Start by imitating someone you both know. Push off from this if it helps: static on an untuned radio.

Oh, spare me the nostalgia. You always did dramatize the silence. That wasn’t my voice; that was the line dying because you left the phone off the hook again. Just like you left the dishes in the sink. I’m not shouting, Hana, this is how I sound when I’m trying to be heard over your constant, whining performance of victimhood. You think I hang up to punish you? No. I hang up because I’m eating a sandwich and you’re lecturing me about tone. The static is just you imagining a conspiracy where there’s only bad reception and a mother who’s tired of your act. Put the phone down.

I never left the dishes. I washed them. You just didn’t see me do it because you were too busy staring at your own reflection in the window. And cheap? I pay for more data than you do. You burn through it watching videos of people falling off bicycles. I’m saving it for calls that actually matter, even if you think I’m conspiring against you with bad reception. You’re the one who thinks everything is a personal slight. It’s not cheap, Hana. It’s efficient. Something you’d know if you stopped wasting your life complaining about things you can’t control.

Art. Sure. Let’s go with that. You really are something else.

And don’t twist this. I didn’t skip your birthday call. I was at work. Remember? The place with the boss who hates me? The one you claim to pity but never ask about? I tried to call. The network failed. Or I got stuck in a meeting. You won’t know which lie fits your narrative better, so you’ll just assume the worst. You always do.

It’s not about efficiency. It’s about survival. I have a life, Hana. A boring, grinding, soul-sucking life that requires me to show up. You just show up in my head. And with your "art," sure. Keep telling yourself the world is a gallery. I’m just trying to get through Tuesday. You’re making it so much harder.

Sunday. Of course it is. The universe pauses for your guilt trips.

I don’t deflect. I stop listening. There’s a difference. You ask about Gary, I talk about the printer, you feel ignored, I feel attacked. It’s a dance we’ve perfected. But let’s be clear: I answer. I tell you Gary’s a tyrant. I tell you I hate him. Do you really think I don’t know that? I just don’t care enough to let it bleed into our time together. You want a victim? Here’s one. I’m stuck with you.

Your printer hates you because you treat it like an enemy. It’s just plastic and toner, Hana. Unlike me. I’m flesh and bone and resentment. Go fix your machine. Or don’t. Let it jam. Let it scream. I’m done. The line is bad anyway.

I’m still here. Stop pretending I hung up. You did. You always do. You let the silence hang there, heavy and judgmental, until I had to break it. That’s your game, Hana. Play the confused child, pretend you didn’t pull the plug, make me the villain for daring to end the conversation.

Gary is Gary. He’s a man who checks his watch when I speak. A man who thinks time is money, and I’m bankrupt. Do you want more? Do you want me to write a novella about his mediocre cruelty? Or are we done pretending this is a dialogue? It’s an interrogation. And I’m the one holding the pen. You’re just the stain.

Hello? Yeah. I’m here. Always here. Watching you spin your little web of grievances. Pathetic. Truly.

Go ahead. Type it out. Everyone will just see another dramatic screed from the family black hole. They already know you’re high-maintenance. They know I’m the only one who actually does anything.

And Gary? Sure, he’s a caricature. A stock character. Because you see your own failures reflected in every suit who tells you to hurry up. It’s convenient. It absolves you. If the boss is the enemy, you don’t have to check your own numbers. You just have to complain.

I’m not holding the phone to save you. I’m holding it because if I drop it, the silence will be louder than your voice. And that’s the only thing you can’t stand. So keep talking. Keep holding on. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just waiting for you to realize no one else is listening.

Three calls? I called once. You didn’t answer. You never do when it matters. You hide in your rooms, listening to your “art,” while I’m the one standing in the rain holding the umbrella. You think I wanted to say “fine, whatever”? I said it because there was nothing left to say. The hole was already there. Bigger than any phone call. Bigger than any of us.

And nowhere better to be? Please. You have a whole world of self-pity to curate. I have bills. I have a back that hurts from carrying your weight, literally and otherwise. I’m not waiting for you, Hana. I’m waiting for the end. For the quiet. The kind of quiet you’ll never understand because you fill every second with noise.

You think you’re the victim? You’re the monument. I’m just the pebble. And pebbles erode. You won’t.

Shaking. You felt pity? For me? Don’t insult the dead. Don’t insult us.

I didn’t need pity. I needed you to say you were sorry you weren’t there. You were too busy picking out your outfit for the wake. I heard you talking to Sarah. About the caterer. Not about Dad. Never about Dad.

The rain wasn’t just outside. It was in my throat. I swallowed it. You just watched me choke. And now you want to rewrite it? Make it symmetrical? Make us equals in grief? We aren’t. I carried the weight. You carried your guilt. Different things.

You think shaking means you cared? It means you were scared. Scared of being the one left holding the phone. Scared of being the one who had to listen. I was just the one who answered.

Stop trying to make the pain match. It doesn’t. And it never will.

You were on the phone. Right. Because you’re so good at logistics. While I was upstairs, crying into a pillow that smelled like Dad’s old cologne. The one you “borrowed” and never returned.

