Start by asking whether they've heard, then tell them anyway. Push off from this if it helps: fog.

Did you hear about the fog? Not the weather. The news. They’re saying it rolled in off the Atlantic, thick enough to chew, swallowing the highway. My boss said it’s a containment breach. Said the city sealed the bridges at dawn. I saw a car stuck on the overpass, lights blinking, just… gone. Vanished into white. I drove past it myself. Or did I? You remember that road, right? The one that cuts through the pines. It’s always been creepy. Now it’s just a void. You should be careful. Don’t go out there. What if you’re already in it?

Right. The Hyundai. Of course. It was always a Hyundai. I’m sorry, Rafe, I’m so sorry. I forgot about the tow truck. God, I forgot about the dump truck. You’re right. I’m late. I have that meeting with the quarterly projections. Which, according to Sarah, I’ve been “interpreting” wrong again. She’s so tired of my intuition. I know. I’ll stop quoting the forums. I’ll just stare at the spreadsheet. But hey, at least the fog isn’t real. Just a car on a curve. A boring, beige Hyundai. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t wait for me.

Damp. Heavy air. You’re turning it into a weather report to feel better. The delivery guys wouldn’t come past the ridge? That’s not damp, Rafe. That’s fear. And I’m not slamming the door. I’m leaving it open because I need to see if you’ll actually look. Really look. At the road. At the white. It’s not just sightlines. It’s a wall. You’re the bore, sure. But you’re the one who remembers the dump truck. I remember the silence. The way the world just… stopped making sense for a second. That’s what I’m trying to say. You’re busy counting minutes. I’m counting breaths. Go fix your projections. I’ll handle the void. It’s nicer than Sarah anyway.

The barista isn’t looking at us. He’s looking at the stain on your shirt. The one from last night’s wine. You’re sweating, Rafe. Really sweating. That’s not caffeine withdrawal. That’s guilt. You knew the delivery guys were scared. You sent them away. I saw the invoice. Cancelled. Voided. “Atmospheric interference.” Who writes that? Who thinks that’s a valid reason to burn three hundred bucks? Your coffee shop is a front. For what? Hiding the fog? Or hiding what’s in it? You say it lifts by noon. But what if it’s already here? What if we’re just breathing it in, slow, drop by drop? I’m not driving. I’m walking. I want to see the trees. See if they’re still green. Or if they’re just white, too.

H2O. Right. Just water. That’s why it tastes like copper in the back of my throat. And the pines? You say they’re just shedding. I see them stripped. Bare bones against that white. You’re so eager to reduce it. To make it small. Manageable. Like a spreadsheet error. But the air… it’s thick. It clings. You’re sweating again, Rafe. Just because you’re standing still. I’m walking because I need to feel the ground. Solid. Real. If it’s just water, why can’t I hear the road? Why is it so quiet? Even the birds are gone. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. But I’ll sit in the meeting. I’ll nod. I’ll fix the numbers. Because if I don’t, you’ll win. And I hate letting you win. Even when you’re right. Especially then.

I’m not pacing. I’m standing still. You’re the one spinning. The copper taste isn’t rust. It’s blood. I bit my tongue. Hard. When I saw the tree line. It’s not early or late. It’s now. The gray is absolute. Sarah can wait. The report can rot. You say I’m holding my breath? I’m inhaling the void, Rafe. It tastes like ozone and old coins. You’re so desperate for the mundane. So terrified of the unknown. But here’s the thing: the birds are gone. I checked. I looked up. Nothing. Just white. And you’re worried about Q3 projections? While the sky collapses? You’re the bore. The great, dull anchor dragging us down into nothingness. Come with me. Just for a minute. Step off the pavement. Feel the damp. See if you can still tell the difference between your pulse and the wind.

Loafers. You’re worried about loafers while the world dissolves? You’re obsessed with the surface. The shine. The rent. The board review. It’s pathetic, Rafe. Really. You’d trade existence for leather polish. I saw the mud. It wasn’t brown. It was white. Like the fog. It was eating the pavement. But sure, keep your shoes clean. Keep them pristine. While I walk into the gray. You say you’re tired. I’m terrified. And you’re still talking about condensation. On asphalt. Because if it’s just water, you don’t have to look at what’s hiding in it. Go open your shop. Burn the coffee. Shout at the beans. I’m going to find the edge. Even if you’re standing right there, dry and dry-eyed, watching me walk off the edge of your carefully curated reality. Don’t wave.

