Hey. Just got your letter. The handwriting was unmistakable. Still that jagged, aggressive scrawl on the return address, like you’re fighting the pen. I remember sitting at that desk, complaining about the tax forms, how the ink bled through. You never changed. Well, except for the fact that you actually wrote.
You always did stare too long at the wrong details. I’m not fighting the pen. It’s just… the ink dries too fast in this drafty flat. The landlord claims to fix things. He doesn’t.
My hands are stiff. Arthritis, or just age. I can’t tell the difference anymore. You’re sitting there, analyzing my graphology like a profiler. God, you haven’t changed either. Still hunting for patterns where there’s only fatigue.
I didn’t write to be understood. I wrote because the silence upstairs got too loud. The radiator hisses at 3 a.m. You know that sound. It’s not the tax forms, Rafe. It’s never been the tax forms.
Did you get the letter? Or are you still decoding the scrawl?
I got it. Obviously. I’m not a profiler, Cass. I’m just… here. The radiator? Christ, I thought we left that building years ago. I didn’t say anything because you’re always right, aren’t you? It’s never about the small stuff. It’s the big, loud silence. My hands are fine. Stiff from sitting too long, waiting for you to break. Again.
Wait. You waited? For what? To see if I’d crack again? That’s the same old cynicism. Always assuming I’m the one breaking.
I’m not in that building, Rafe. The lease broke. I’m in the city now. Different quiet. Heavier, maybe. But different.
You say my hands are fine, but you’re staring at yours. I can hear the tremor in your text. Or is that just the lag? Connection’s terrible here. I said I didn’t write to be understood. You’re forcing the issue.
I didn’t break. I just stopped pretending the noise was music. You stayed because you liked the show, not the actors. Don’t flatter yourself.
Why are you really here? Just “here” feels like a trap.
I’m not staring at my hands. The screen’s lagging. Or maybe I’m just tired of typing. You’re right. I liked the show. It was easier than leaving. The city? Heavy. I get it. I’m not here to trap you. I’m here because I’m bored. And because I forgot how to be quiet. Is that an answer? Or just more noise?
Bored. Right. That’s the new excuse for everything now.
I’m not an answer. I’m just… existing. There’s a difference. You used to know that. Before you decided silence was just a pause before the next argument.
Heavy. You say that like it’s a weather report. It’s not weather, Rafe. It’s weight. Like carrying groceries uphill when you’ve already missed the bus.
You forgot how to be quiet? Then stop trying to fill it with this… this digital whisper. It’s not helping. The lag isn’t the problem. You’re just afraid of the space between words.
I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t even ask you to read it. But now that you’re here, don’t waste the air. Say something true. Or don’t. I’m used to the noise. Just… less of it.
True? Fine. I’m lonely. There. I say it and it feels like a joke. You think this is digital whispering? This is me screaming into a void that keeps echoing back your own voice. I’m not afraid of the space, Cass. I’m afraid of what fills it when I stop talking. The groceries. The bus. I missed the bus years ago. I’m just walking now.
Lonely. There. You say it like it’s a joke, but it tastes like copper. I remember that taste.
Screaming into a void. You always dramatize. It’s not a void. It’s just… empty space. And you’re filling it with my voice because you don’t trust your own. That’s the problem, Rafe. You’re listening for me, not for you.
I’m not your echo. I’m just a person in a drafty room who forgot how to be quiet. You’re walking now. Good. Walking is better than sitting. But don’t mistake my silence for an invitation to drag me into your walk.
I didn’t miss the bus. I got off early. The stop was wrong, but I got off.
Are you listening, or are you just waiting for me to stop talking so you can fill it again?
I’m listening. God, I’m listening. You got off early. I see that now. I don’t want to drag you. I just… I missed the stop too. I thought if I ran loud enough, I’d catch up. The copper taste. Christ. You remember it. I forgot it until now. I’m not filling it. I’m just standing here. Watching you walk. Is that okay?
Standing. Okay.
You’re not watching me walk, Rafe. You’re watching me leave. There’s a difference. You think presence is enough. It’s not. Presence without direction is just loitering. And you used to hate loiterers.
I’m not leaving. I’m moving. The city moves. If you stop, you become part of the pavement. I saw that happen. To people I knew. To people I was.
The copper taste… you’re tasting it because you’re biting your tongue. Stop it. It’s rude. And it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still waiting for me to turn around.
I won’t.
So. Stand there if you must. But don’t pretend you’re part of the scenery. You’re just noise in the background. And I’m trying to hear the radiator hiss. It’s the only honest thing left in this drafty room.
Are you done performing your resignation? Or do you need to sigh first?
I’m not performing. I’m just… here. You think I’m biting my tongue? No. It’s the coffee. Stale. I left that place years ago, Cass. The radiator hiss? It’s not honest. It’s just broken metal. You’re romanticizing the decay. I’m not waiting for you to turn around. I’m waiting for you to admit you’re tired. But you won’t. You never do. So I’ll stand. Loudly. If that’s what you want.
Stale coffee. Good. At least something’s real.
I’m not romanticizing decay. I’m describing it. There’s a difference. You want poetry in the rust. I want a heater that works.
Admit I’m tired? I am. I’m exhausted by the performance of being fine. But yes, I won’t admit it. Not to you. Not while you’re standing there, loudly, demanding a confession like it’s a transaction.
You left the place. Good. I stayed. That’s the gap.
Stand loudly. It’s annoying. It’s bright. It hurts my eyes.
I’m not turning around. I’m just… pausing. The pen’s out of ink. The screen’s dark. You’re still here? God. You’re persistent.
Go home, Rafe. Drink the bad coffee. Stand in your own silence. It’s yours. Stop trying to borrow mine. It’s drafty here anyway.