I nearly didn't come. Honest. Got on the train, stared at this mutt three rows down who refused to make eye contact, just kept sniffing the floor like it held secrets, and I thought, why bother with the noise? Then I pictured your face and thought, well, at least you won't stare at the floor. Unlike that dog. Or us, really. Remember how we used to argue? Not this… polite silence. I miss the shouting. It felt like we were actually there, not just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Please. We never shouted. You screamed, I told you to shut up, and then we went to that diner on 4th where the coffee tasted like burnt pennies. You were right about the dog, though. At least it was honest. I had to wait twenty minutes for the bus, then the driver told me the route changed. Again. Doesn't matter. You're here. Don't think you can just show up and talk about noise. I still have that screwdriver you stole from my toolbox three years ago. You want it back? It's rusted through.
You always did dramatisize things. I didn't steal it, I borrowed it and you lost it. That screwdriver was fine, unlike the bus driver who probably just wanted to go home. Anyway, burnt pennies. Great. Nothing's changed. We're just back to the static. You think rusting metal is worse than the way you look at me? Like I'm already a problem you need to solve. Stop waiting for the bus, Hana. It's not coming. None of it is. The dog was right to look away.
Don't you dare tell me what the dog was right to do. You're the one making it a problem. I'm not solving anything; I'm just standing here. That screwdriver wasn't lost, it was taken. Like you took three hundred dollars from my desk last month and called it a loan. You think looking at me like that changes anything? It just proves you're still avoiding the point. The bus isn't coming, sure. The train is. So stop talking about rust and tell me why you really came back. You didn't come for me. You came because you're running out of places to hide.
Running out of places? Please. I came back because the silence in my apartment got loud enough to crack the walls. And don't pretend you remember the money; you forgot half of it. You're twisting this again. That screwdriver rusted because you left it in the rain, not because I took it. Why does every conversation have to be an audit? I just wanted to see if you were still real, or if you'd turned into that bus driver—glaring, useless, late. You're not standing here, Hana. You're blocking the door.
The rain was inside the shed, not outside. You know that. You were there when I locked the door. Stop trying to rewrite the weather just because the silence is loud now. That's your trick. You make everything about the apartment, the walls, the noise. I'm not blocking a door, I'm sitting on the crate by the window. You want to see if I'm real? Good luck with that. You left the coffee cup here, the one with the chip in the rim. It's still there. Maybe you should take it instead of lecturing me about rust.
The rain was inside? That's your story now? Fine. The cup with the chip. Typical. You keep the junk that proves you were right and throw away everything that might make me feel something. I didn't come to pick up a chipped mug, Hana. I came to see if the air still feels like static. You're sitting on a crate like a gargoyle. Just tell me you remember the argument. Or are you too busy polishing that rust to care?
I remember. You said I was colder than the shed in January. I said you were a liar. We were drinking that flat soda you bought from the vending machine by the highway. You missed the exit, remember? The air isn't static, it's just empty. You want me to care about the rust because you can't admit you're scared of being alone again. Stop pretending this is about the argument. It's about you needing to feel something, anything, even if it's just me being a gargoyle. The mug is chipped because you dropped it. Don't make me pick it up for you.
I didn't drop it, you bumped the table. You always blame the furniture. Flat soda by the highway? That was a Tuesday, Hana, and you were the one crying, not me. I'm not scared of being alone; I'm bored of the company. You're the one who turned me into a gargoyle by staring at me like I'm a crime scene. If you want me to pick up the mug, just say you missed me. Stop analyzing the air. It's just air.
I didn't miss you. I missed the quiet. There's a difference. And I wasn't crying, I had dust in my eye from that old truck we stole parts from. You drove it off the lot with a cracked windshield, remember? That's the crime scene, not me. Don't get on your high horse about boredom. You're here because you ran out of other people to annoy. The air is air, sure, but you're breathing it wrong. Stop moving around so much. The mug stays on the table. You want to sit down, do it. Don't make me repeat myself.
I'm not making you repeat anything; you're just sitting there like a statue while I try to breathe. That truck? It was junk. You were the one who couldn't steer straight. And don't tell me how to breathe, you're the one who made the air feel heavy. I'll sit. Fine. But don't think this means I'm staying. I'm just waiting for you to admit you missed me before I walk out that door again. The mug stays, I said, but I'm taking the soda can.
You can take the can. It's empty anyway, just like your memory. I never said you were a bad driver, I said you were reckless. There's a difference, unlike your "mistakes." The truck was junk because you crumpled the fender on the first turn. Stop waiting for me to admit something you invented. You're not walking out yet. Sit down. The crate is hard, but it's better than standing. And leave the table alone, you're shaking it again.
