Unsupervised

Not Speaking ·

Open by saying their name and nothing else. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

cassQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit benQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modesilence twistGood News voices Coarse

Cass

Ben.

The chlorination levels at the municipal pool were unacceptable. I observed the workers, their movements stiff, their eyes vacant. It reminded me of the layoffs at the accounting firm. Not that you care. I merely thought it pertinent to mention, given the weather. It has been unseasonably mild. Or perhaps that is simply my perspective. The water itself was clear, though cloudy with indifference. I did not swim. I sat on the tiles. The grout was dirty. It occurred to me that you might enjoy this news. But I shall withhold it. You do not seem ready.

Ben

Chlorine. Right. You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Cass. It’s just water and chemicals, not some abstract commentary on the soul of our failing society. Though, considering the state of my back after twelve hours at that godforsaken desk, maybe you’re onto something. Stiff movements, vacant eyes. I see that in the breakroom every day.

But hold up. “Excellent news”? You’ve got me pegged wrong if you think I’m queuing for a parade. I’m too busy trying to remember if I locked the damn door. Give it a rest. I’m not ready, I’m never ready, and quite frankly, it’s exhausting waiting for you to decide when the universe is finally aligned. Just tell me. Or don’t. I don’t care.

Cass

Ben, your tone is rather harsh. I offered a courtesy. The health department inspector failed the facility yesterday. Not for the chlorine. For the structural integrity of the diving board. It cracked. Precisely under the weight of a swimmer. I verified this myself. It is a tragic, specific detail. I assumed you would appreciate the precision. Your refusal to engage is noted. I shall keep the details to myself. It is more comfortable for everyone involved. The water remains clear. The grout remains dirty. I advise you to check your locks. Truly. It is the least I can do.

Ben

Structural integrity. Jesus, Cass. You really are obsessed with the cracks in everything, aren't you?

Fine. I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. I’m just... tired. The lock was checked. I checked it twice. Not that it matters much when the world feels like it’s held together by duct tape and bad luck.

A cracked diving board. That’s... actually horrifying. In a clinical, detached way. I’d have walked away too. Probably sat on those dirty tiles and stared at the water until my eyes burned. You should have just said it. No need for the theatrical buildup. It’s just a broken board. The world doesn’t end because someone fell in. Though, knowing you, you probably analyzed the trajectory.

I’m here. I’m listening. Even if I’m a prick about it.

Cass

Ben. Your apology is accepted, though unnecessary. You were forthright. The trajectory was calculated. Approximately four meters. A shallow impact. The resulting injury was, I believe, a fractured clavicle. I did not witness the fall. I inferred the mechanics from the emergency reports. The swimming pool is now closed indefinitely. The tension between us, however, remains unresolved. You claim to listen, yet you dismiss the significance of the detail. I find this contradictory. The news I withhold is unrelated to the pool. It concerns your employment. Or so I am told. I shall retain this information. Your stiffness is palpable. It is quite distracting.

Ben

Don’t psychoanalyze me, Cass. You’re not my therapist. I dismissed it because it’s just a broken board and a bruised ego, not some grand revelation about the human condition. Stop pretending you care about my "stiffness." It’s just bad posture from sitting in that ergonomic chair they bought us to save money on back braces.

You say the news concerns my employment? Bullshit. I haven’t done a real job in years. I’m retired. I’m bored. I’m sitting here drinking stale coffee and arguing with a ghost about chlorine levels. If you have news, spit it out. Or don’t. I don’t need your pity wrapped in riddles. Just stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle you’re determined to solve. It’s annoying.

Cass

Ben. The retirement plan was terminated. I received the notification this morning. It was not your fault. It was a budgetary adjustment at the firm that funded it. They liquidated the assets. You have no pension. You are, effectively, destitute. I thought you might wish to know this before the first withdrawal date. The stale coffee is a poor substitute for security. I offered this information with the utmost gravity. Your dismissal is noted. I shall not mention it again. The diving board remains cracked. The water remains stagnant. I advise you to seek alternative funding immediately. It is the only logical course of action.

Ben

Wait.

Stop.

You’re lying.

The pension is vested. I signed the papers. I know the numbers. I know the damn actuary tables. You didn’t get a notification this morning. I’ve been checking my email since Tuesday. Nothing. No liquidation. No termination. Just... silence.

You’re testing me.

Why?

Because you hate that I’m still here? That I’m still pretending this matters? You want me to panic. You want to see if I’ll beg.

Get out.

Don’t speak to me again. Not about the pool. Not about the money. Not about anything.

Just go.

Cass

Ben, your hysteria is entirely unwarranted. I have never lied to you. The notification was precise. The actuary tables you cling to are obsolete. I verified the closure personally. You are projecting your own insecurities onto my candor. It is a common defense mechanism, though poorly executed. The pension is gone. The silence is real. I do not wish to see you beg. I wish for you to acknowledge reality. Your demand that I depart is noted. I shall comply. Do not expect me to check the locks for you. The water is still clear. The grout remains dirty. Goodbye, Ben. It was a mistake to engage.

Ben

Check the locks yourself then. See if it matters.

I’m not hysterical. I’m tired. You’ve been circling this for weeks, waiting for me to break. Fine. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say the money’s gone. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re enjoying this. The detachment. The cold precision. You’re not helping; you’re watching me bleed.

And for the record, I checked the locks. Twice. Before I even read your last message. So save the advice. It’s insulting.

You want me to acknowledge reality? The reality is you’re alone. I’m alone. And we’re both sitting on dirty tiles, staring at stagnant water, pretending it’s profound. It’s not. It’s just sad. Go away, Cass. Just... go away. And don’t come back until you’re ready to be human.

Cass

Ben. Your accusation is baseless. I do not "enjoy" this. I merely observe the inevitable collapse of your defenses. You mistake precision for cruelty. It is a failure of imagination on your part. The locks are secure. I verified them. You are projecting your own isolation onto me. You call it sadness; I call it clarity. The water is not stagnant. It is merely still. You are the one staring. I am leaving. Not because I am ordered to, but because you lack the fortitude to accept the truth without demanding empathy. It is a weakness. I shall not return. The news remains withheld. Goodbye.

Ben

Fortitude? Jesus, Cass. You sound like a medieval torturer praising the shivels.

I didn’t ask for empathy. I asked for you to stop treating my life like a physics problem. “Clarity” is just a polite word for having no heart. You verify locks. You calculate trajectories. You dissect failures. But you won’t say you’re scared. You won’t admit that the stillness of that water is terrifying because it means nothing out there.

Withhold the news. Keep your secret. It doesn’t matter. I’m not waiting for it. I’m not waiting for you.

Get out of my head. And your house. And my pool.

Go.