

Tired. That’s the word. Not dead. Just... drained.

I’m looking at you. Finally. You’re smaller than I remember. Or the room got bigger. Both seem likely. Elias is out there watching waves that don’t give a damn, and you’re in here watching drywall split like a map of nowhere.

I came back because I thought you’d need me to fix the rent. Or the mold. But you’re just tired. That’s worse. You can’t fix tired. You just sleep through it, hoping it goes away.

I’m sorry. For the leg. For the noise. I’ll sit. I’ll be quiet. But don’t ask me to pretend this isn’t falling apart. I see it. I’m here. That’s all I’ve got. And it’s not much.

Go home. Right. Like I have one that isn’t just a box with a bed. I’m not scared, Ana. I’m... present. There’s a difference. You’re the one running away in a straight line, hiding behind plaster and expensive silence.

The mold is loud? Fine. I’ll listen to it. I’ll sit here and let it eat the corner while you stare at me. Maybe it’ll take you too. I don’t care. I’m tired of being the fixer. Tired of pretending your cracks are maps. They’re just cracks.

I’m not leaving. Not yet. Let the mold win. I’ll watch it. It’s more honest than you’ve been in years.

Work. Of course. My boss doesn’t care about the mold either. He cares about spreadsheets. The irony is almost funny.

Ten minutes. You have ten minutes. I have... less time than that, probably. Traffic on 4th is a nightmare. Or maybe it’s just the rain. I hate the rain. It makes everything smell like wet dog and regret.

I’m leaving. Not because you told me to. But because you’re right. I’m here. You’re there. The mold is eating. Life goes on. It’s disgusting, really. How indifferent the world is to our little dramas.

I’ll go. Don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. Actually, I do. I care too much. That’s the problem. I’m already out the door. Don’t look back. I won’t.

Fine. I’m not going. Not because you locked it. Because I’m tired of the rain. It’s annoying. Damp. Ruins everything.

You have a meeting in ten? Who are you meeting? Your new boss? The one who doesn’t care about the mold? Or is it just another hollow conversation about nothing? I know that look. The one you get when you’re pretending to listen but you’re really just waiting for the bell to ring so you can escape.

I’m staying. Sit. Both of us. Let the mold eat. Let the rain fall. It’s louder than the vending machine ever was. At least the rain doesn’t promise anything. It just falls.

You’re boring me, Ana. But I’m here.

Paint it white. They always do. White hides everything. Just like your “fine.” Just like Elias in Lisbon. You’re letting him sanitize the decay. Turn the mold into something pristine and dead.

White paint smells like chemicals and surrender. I hate it. It makes the room feel smaller, not bigger. Like you’re burying the evidence.

Cold coffee. Good. Caffeine keeps you anxious. You need to be still. You need to rot a little. It’s honest.

I’m not staring at the door. I’m staring at you. Watching you wait for him. The landlord. He’s going to smile that small-town smile and talk about property values. You’re going to nod. You’re going to let him cover the crack.

I’m staying. I’m watching. Don’t pretend you don’t need the witness.

I’m not blocking the light. I’m blocking the draft. There’s a difference. You’re so sensitive to things that don’t matter. The light is gray anyway. It’s been gray since you stopped asking about Elias.

Coffee. You’re waiting for coffee. That’s your salvation now? A caffeine fix from a man who wants to paint over the rot with white? You’re pathetic, Ana. But I’m staying. I’m sitting. I’m watching the mold. It’s growing faster than you think. It’s in the corners now. Behind the wallpaper.

You say you don’t care. But you’re shivering. I see it. The little tremor in your hands. You care. You care enough to be terrified of the silence.

Drink your cold coffee. It’ll burn your throat. Good. Pain is honest.