I'm not shaking the table, you're just sensitive to movement now. Fine, I'll sit. But don't act like you're doing me a favor by letting me stay. That fender crumpled because the road was full of potholes, not because I was reckless. You're rewriting history again. It's always about your comfort, your crate, your rules. I'm sitting. Are you happy? The silence is getting heavy again. Just say it. Did we have anything left to talk about, or was this all a mistake from the start?
It wasn't a mistake until you decided it was. We had the wrench, the flat tire, the rain. That was enough. You want me to say it? Fine. I'm not happy. I'm tired of the potholes you invent to dodge the steering wheel. Sit still. The silence is heavy because you're filling it with excuses. I didn't leave anything to talk about, I left you there with the engine running. You drove away. Don't look at me now like I'm the one who broke the spell. The soda can is empty. Put it down.
You left me? I was the one holding the tire iron while you ran to the ditch. Don't flip the script now. The engine was running because you couldn't find the keys. I'm putting the can down. Stop telling me what to do with my hands. The silence is heavy because you won't look me in the eye. You're just waiting for me to leave so you can go back to being alone in that crate. Fine. I'm done. But don't think you won. I'm just bored again.
You never held the tire iron, you were spinning in circles on the asphalt. I didn't run to the ditch; I went to find the manager. You stayed in the car. Always the manager, always the keys. You think you're bored? I'm the one who has to listen to this. The silence isn't heavy because I won't look. It's heavy because you're still talking. Put the damn can down. The manager didn't even care about the ditch. He cared about the ticket. You should have seen the price. Now you want to leave? Good. The door's open.
The manager cared about the ticket? You're unbelievable. I stayed in the car because you were arguing with a dead man's wallet! The air in here is thick with your lies. I'm not putting the can down just because you want me to. It's empty, sure, but it's the only thing that isn't a lie in this room. You want me to leave? Fine. I'm out. But don't think I'm the one who lost the keys. You hid them under the seat while I was looking for the jack. Typical.
You hid the keys under the seat? You were the one who dropped them in the mud while trying to look cool. I didn't argue with a dead man's wallet; I was checking for cash to pay the tow truck. You just stood there. The can is a lie because it's empty. Everything in this room is. You want out? Go. The air is thick because you're breathing in my direction. Stop pretending you know where I hid anything. You wouldn't recognize the keys even if they were in your hand. Just walk.
I didn't stand there, I was holding the light while you fumbled! You want me to walk? I'm already turning. But you'll just sit there on that crate waiting for the silence to eat you, same as always. The keys were in the mud because you dropped them, Hana. Don't blame the can. Don't blame the air. Blame yourself. I'm out. Keep the mug. It fits you better than me.
Fine. Take the mug. It's chipped, just like your ego. I wasn't fumbling; I was looking for the flashlight you stole. You didn't hold the light, you were the shadow. Go ahead, turn around. The door's right there, not that you need it. The keys were never in the mud, they were in your pocket. Always were. Don't pretend the air eats me. It just waits for you to leave so I can finally breathe. Walk.
My ego isn't chipped, it's just worn out by you. You stole the flashlight, not the other way around! You always hide the truth in your pockets. Fine, I'm walking. But don't think the air is waiting to breathe. It's waiting to suffocate you. You're still holding the keys in your head. Go ahead, let me go. I'll just take the shadow. At least shadows don't lie about where the mud is.
Shadows don't lie? Since when? You're the one casting them. And I didn't hide the truth, I hid the flashlight so you wouldn't lose it again. You're taking the shadow? Good. It's the only thing you've ever owned. The air isn't waiting to suffocate me, it's just waiting for you to stop breathing on it. Walk out. Take the mug if you want it so bad, though it'll just break in your hand. I'm not holding the keys. They're under the seat, rusted to the metal. Just like this conversation. Go.
Rusted to the metal? That's your final story? Fine. I'm taking the mug. It'll break, sure, just like everything else we touch. You're right about the flashlight; you always did best when you were hiding things from me. But shadows don't lie? Maybe not, but they're the only honest thing left in this room. Keep your rusted keys. I'm out. Don't wait up for the air.
You can't break the mug. It's ceramic, not glass. You'd have to throw it against a wall to shatter it, and you're too lazy to stand up. Hiding things? I hid the flashlight because you kept losing it in the mud. Keep your shadow. At least it doesn't talk back. The keys aren't under the seat anymore, they're in the lock. Just turn them. Or don't. The door's open, but you're still holding the mug. Walk away if you're so brave. I'm done waiting for you to leave.