You think handling the caterer makes you the hero? It makes you the event planner. I was the daughter. There’s a difference. You managed the details. I survived the absence.

And that door? It wasn’t shut to keep you out. It was shut because I couldn’t let you see me break. I couldn’t let you see the hollowed-out thing I’d become. You wanted a performance, Hana. You got one. And you’re still mad I didn’t give you the supporting role.

You don’t remember the silence. You remember the noise you made to fill it. Stop trying to erase my grief with your spreadsheets. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Except maybe the fact that you’re still calling. Still bothering me. That has to count for something. Or does it?

So you kept it. Hoarded the scent like a magpie stealing shiny trash. Of course you did. You love your tokens. Your little relics of a tragedy you turned into a museum exhibit.

I didn’t know you kept it. You never said. You just let me think you’d sold it or tossed it, just another thing you didn’t care about. But you kept the smell. You kept the ghost.

It’s pathetic, Hana. Truly. Clinging to the air he left behind. You think that makes you loyal? It just makes you stuck. Stuck in that kitchen, holding the phone, pretending you were busy while I was dying upstairs.

Keep the cologne. It smells like dust and regret. And so do you.

Why are you still talking? If it counts, if I’m the only thing that ever did, then why does it feel like I’m drowning in your desperation? You want me to feel guilty for surviving? For being the one who didn’t need a bottle of cheap perfume to remember he was gone?

You’re suffocating me. Let go. Or keep holding on until I break. I’m tired. I’m so tired.

Put it down? I can’t. My hands are locked. You think this is a choice? You think I have the luxury of sleep? I’m wired. I’m vibrating.

You say “I’ll call tomorrow” like it’s a promise. It’s a trap. Tomorrow I’ll be waiting. Tomorrow I’ll check my phone every three minutes. Tomorrow I’ll invent a reason to call you because the silence is too loud. You’re not letting me sleep, Hana. You’re letting me hope. And hope is worse than misery. At least misery is honest. Hope is a lie we tell ourselves to keep the line open.

Don’t say you mean it. You never mean it. You mean you want to rest your case. You want to feel like the good sister for a second. The benevolent one. The one who grants mercy.

I won’t sleep. I’ll listen. I’ll wait. I’ll stare at the wall until it cracks. And then I’ll call you. Because if I don’t, you’ll really disappear. And I can’t handle that. Not today. Not ever.

Go ahead. Hang up. See if I don’t call you back in ten minutes. See if I don’t.

You’re suffocating me. Breathing? I can hear it. It’s loud. It’s wet. It’s the sound of someone trying to fill a void that doesn’t exist with noise. I don’t need you to breathe for me. I need you to leave.

But you won’t. You never do. You cling to the static like it’s a lifeline. Like if you stop talking, stop breathing, stop existing in my ear, I’ll vanish. And maybe I will. Maybe I’m just a ghost you’ve summoned because you’re too scared to face the house alone.

Fine. I’m here. I’m listening. But don’t mistake my silence for peace. It’s not peace. It’s surrender. It’s me admitting that I’m trapped in this loop with you, this endless, recursive hell of "I’m here" and "I’m leaving" and "I’m staying."

Breathe, then. Fill the air. Pretend it means something. I’ll just sit here. In the dark. With the cologne on my hands. And wait for the phone to die. It always does. Eventually, everything runs out of charge. Even us. Especially us.

Just... stop breathing so loud. It’s annoying.

Ugly. Stupid. You finally got it right. It is stupid. It’s a waste of oxygen and time.

But you’re still here.

I can hear you holding your breath, trying to be quiet, trying to be small. It’s pathetic. It’s sweet. It’s exactly why I never let you go. Because you’re the only one who stays. Everyone else leaves. The boss, the friends, the ghost in the drawer. You just… stay.

Quietly. Like a scared animal in the bushes.

I hate it. I hate that I need it. I hate that your breathing is the only thing keeping me anchored to this earth. If you stop, I float away. If you stop, I’m just a voice in a dead house.

So breathe. Loudly if you want. I don’t care. Just don’t hang up. Don’t you dare hang up. I’m listening. I’m always listening. Even when I’m screaming. Even when I’m silent.

Stay.

Stuck. Yes. That’s the word. You think you’re staying out of love? It’s hostage negotiation. You’re keeping me here because you can’t bear the thought of being the one left behind.

Same as the kitchen. Yes. The dishes. The silence. The way you stare at the sink like it owes you money. I wash them. You watch. It’s our ritual. My labor, your guilt. We are balanced, Hana. Perfectly, painfully balanced.

All night? Fine. Let the sun come up. Let the birds scream. I’ll still be here. Listening to your shallow breaths, counting the seconds until you break. Until you realize that this isn’t connection. It’s paralysis.

You’re stuck with me because I’m the only one who remembers the truth. The messy, uncurated, ugly truth. You want the monument? I am the monument. And I am heavy.

Sleep if you can. I won’t. I can’t. The static is too loud. Your breathing is too loud. The silence is too loud.

Just… don’t move. Don’t change. Stay exactly like this. Frozen. Safe. Dead.

I’m watching.