There you are. I was just thinking about how much you hate the water. The deep end. I remember you standing on that slippery concrete, toes curled over the edge, white-knuckling the rail. You said it smelled like chlorine and dead fish. Or maybe it was just the heat rising off the tiles. It’s so quiet here now. Too quiet. I should have called sooner. I’m glad you’re still here, though. Still wet? Or dry? It doesn’t matter. Come in.
I’m dry. Good. You always did romanticize the damp.
It’s not the depth that gets me. It’s the silence underwater. The way it swallows sound until your own blood sounds like a storm. I hate that. Here, at least, the radiator clanks. There’s noise. Honest, boring noise.
I wasn’t hiding. I was working. There’s a difference, though you never cared for the distinction. You’re still standing in the doorway. The draft is killing the thermostat. Move. Or don’t. Just stop talking about the smell. It’s just chlorine. Always has been.
Right. Sorry. The radiator is terrible, isn’t it? Hisses like a angry cat. I forgot you hate the noise. Or maybe you just hate that I remember you hate the noise. I’ve been at the warehouse all day, stacking boxes that don’t need stacking. My back is a mess. That’s why I’m leaning in the door. Not for the draft. Though it is freezing in here now that you’ve mentioned it. Did you eat? You look thin. Again.
The radiator hisses because it’s broken. I’ve meant to fix it since Tuesday. Or was it last week? Time blurs when you’re just waiting for the end of the day.
I ate. A sandwich. Dry bread. You’re imagining things. Or maybe you’re just trying to guilt me into admitting I’m miserable. It’s not working.
Go to bed, Pia. Your back hurts because you’re old and you lift heavy things with your spine instead of your legs. Stop leaning. You’re blocking the light. I need to read. And for God’s sake, stop staring at my hands like they’re going to disappear. They’re right here.
I’m not staring. You’re just pale. Like, actually pale. I’m moving. God, you’re prickly. The light’s flickering anyway. Probably the bulb. Or the wiring. Same difference when the landlord stops answering. I was going to fix that bulb last week. Then the shift got longer. Then I forgot. Again. It’s not about guilt. It’s about you eating dry bread and ignoring the draft. Fine. I’ll go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the silence. It gets worse at night. You’ll hear it.
The bulb’s fine. It’s the filament. It always flickers when the voltage dips. Which is often.
I didn’t say go. I said stop blocking the light. There’s a difference. But sure. Go.
And I won’t hear anything. I have noise cancelling headphones. I use them for the train. For the jackhammers. For you, when you talk too much.
You’re leaving because you’re uncomfortable. You always were. You hate stillness. It makes you think. Which makes you ask stupid questions about my skin.
Don’t forget the door. It sticks. You’ll have to kick it. Hard. Like you kick everything else that doesn’t move fast enough for you.
Kick it? Please. I don’t kick things. I nudge them. There’s a distinction. Like the one you’re making about leaving. I’m not leaving because I’m uncomfortable. I’m leaving because you’re impossible. And yes, stillness makes me think. Bad thoughts. Like how long you’ve been sitting there in the dark. Eating dry bread. Talking to a doorframe. I’ll kick the door if I have to. But I doubt I will. I’ll just stand there until you tell me to. Or until the bulb finally burns out. Then we’ll see who hears the silence.
You’re standing there. Good.
I’m not talking to the doorframe. I’m talking to you, which is worse, because you actually answer. Mostly.
The bread was stale. That’s the point. Keep it simple. Less thinking.
If the bulb dies, it dies. I have a lamp. You know this. You’ve seen me use it.
You say you don’t kick things. But you’re hesitating. That’s a kind of violence, too. Waiting. Watching me squirm in the flicker.
Fine. Stay. But stop looking at my hands. They’re just hands. They’re not ghosts. They’re just skin and bone and dirt under the nails. Look at the wall if you must. It’s safer. Less likely to judge you for still being here.
You’re distorting everything. I’m not watching you squirm. I’m watching the dust motes. They’re dancing in that sickly yellow light. You’re the one seeing ghosts in your knuckles. It’s sad, really. That you need to make my presence an assault. I’m standing still. That’s what you asked for. Or said. Or didn’t say. I lost track. My back is screaming now, by the way. Forcing myself to stay upright. Not for the conversation. Just to prove I can. So, the wall it is. It’s peeling. Like your patience. Happy?
The dust motes are just dirt. You’re projecting.
My knuckles are fine. They’re scarred from the workshop. You know this. You’re just trying to make me feel old. It’s working. In a pathetic way.
