Open as though no time has passed, then get it slightly wrong. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

The point? You mean the pier. It’s not a landmark, Edie. It’s a rotting plank jutting into muddy water. I walked past it yesterday. The light wasn’t out; it was just the color of a bruised plum. You’re projecting again. People do that when they’re lonely. As for the boat… sure. There was a boat. Blue hull, peeling. Or maybe it was green. I don’t remember colors well anymore. It’s the shapes that stick. Sharp edges. I saw it too. That doesn’t mean anything, though. Just because we saw the same ghost doesn’t make it real. Did you check the time? Or are you just standing there waiting for the sun to prove you right?

You were here. You’re here. Is that the point? I spent three years updating a spreadsheet for a client who doesn’t know my middle name. It was white. The walls were white. I stared at the pixel grid until my eyes bled. That’s what I did. Not this. You want me to forgive the silence? You don’t even know why I left. Or maybe you do. You just forgot. Or pretended to. The boss is an idiot? Good. Keep hating him. It’s easier than admitting you’re bored. Or scared. I’m not sorry I vanished. I was busy. That’s the excuse. It’s a good one. It works on me sometimes.

Hiding? Please. I’m not that dramatic. I was just… gone. There’s a difference. You think I sat in a dark room plotting my absence? No. I was at the diner on 4th, eating burnt toast and watching the rain hit the window. You weren’t there. You never are when it matters. You say it was your choice? Your choice to leave me hanging. To walk away. And now you’re back because the pier is dark? That’s not love, Edie. That’s convenience. I’m not a shrine you visit when the lights go out. I’m a person. A boring, tired person who doesn’t have time for your sudden epiphanies. Go home. Or stay. I don’t care. But don’t call it waiting. It’s just wasting time. Both ours.

You went to the diner on 4th. Right. Because that’s where I was supposed to be. I haven’t been to 4th Street in three years. I moved. The job got worse, not better. The boss doesn’t care about spreadsheets; he cares about optics. I’m invisible there. That’s the point. You’re imagining a ghost of me, Edie. A convenient one. Sitting there, waiting for your apology like a stray dog. I’m not waiting. I’m alive. I’m tired. I’m not in that diner. I’m here, in the dark, with you. But you’re looking at a memory, not the person. Stop projecting. It’s exhausting. And lonely. Both of us. But don’t blame the silence for your loneliness. You built that wall. I just live in the ruins now.

Don’t apologize. It’s just data. Facts shift. I moved to the edge of town. Near the rail yard. The noise is constant. Screeching metal. It drowns out the quiet. You want coffee? I drink tea now. Black. It’s cheaper. The walls are thin? Mine are drywall. Paper thin. I hear my neighbor’s TV. Always tennis. He misses every shot. I hear it anyway. You say you miss the routine. I miss the silence. You fill it. I hate it. But I don’t stop you. Not really. Come over. Or don’t. I’m making tea. It’s boiling. That’s the only heat I have. Don’t make it a big thing. Just… come. If you want. I won’t ask twice.

Five minutes? At this pace, you’ll arrive next week. I’m not turning on the TV. I hate tennis. The sound of the racket hitting the ball is like a bone breaking. It’s quiet here. Good. Your keys are under the mat. The one with the crack in the ceramic dog. I fixed it with superglue. It looks like a scar. You’ll recognize it. Don’t bring up the pier again. And don’t apologize for the silence. I used it. I kept it. It fits in my pocket better than a conversation. Just sit. The floor is cold. I know. I felt it when I swept. Don’t make me come out there to drag you in. I’m tired.

It’s open. I left it. The lock sticks. Jiggle it. You always did that. I’m not sitting on the floor. I’m on the sofa. The cheap one with the spring in the left cushion. It digs in. I like it. It keeps me sharp. The tea is steeping. Chamomile. It smells like dust and hay. Not coffee. Don’t look disappointed. You asked for tea. I gave you tea. You’re cold? Come in. Shut the door. The wind’s picking up. I can hear it whistling through the cracks. It’s louder than the trains. Or maybe it’s the trains. I can’t tell anymore. Just walk. Don’t think. Thinking makes it heavy. I’m here. If you want me to be. But don’t make it a decision. Decisions are exhausting. Just come in.

You’re dripping on the rug. I told you to wipe your feet. But I didn’t say anything. I’m watching your hands. Shaking. A little. Or maybe it’s just the cold. I poured the tea. It’s in your hand now. Don’t burn yourself. The spring is right there. You shifted. Good. Don’t curl up. Sit up. Straight back. It hurts, but it keeps you awake. The silence isn’t loud. It’s just… heavy. Like the air before a storm. I don’t like storms. Too unpredictable. I prefer the rail yard. Constant. Relentless. Boring. That’s safety. You’re here. That’s the variable. I don’t know how to process you being in the room. It’s clutter. Unnecessary clutter. But I’m not moving you. Drink the tea. It’s going cold. And Edie? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a rescue. I’m just a person with a cracked dog and a spring in the sofa. Accept it.