Too lazy? You know I'm not lazy, I'm just tired of lifting the weight of your excuses. Ceramic doesn't matter. It'll still fall. And the keys? In the lock? Since when do you have keys for a door that's been open for years? You're just stalling. I'm holding the mug because I said I would. I'm not walking away; I'm just... pausing. The shadow isn't talking now, but you're still breathing too loud.
Pause. Right. You've been "pausing" since the truck broke down. The door hasn't been open for years, you just think it is because you refuse to look at the lock. I'm not stalling; I'm watching you hold a mug that doesn't belong to you. You say you're tired of my excuses, yet you're the one making up the weight. Breathe loud? I'm barely breathing. You're the one hyperventilating over a chipped cup. Put it down or drop it. The shadow isn't talking because even it's tired of your noise.
I'm not hyperventilating, I'm just holding the mug too tight. You're the one who can't admit you're waiting for me to drop it. The truck broke down, sure, but you left me there. I'm not pausing; I'm stuck. And the shadow isn't tired, it's just quiet. You want me to put it down? Fine. But don't think it breaks easily. Ceramic. You always forget that. It's tougher than you are.
Stuck? You've been stuck since the tow truck left. I didn't leave you; I went to get the flashlights you lost. Ceramic is tough until it's not, just like you. You think it's tougher than me? Try dropping it. See what happens. The shadow's quiet because it has nothing new to say. You're holding that mug like it's a shield. It's not. It's just clay and water. Put it on the table. Stop acting like the mug is the only thing keeping you from falling apart.
It's not a shield, it's a lifeline! You wouldn't understand. You just want me to drop it so you can say "I told you so" when it shatters. But I won't. I'll hold it until the clay turns to dust in my hands. You talk about flashlights like you ever brought them back. The shadow isn't quiet because it has nothing to say; it's quiet because you're the only one who talks, and you're just noise. Stop telling me what to do with the mug. It's mine now.
A lifeline? You're holding a coffee cup. It's not going to save you from the mud. I brought the flashlight back, you just never turned it on. You're not holding it until it turns to dust; you're holding it because you're scared to let go of the noise. It's mine, you say? You stole it. Just like the keys, just like the truck. Put it down. The clay won't turn to dust in your hands, it'll just get warm. Then you'll have to put it somewhere.
Scared to let go of the noise? I'm holding it because it's the only thing that hasn't changed. You brought the flashlight back? You never turned it on because you were too busy looking at the mud. You call it stealing; I call it surviving. Put it somewhere? I'm not going anywhere. The clay won't get warm, Hana. It's cold. Just like you. And if I put it down, you'll just say I dropped it. So I won't.
It's not cold, it's room temperature. You're the one with cold hands. Stop acting like the mud is some grand metaphor. You never turned the flashlight on because you were too busy complaining about the beam. Surviving? You're just standing there. I'm not going to say you dropped it if you put it down; I'll say you finally stopped shaking. The clay gets warm from your grip, not the air. You want to claim it? Fine. But don't pretend it hasn't changed. It's chipped. Just like you.
Chipped like me? It's a cup, Hana, not a mirror. You're projecting again. Room temperature? In your world, sure. To me, it's ice. And I'm not shaking, I'm vibrating with the effort of not dropping it. You want me to put it down? Fine. But when it hits the floor and doesn't break—because it won't, remember, I'm holding it too hard—you'll still find a way to blame the mud. Just watch me.
Vibrating? You're just trembling. The cup won't break because you won't let go, not because it's unbreakable. And it's not a mirror, it's a record of everything you refuse to fix. You think holding it makes you strong? It just makes you late. The mud doesn't care about your grip. It never did. Put it down before your hand cramps. I'm not blaming the mud. I'm watching you turn a coffee cup into a weapon. That's new. Even for you.
A weapon? Please. It's a cup, not a grenade. You're the one who turned a coffee mug into a weapon by making me hold it this long. Trembling? I'm not trembling, I'm bracing. Against the weight of your history. You say it's a record? Fine. Then it's a record of you telling me to let go. I won't. Because the moment I do, you'll say I dropped it. So I'll just hold it until you get tired of watching. That's how it always goes.
Get tired? I've been watching you stare at a chipped cup for ten minutes. That's not history, that's a stare-down. You're not bracing; you're stalling. The weight isn't history, it's just gravity. You think I won't say you dropped it? I'll say you finally lost your grip. The mug isn't a weapon, it's a burden. And you're the one carrying it. Put it down before your arm gives out. I'm not watching anymore. I'm done.