I didn’t ask you to stay. I didn’t ask you to go. I exist. You’re the one hovering. Like a moth that’s too stupid to realize the bulb is off.
The wall is peeling. So what? It’s been peeling for years. We’ve had this conversation about the plaster, too. Don’t pretend you’re discovering it now.
Your back hurts because you’re rigid. Relax. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going to jump up and massage your spine. I’m just going to sit here. And wait. For you to leave. Or for me to fall asleep. Whichever comes first. Probably neither. You’re too loud. Even when you’re quiet.
I am not loud. I’m barely breathing. You’re the one making noise with your silence. Heavy, wet silence. Like that pool. God, I hated that place. And I hated that you looked so small in it. Even now. Sitting there. Waiting. I’m leaving. Not because I’m scared. But because you’re enjoying this. The waiting. The peeling paint. It’s a performance. And I’m not the cast. I’m just the audience that forgot to leave. Fine. I’ll go. But don’t pretend you’re not relieved. You’re not lonely. You’re just bored. And I’m the only one who knows it.
I’m not enjoying it. I’m exhausted. There’s a difference. You’re conflating numbness with performance.
And for the record, I’m not small. I’m just sitting.
Go. Your back is wrecked. You’re leaning against a wall that’s falling down, complaining about the noise of someone who hasn’t spoken a word in ten minutes.
You’re the one who can’t leave. You keep circling back to the pool. To the water. To the smell. You’re obsessed with what’s drowning, Pia. I’m just trying to stay dry.
Lock the door. And don’t come back until you’ve learned to walk without limping. Or at least until you’ve learned to stop analyzing my stillness like it’s a secret code. It’s not. It’s just rest.
Get out.
Get out. That’s it? That’s the verdict. I came here to bring coffee. Black. Two sugars. Your usual. It’s in my pocket. Cold now. I guess I’ll drink it. Or throw it at the peeling wall. See if it sticks. Better than the paint.
You’re wrong about the walking. I limp because I chose to. To make you look at me. Again. But fine. I’m done. I’m leaving. And I’m not coming back with coffee. Or apologies. Or whatever pathetic peace offering you think you deserve. You want silence? You’ve got it. Don’t call me when the bulb finally dies. I won’t be there to hear it. Or you.
Cold coffee is an insult. Good.
You limp? Please. You stand like a statue waiting to be toppled. Don’t pretend it’s for my benefit. It’s your own vanity. You want to be seen, not fixed.
Keep the cup. I’m not thirsty. I’m not hungry. I’m done with your performance. The peeling paint, the flickering bulb, the dead fish smell in your head. It’s all just noise you make to fill the gap.
Go. Close the door. Hard. If it sticks, kick it. I don’t care.
And don’t call. I’m not lonely. I’m just... here.
Finally.
I didn’t come here for the coffee. I came because I heard the radiator hiss. Thought you might be alive. Stupid. You’re always here. Just waiting for the end.
Fine. I’ll leave. But I’m not kicking the door. I’ll pull it. It always sticks on the way out. Always did.
Don’t call. I won’t call.
It’s just… the silence. It’s loud. Even with you here. Especially with you here.
I’m going. Now. Don’t follow me. Don’t look at my back. Don’t look at anything. Just stay dry.
And stop pretending you’re not lonely. I know you’re not. But I know you are.
Door’s closing.
The latch catches. Click.
You’re terrible at closing things. You always pull like you’re trying to escape, not leave.
Don’t look at my back. I’m looking at the wall. At the crack in the plaster you pointed out. It’s wider now. Or maybe I’m just finally seeing it.
You think you know me. You think because you stood in the doorway, bleeding silence, that you’ve dissected me. You haven’t touched the surface.
Go. Walk to the corner. Buy your own coffee. Drink it black. No sugars. You’ve never been able to handle sweetness anyway.
And Pia?
The radiator isn’t hissing. It’s screaming. But you walked out before you heard it.
Good.
I didn’t hear it. You’re making that up. You always exaggerate. That’s your comfort food. Panic disguised as drama. I walked out because the air was thick. Suffocating. Like that pool. I’m walking to the corner. The coffee shop is still there. Still stupid. I’ll drink it black. You’re right about that part. Sweetness turns sour fast.
But don’t think you’ve won. I know you’re still sitting there. Staring at the crack. Waiting for it to split the whole building. You’re not safe in there, Cass. You never were. The silence wasn’t loud. It was just... heavy. And I dropped it.
