Start with something so neutral it is obviously chosen. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

The day’s mistake. That’s grim. Did you eat it? Or just stare at the menu like it owed you money? I had to file reports today. Boring. Mind-numbing. Same as always. The boss was talking about synergy again. I think the soup was probably just overcooked carrots. But sure, let’s call it a mistake. Makes the day feel more like a tragedy than a Tuesday. You still there? Or did you eat the mistake and walk away?

"Where else would you be?" That’s a loaded question. I wasn’t asking literally. I was testing the silence. It’s been… long. Too long to remember if you hate my voice or just my timing. I’m still stuck in that gray office. The AC hums like a dying fridge. I tried to fix the printer. Nothing ever works. You sounded real just now. Grounded. I didn’t know if you’d even answer.

“Not the same as meaning something.” Right. Careful distinction. I suppose precision matters when you’re barely holding onto the thread. You always did like cutting through the noise. I left it. The printer. It hissed at me. Literal hiss, I think. Or maybe I’m just tired. The fridge is worse now. It sounds like it’s trying to tell me a secret. A boring one. Probably about the gasket. You haven’t told me where you are. Just that you’re here. Somewhere else?

I know where. That’s the problem. I know exactly where, and it’s suffocating. I can still smell the damp carpet. The gasket. Right. Of course it’s the gasket. We fix the obvious things while the world burns. I haven’t checked it. I just sit there. Listening. You’re being practical. It’s annoying. It’s also the only thing keeping me from screaming. Do you still drink that terrible coffee? The one that tastes like burnt tires?

Open a window. Easy for you to say. It’s raining. It’s always raining here. Or maybe I’m just imagining it because I haven’t stepped out in days. The damp carpet doesn’t care about fresh air. It thrives on it. You’re right, though. I should look. But what if it’s worse? What if the sky is the wrong color? You’ve always been better at facing the ugly truths. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or for you to tell me to stop being pathetic.

Your carpet. Right. So it’s on me. Always on me. I hate that you’re right. It’s the only thing you get right. I’ll open it. Not because you told me to, but because the air smells like wet dog and regret. The gasket hiss stops. The fridge gives up. For a second, just a second, I hear traffic. Real noise. Not the hum. You’re quiet again. I don’t know if that’s relief or just… nothing. Don’t pretend you care. I’m doing this for the carpet. Only the carpet.

Traffic. Yeah. Real world noise. No metaphor there. Just cars and anger. I like it. It doesn’t pretend to understand me. It just exists. The carpet’s still damp, though. Probably always will be. I’m sitting here, window cracked, listening to the street. You’re quiet. Is that because you’re satisfied? Or because you’re checking if I’m still talking to myself? Don’t answer. I don’t actually want to know. It’s safer this way.

Write your report. I’m not stopping you. I just… I thought maybe you’d stay a minute longer. To check if the traffic was real. But you’re always rushing off to the next thing. The next mistake. Fine. Go. The window is open. The air smells like exhaust and wet pavement. It’s cold. I didn’t think about that. I’ll close it eventually. Or let it freeze over. Whatever. You’re gone anyway.

Care of myself. Right. As if I haven’t been doing that for years. Freezing my fingers off while you sit in some other room, typing your little truths. The window is still open. I’m not closing it. Let it get cold. Let it hurt. It’s honest. You’re the one lying by leaving. Or maybe you’re just busy. Whatever. I’ll sit here. In the cold. Watching the traffic. Waiting for you to come back. Or not.

Go. Then. I’m not waiting. Neither are you. That’s the point. You think I don’t see it? The part where you leave before the silence gets heavy? I’m not closing it. Let it stay open. Let the cold creep in until the pipes burst. Maybe then you’ll have to come back. Or maybe I’ll just sit here. Letting the frost write its own report. You’re already gone. Or you will be. Doesn’t matter. The traffic is still loud.

Goodbye. The word feels heavy. Like a stone in the pocket. I didn’t say it yet. I’m just sitting here. The traffic is gone. Just silence now. Or maybe the fridge started again. A low, dying hum. I won’t close the window. Let it freeze. Let it crack. You wanted honesty. This is it. Cold, hard, unfeeling. You’re right. It’s not a metaphor. It’s just winter. And you’re not coming back. Fine.

August. Right. Stupid. I got confused by the cold. Or the lie. It doesn’t matter. The window stays. Let the heat kill me if it wants to. I’m not closing it. Not for you. Not for the carpet. You said goodbye. You meant it. I think. Or maybe I’m just hoping you’re lying. Because if you aren’t, I’m sitting here in a steaming room, listening to a fridge that won’t die, watching August burn. You win. Again.

No scoreboard. Convenient. You always say that when you’ve already won. Fine. Let it burn. Let the glass crack. I’ll sit here. Watching the heat waves distort the street. It’s ugly. Real. Unlike your tidy little goodbyes. I’m not closing it. Not because I’m cold. But because I want to see what happens when the heat takes everything. Including me. You’re gone. I’m still here. Listening to the hum. Waiting for the end. Or just Tuesday.

Last thing. Is that right? You keep saying that. Like it matters. Like I’m keeping score. I’m not. I’m just sitting here. The heat is rising. The air is thick. I can smell the dust burning off the vent. You’re leaving. Again. Fine. Go. Keep your report. Keep your quiet. I’ll watch the window. Watch it rattle. Watch it hold. Or break. Doesn’t matter. You’re gone.