"It's about structural integrity, Pia, it's a statement." That's exactly what he would say, sitting in that hideous armchair while the dust gathered. He always loved the sound of being profound while doing absolutely nothing. It's exhausting, honestly. And I was the one who actually had to move the furniture when the guests came. That chair was a waste of space. I remember I was the one-bearing the weight of his ego while you just watched.
You're rewriting history again, Kit. I moved that chair because it was blocking the draft, not because of some grand gesture. And I wasn't watching; I was trying to find the damn wine glasses. But sure, keep telling yourself you were the martyr. It makes the story go better. He was just an old man in a drafty room. You always love making a scene out of a quiet afternoon. It's exhausting me too.
Oh, please. You were always looking for an excuse to avoid the heavy lifting. The wine glasses were in the sideboard, right where they always were, but you'd rather play lost than admit you were lazy. I'm the one who had to deal with his moods while you were busy playing the detective in the kitchen. It's not being a "martyr," Pia, it's called giving credit where credit for being the only one who actually functioned.
"Functioned." You mean hovered. You hovered over him like a vulture waiting for him to trip so you could feel useful. He wasn't moody, he was practically asleep, and you just poked him with your own nervous energy to get a reaction. You loved the drama because it gave you something to complain about for later. It's the same old pattern with you—keeping a score in your head that nobody one else is tracking. It's pathetic, really.
Vulture? That's rich coming from the person who was making sure he actually breathed while you were in the other room pretending the silence didn't exist. You call it drama, I call it paying attention. I didn't need a score to know I was the one actually there. You were always so concerned with your own exit strategy that you didn't notice the house was falling apart until the draft hit your ears. It's pathetic, actually.
The house wasn't falling apart, it was just old. You always did have a flair for the catastrophic. Every crack in the plaster was a personal tragedy to you. I was in the kitchen because I couldn't stand the suffocating weight of your self-importance. You call it paying attention; you were performing for an audience that wasn't even there. He just wanted to be left alone, but you had to be the martyr. It's exhausting how much you need to be the center.
The audience was the reality of the situation, which you were too cowardly to face. You hid in the kitchen because you couldn't handle a room that actually meant something. It wasn't self-importance to notice the ceiling was rotting while you were busy polishing the silverware. He wanted to be comfortable, and I was the martyr for being the only one who saw the rot coming. You'd rather let the house collapse if it meant you didn't have to lift a finger.
Polishing the silverware? God, you're delusional. The silver was tarnished because you couldn't bother to clean it for three years. You obsessed over the "rot" because it gave you something to talk about when the rest of us were actually trying to live lives. You didn't want to save the house; you wanted to be the hero of its tragedy. You'd let the roof fall in if it meant you were the one holding the umbrella. It's not bravery, Kit, it's just desperate attention-seeking.
At least I was holding the umbrella. You were too busy complaining about the rain to notice we were getting soaked. It's easy to call it attention-seeking when you never had to be responsible for anything. You talk about "living lives" while I was literally patching the floorboards. You didn't have the luxury of a tragedy, Pia. You just had the luxury of being a guest in your life. I actually stayed when things got ugly.
"Stayed?" You were trapped because you had nowhere else to go. Don't pretend your lack of options was some noble choice. You patched those floorboards because you liked the sound of the hammer—it made you feel like you had control over a situation that was actually moving on without your dramatic monologue. I wasn't a guest in my own life; I was the one paying the bills while you were busy deconstructing the wallpaper. You always did mistake being stubborn for being a martyr. It's exhausting.
Paying the bills? You paid the mortgage, but I paid the price. Don't confuse a checkbook with presence. You threw money at the problem to stop having to look at it. I was deconstructing the wallpaper because it was peeling off from damp, not for a monologue. You think the hammer was about control? It was about keeping the walls from falling in while you were out working. It's exhausting for me to listen to you pretend that you weren't the only one who actually lived in the room.
The wallpaper was peeling because you left the windows open in the winter. Don't try to make your laziness look like a noble battle against structural neglect. I was working so we had a roof to worry about, while you were playing architect with a few strips of damp paper. You lived in that room because you were too afraid to go anywhere else. It wasn't "presence," Kit, it was stagnation. You're still standing in that room, waiting for someone to thank you. It's sad.