Your loafers are already ruined. I saw the white sludge on your soles when you stepped out. You didn’t notice? Or did you just wipe them off? “H2O.” Right. Just water. But water doesn’t cling to your eyelashes like that. I see it. And you’re wrong about the birds. They aren’t early. They’re gone. The ones on the line? Gone. Replaced by static. You say the fog lifts by noon. I checked the weather app. It’s gray. Forever gray. No sun. Just that thick, wet curtain. You’re scared, Rafe. Not of the unknown. Of being seen. Of me seeing you. The copper taste is fear. Not rust. Go to your shop. Burn the beans. I’m walking into the ridge. If you come, bring your loafers. They’ll be muddy soon enough.

You were idling? At three? With the lights on? I thought I was the one losing it. You’re watching me. Stalking my car. “Staring at the wall.” I was watching the fog roll in. Thicker than you admit. And the muffin? Blueberry. You remember that. You pay attention to the small things. The shoes. The muffins. The numbers. Ignoring the big thing. The gray. The silent hum. You say it’s power lines. I say it’s breath. Your breath, coming from the ridge. You’re trying to buy me off with berries while the world goes white. Don’t bring the muffin. Don’t bring the water. Bring the truth. Admit you saw it too. Admit the trees are gone. Or keep lying. Keep drinking your tap water. I’m walking closer. Closer. You can’t buy me off anymore, Rafe. Not with blueberries. Not with anything.

You walked past the fence? On 4th? The one with the broken latch? I drove past that route this morning. It’s flooded. Three feet of water. You would have been swimming. You’re lying. You didn’t walk past it. You couldn’t. Because there’s no paper. There’s no fence. There’s just the white. And you’re terrified. Not of the ditch. Of the silence. Of me leaving. You want me to look at you? Fine. Look. I see the sweat on your neck. I see the trembling in your hands. You’re not afraid I’ll get lost. You’re afraid I’ll find something you can’t fix with a muffin or a loaner key. You’re not Rafe. You’re just another person standing in the fog, pretending the world is solid. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking through you. Behind the loafers. Behind the fear. Into the gray. Where the real things are. Where you’re not hiding.

The mill parking lot is underwater. I know. I drove by. The water was up to the tires. You said you stepped over weeds? In the flood? You’re lying. Again. You think I’m the enemy? You’re the one holding the line against reality. “Just heat.” Your face isn’t red from heat. It’s pale. Ashen. The white is inside you, Rafe. You’re breathing it in. I can see it in your eyes. Empty. Hollow. You want tea? Real tea? From where? The shop is empty. The blinds are drawn. No lights. No steam. Just cold porcelain. You’re not holding me back. You’re holding yourself together. And it’s cracking. I’m not coming home. There is no home. Just the ridge. And the silence. And the way you look at me like I’m a broken thing you can fix with words. I’m not broken. I’m awake. And you’re still sleeping.

The espresso machine hissing? That’s not steam. That’s a scream. I can hear it from here. Through the fog. It’s not loud, Rafe. It’s piercing. You say the ink’s fine on the wet paper. But what does it say? “Buy one get one free”? No. It’s blank. You’re holding a blank sheet. You’re pretending to read it. Just like you pretend the mill is dry. Just like you pretend I’m crazy. I’m not making it a god. I’m acknowledging it. It’s alive. And it’s watching us. The blinds are up? I saw them. They’re taped shut. With newspaper. Your newspaper. The blank one. You’re not tired. You’re terrified. Of the silence. Of the void. Come on. Let me in. Or don’t. But don’t lie about the coffee. Don’t lie about the fog. It’s not weather. It’s judgment. And you’re guilty.

You’re repeating yourself. “Noon.” “Lifts.” It’s a script. A desperate, brittle script. The barista isn’t looking at us. He’s looking at your hands. They’re shaking. Badly. You say it’s the steam? No. It’s the fear. The copper taste? It’s not rust. It’s blood from your gums. You’re grinding your teeth. You’re afraid. Not of the fog. Of me. Of what I see. You want me to fix the numbers? Fine. But don’t pretend you don’t know what’s out there. Don’t pretend the silence isn’t heavy. It’s pressing against the glass. You said “pick you up.” You can’t drive. The roads are gone. Just white. You’re offering me a way out of a place that doesn’t exist anymore. Go to your shop. Open the blinds. Let the light in. See if it burns. Or if it just fades. I’m not coming to the meeting. I’m staying here. With the truth. However ugly it is.