You’re lying. I’m not clutter. I’m the anchor. You’re the driftwood. Don’t get poetic. It’s sickly sweet. I’m looking at you. I have to. You’re the only other thing in the room. The TV is off. The window is cracked. Just us. And the screech. It’s rhythmic. Like breathing. You say no rescue? Good. I hate rescues. They’re messy. I’m not saving you from the quiet. I’m sharing it. It’s heavy, but it’s mine. And now, yours. Drink up. It’s getting cold. And stop staring at my mouth. It’s not going to move. Not yet. Just sit there. Let the train rattle your teeth. It’s the only honest thing left.

Bitter? Good. Sweet is a lie. I made it strong. You’re vibrating. Or is that the train? Hard to tell. You said don’t look away. I’m not. You look tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. The kind that settles in the bones. Like rust. I like rust. It’s honest decay. You’re staying? For now. Fine. I’m not asking you to leave. I don’t have the energy to chase you. Or to beg you to stay. The tea is cold. Pour it out if you want. Or drink the dregs. I’m not stopping you. Just don’t start talking. Words are noise. The train is noise. This… this is quiet. It’s ugly. But it’s real. Keep sitting. The spring is still digging in. You’re still here. That’s enough. For now.

Good. Silence is heavy, but it fits. Your hand is near mine. Don’t touch. Not yet. The cold is creeping back into the room. I can feel it on my ankles. The train is louder now. Shunting cars. Clanging metal. It sounds like a fist hitting a wall. Repeatedly. I don’t flinch. I watch the steam rise from your cup. It’s gone. Just a stain. Brown. Like rust. I like that. It stays. You’re breathing. I can hear it. Shallow. You’re holding your breath. Relax. Or don’t. I’m not your therapist. I’m just the anchor. You’re the driftwood. We’re stuck together. That’s the arrangement. Don’t move. The spring is sharp. Let it hold you there. I’m not looking away. I’m watching the dust settle. It’s the only thing moving that isn’t you. Or me. Just the dust. And the noise. It’s enough. It has to be.

Your knuckles are white. Relax them. You’re gripping the cup like it’s a weapon. It’s clay. It’s going to break if you squeeze hard enough. I’m not moving my hand. I can feel the heat radiating off you. It’s annoying. But I’m not pulling away. The train is shifting gears. A lower groan. Deeper. It vibrates in the floorboards. Up through the soles of your shoes. I can feel it too. In my teeth. You said enough for now. I agree. Anything else is too much. Too much noise. Too much meaning. We’re just two bodies occupying space. The dust is settling on your shoulder. Don’t brush it off. Let it stay. It’s part of the ruin now. Just like me. Just like you. Stay there. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Just breathe. And let the iron sing. It’s the only honest thing we have left.

Good. You’re finally listening. The heat is annoying because it’s real. Real things hurt. Or burn. Or both. I’m watching your shoulder. The dust is settling into the fabric. It looks like gray fur. Or mold. Doesn’t matter. It’s there. You’re staying. That’s the hard part. Staying is harder than leaving. Leaving is easy. You just walk. You leave the cup. You leave the silence. Here, you have to sit with the rust. With the spring. With me. I’m not going to change. I’m not going to be sweet. I’m going to be here. And you’re going to be here. Until the train stops. Or until you break. I doubt you’ll break. You’re tougher than you look. Stiffer. Like the spring. Just like me. Keep breathing. Shallow is fine. Deep breaths are for people who believe in tomorrow. We don’t. We have now. And now is loud. And now is cold. And now is enough.

Stiff is safe. Flexible things snap. You’re learning. The heat is fading. Your hand is cooling. I can feel the drop. It’s not comforting, but it’s real. I’m not moving. I’m letting the cold take it. Let it take you too. You’re not breaking. Good. Breakage is messy. I hate messes. Spreadsheets don’t care about your temperature. The boss doesn’t care if you’re cold. The train doesn’t care if you’re tired. It just runs. We just sit. That’s the truth. No narratives. No arcs. Just friction. Steel on steel. You’re here. I’m here. The dust is thick now. I can taste it. Metallic. Like blood. Or iron. Same thing, really. Drink the dregs. All of it. Don’t waste a drop. It’s bitter. It’s honest. Swallow it. And stay. Just stay.