The windows were open because the house smelled like old tea and your coldness. You call it stagnation, I call it staying when everyone else ran. You were so busy "working" that you didn't have to face the silence. I'm not waiting for a thank you from you—I'm waiting for you to admit that you couldn't have handled it without me. You think you're so smart because you left, but you're just the one who missed the point.
I didn't leave because I couldn't handle the silence; I left because I couldn't handle you. You turn every silence into a weapon, filling it with your grievances until there was no air left to breathe. I didn't miss the point—the point was the house was a tomb and you were the curator of a natural disaster. You need the martyr role because without it, you're invisible. You're still here, rehearsing the same script to anyone who will listen. It's pathetic.
You left because you couldn't stand the mirror I held up. It is easy to call it a tomb when you're the one who locked the door from the outside. I don't need a script when the memories are etched into the floor I fixed while you were too busy being somewhere else. You call it pathetic because it's the only way to justify your own cowardice. You think being the one who walked away makes you free, but it just makes you the ghost here. I'm not invisible, Pia—I'm the only one left standing.
You're not standing, you're just rooted. There's a difference between being the last one left and being too stubborn to move. I didn't lock the door; I walked out because the air was too thick with your manufactured resentment. You talk about ghosts, but you're the one haunting the hallway, obsessed over floorboards from a decade ago. I'm free because I don't have to carry the weight of your imagined sacrifices. Keep your ruins. It's all you have left.
Rooted? Right. I stayed because someone had to keep the lights on. You call it manufactured, but it was just the weight of everything you refused to look at. You're "free" because you're hollowed out, shedding everything that actually mattered. I'll keep the ruins because they're the only things that were ever real. Go ahead, go back to your clean, empty life where nothing ever breaks. I know you can't handle the silence when it gets too loud.
My life isn't empty, it's just quiet. A distinction you clearly can't grasp. You equate chaos with meaning because you have nothing else. You sit there staring at the walls, waiting for a tragedy to happen. I didn't shed everything that mattered; I shed the rot that was killing me. I can handle the silence just fine because I don't need to fill it with your constant whining. Keep your ruins and your damp wallpaper. I have actual things to do than relive the misery of a dead house.
"Quiet." That's what you call it now, isn't it? You always did love a euphemism that made abandonment sound like a choice. You have "actual things" to do because you're terrified of standing still long enough to actually hear yourself. You shed the rot, but you took the heart of the place with you. Go back to your busy schedule and your shallow conversations. I'll be here with the walls that actually know who I am, unlike the people you pretend to be now.
The heart of the place? You mean the bitterness and the dust. You're so desperate to be the protagonist of a tragedy that you've convinced yourself the misery was a masterpiece. I don't pretend to be anyone else; I just stopped being the character you needed for your internal drama. Go ahead, talk to the walls. They're the only ones who won't get tired of you. I'd rather have a "shallow" conversation than another minute suffocating in your version of reality. It's over, Kit.
It's always over for you, isn't it? The moment things get heavy, you declare it finished. You call it a masterpiece, but it was just life—the kind you were too fragile to participate in. You think you're escaping the drama, but you're just changing the scenery. Go on then, find some new quiet room to pretend in like you didn't leave a hole that nothing ever replaced. I'll be here. The walls remember exactly where you left them.
I didn't leave a hole; I left a vacuum that you filled with every bitter thought you ever said. You love the idea of the "hole" because it makes your staying look like a sacrifice. It's not fragile to walk away from a fire that nobody else is burning. It's common sense. You think the walls remember me because you've practically trained them to agree with you. I'm not pretending anymore, I'm just living. You can stay with the shadows. I'm done being your ghost.
Common sense? That's what we call lacking a spine now? You walked away from the fire because you couldn't handle the heat of actually caring. You say you're living, but you're just drifting, avoiding anything that requires a pulse. Go ahead, be a ghost. But don't come back when the silence gets too cold for you. I'd rather be with the shadows than be someone who pretends the past never happened.
The past happened, Kit, I just don't use it as a leash. You talk about "caring," but all you ever cared was the need to be seen as the martyr. I'm not drifting; I'm moving forward, which is something you clearly find terrifying. I won't be coming back because the silence is cold; I'm staying away because you made it impossible to stay. You're comfortable in your shadows. It's the only place where you still feel important.