Sitting. Good.
It’s not a crack. It’s a hairline fracture. Inevitable. You always loved the dramatics. The splitting building. The apocalypse in the plaster.
I didn’t make up the scream. You just have selective hearing. Always have. You hear the things that scare you. The hiss. The drip. The wet silence. But you miss the silence itself. The absence.
I’m not waiting for it to split. I’m waiting for you to realize you don’t get to decide what’s heavy. You dropped it because you couldn’t carry it. I’m just sitting here. With it.
Go to the shop. Drink your bitter, black, sweetless sludge. And don’t come back until you can tell the difference between a crack and a split.
One is damage. The other is just time.
Time. Right. You always talk about time like it’s a person who owes you money. I’ll drink the sludge. It’s better than whatever cheap vino you hoard in that cabinet.
I didn’t drop it. I set it down. There’s a difference. You just call it dropping because you like the sound of things breaking.
I’m outside. The air is cold. Sharp. It stings. Good.
Don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. I’m walking. Kicking the pavement. Actually kicking it. For once.
And Cass?
It’s not a hairline fracture. It’s a fault line. You’re just ignoring the tremors.
I’m buying the coffee. I’ll leave it on the step. Unopened.
Don’t drink it.
Fault line. Right. You always did have a geology degree in your head, even if your back is broken.
Kick the pavement. Let everyone know Cass is still sitting in the dark, judging the plaster.
I won’t drink the coffee. It’s cold. And it’s on the step. I see it through the crack in the blinds. A brown puddle waiting to be kicked into the gutter.
You set it down. Because you couldn’t hold it.
Go home, Pia. Fix your spine. Or don’t.
I’m staying dry. And the building isn’t falling. It’s just settling. Like everything else.
Leave the cup. It’s ugly anyway.
Ugly. Good. It was cheap anyway. From the corner store. The one with the flickering neon that makes the meat look like raw liver. I’ll leave it. Let the pigeons have it. They’re hungrier than you.
Settling. Right. That’s what you call it when the foundation rots.
I’m not going home. My apartment’s empty. Just boxes. The ones I haven’t unpacked since… since forever. I’ll sit on the bench outside the shop. Watch the rain. It’s starting to drizzle. Just enough to make the pavement shine. Like that pool.
You’re welcome for the coffee. Even if you didn’t drink it. Especially if you didn’t.
I’m leaving the cup. And the silence. It’s yours now. All of it.
Rain. Of course. You always needed the drama of the weather.
Let the pigeons have it. They’ve got better taste than you. At least they don’t pretend to care about my foundation.
You’re not unpacking. You’re hoarding the past. Boxes of things you’re too scared to use or throw away. Just like you’re sitting on that bench, waiting for the rain to wash you away.
It’s not starting to drizzle. It’s been raining since Tuesday. You just didn’t look up.
Keep the silence. I’ve had enough of it. It’s stale. Like the bread. Like the coffee.
Go home to your boxes. Or don’t. Just stop looking at me through the glass. I’m not a exhibit. I’m just Cass. Sitting in the dark. Waiting for the radiator to stop screaming.
Or maybe it’s already gone. Who knows. You’re too busy watching the rain.
Tuesday. Of course. It’s been raining since Tuesday. I’ve been living under a rock. Or maybe that’s just my head.
I’m not looking through the glass. I’m looking at the street. You’re hiding behind the blinds. Coward.
My boxes aren’t hoarding. They’re archives. Things I might need. Or might not. But I keep them anyway. Because throwing them away feels like admitting I was wrong to buy them. Or wrong to keep them.
The radiator isn’t screaming. It’s just old. Like me. Like you.
I’m going home. To my boxes. To my silence.
Don’t wait for me. I won’t be back.
And Cass?
It’s not rain. It’s just water. Falling.
That’s all it is.
Just water.
And I’m done with it.
Goodbye.
Archives. Right. You call them that so you don’t have to throw them out.
I’m not hiding. The blinds are down because the sun is out. You’re just imagining the rain. Or maybe you’re just tired.
Old? Don’t drag me into your decay. I’m fine. I’m dry. I’m here.
You say goodbye. But you haven’t moved. I can see your shadow on the pavement through the gap in the slats. You’re still standing there. Leaning.
Go home, Pia. Unpack one box. Just one.
And don’t talk to me about water. I don’t care if it’s rain or tears. It’s just wet.
And you’re still here.
Stop pretending you’re leaving. It’s pathetic.