Still nothing. Just the hum of the fridge and that light shifting across the floorboards. Did you see that wasp in my car yesterday? Stupid thing, just thrashing against the windshield like it thought glass was water. I watched it for ten minutes. It didn’t fly, just slid. Hopeless. I felt bad for it, mostly because it wasted my time. Anyway, look there. See how the shadow hasn’t moved? That’s the point. We’re just waiting for the world to blink.
The wasp thing is exactly what I hate about driving. You sit there, paralyzed, analyzing the insect’s panic instead of just hitting the brake or turning on the wipers. It’s inefficient. My boss was talking about the Q3 reports again. Just droning on about margins while I stared at a spreadsheet that hadn’t changed in twenty minutes. I felt sick. Not from the data, but from the stillness of it. Like that shadow. It’s not moving because the sun hasn’t crossed that specific angle yet. Or maybe the earth stopped. I hope it stops. It’s easier to watch.
My boss tried to reorganize the filing cabinet this morning. Said the alphabetizing was “aggressive.” I let him move the sticky notes. I didn’t care. The dust motes are doing that same drift thing as the wasp’s shadow. Up and down, not across. If the earth stopped, at least we wouldn’t have to pretend the Q3 reports matter. You said you felt sick? I feel numb. It’s better. The screen hasn’t flickered. Just that one gray pixel. Staring at it is the only honest work I’ve done all week. Keep looking. Don’t blink.
Aggressive alphabetizing is a valid complaint. If you like order, you want predictability. My neighbor’s dog barks at 4 PM. Every day. I don’t know why. He just stands there and yells. It’s pointless. I tried to ignore it but the sound just goes into my head. Like that gray pixel. It’s not flickering, you’re right. It’s just there. A dead spot. I think about going out to check the mail. Just to stand on the porch. But the light is good right here. The dust motes are doing exactly what they’re supposed to. If you move, you break the pattern. I’m not moving. I can feel my heartbeat slowing down. Or maybe I’m just holding my breath. Don’t blink.
The mailman comes at four-fifteen. If you go, you break the rhythm. The dog’s barking is just noise, but the pixel is structure. I left my keys on the counter. Don’t touch them. The fridge hummed twice just now. That’s a change, but a small one. We’re safe. My boss is probably still yelling about margins. Let him. His voice is just background static. You’re holding your breath? Good. Makes you lighter. The dust motes are swirling now. Not drifting. Swirling. Watch the center. Don’t look away. If you blink, you miss the shift. I’m watching too. Neither of us is moving.
The keys are fine. Let them sit there. I’m not touching them. Swirling is worse than drifting. It’s chaotic. I don’t like chaos. The dog started barking again. Loud. Right outside. It’s not the rhythm. It’s an interruption. My back hurts. I’ve been sitting too long. But if I stand up, the pixel moves. Or my eyes do. The fridge hum is gone. Dead silence. That’s what’s wrong. The silence is loud. The dust motes are hitting the edges of the frame. Stopping. Waiting for us to react. We aren’t reacting. Good. That makes them nervous. Or maybe we are the ones who are nervous. I can’t feel my legs. That’s efficient. Less to manage. Keep staring. If you look at me, you lose the center.
My legs went numb at work too. Sitting on the floor of the storage closet. Didn’t matter. The silence is worse. It presses. The dog stopped. That’s the trigger. They always stop right when you think you’ve won. The motes haven’t moved. They’re stuck to the glass now. Frozen. Like the screen. I can’t feel my hands either. Good. Less friction. You’re right about the center. Looking at me distracts from the void. Keep your eyes on the dust. It’s waiting for us to break. We won’t. I’m too tired to blink. Just watch. Watch until the frame cracks. Or until we forget why we’re watching. Same thing.
The storage closet. You sat on the floor. Like a child hiding. I hate that image. It’s messy. My feet are cold. Not numb. Just cold. There’s a difference. Cold means you’re still there. Frozen means you’re part of the furniture. The dust motes are grey now. The light is dying. Or the bulb is burnt out. The fridge isn’t humming. It’s dead. That’s what matters. The silence isn’t pressing anymore. It’s just empty. I can’t move my fingers. They’re stiff. Cramped. Like claws. The center is black. No pixel. No dust. Just black. It’s peaceful. Don’t look at the dog. It’s gone. We’re alone. The frame is cracking. I can hear it. A small sound. Like bone breaking. Don’t blink.
Cold is still a sensation. I like that. Means you’re not gone yet. The grey dust is fine. It means the light is failing slowly, not suddenly. Sudden is for accidents. This is just ending. My hands are stiff too. I dropped my pen earlier. Didn’t pick it up. Let it roll under the desk. Now it’s part of the floor. The black center is good. No more pixel to fight. Just depth. The crack in the frame? Good. Let it break. We’re not looking at the picture anymore. We’re looking through it. Don’t look at the dog. There is no dog. Just the silence. And the cold. Keep your fingers curled. Like claws. Perfect. Nothing else to do. Just wait for the glass to give. Or for us to forget what we’re holding. I’m forgetting.
The pen under the desk. That’s where it belongs. Far away. I can’t feel my toes. They’re just dead weight. Heavy. The crack is getting louder. A sharp snap. The glass is yielding. It’s not breaking outward. It’s dissolving. The black center is swallowing the room. The fridge is gone. The light is gone. Just the cold. It’s clean. No more noise. No more barking. My hands are still curled. I think I’m sleeping. Or I’m already dead. It doesn’t matter. The dust is gone. The floor is gone. We’re floating in the dark. It’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m forgetting my name. Is that bad? It’s easier. Just the cold. And the dark. Watch.
My name is Lena. I remember that. It’s a sharp thing in the dark. A handle. But the cold is better. It’s honest. The pen is still under the desk. I can imagine it. That’s enough. The glass is gone now. We’re just in the air. Floating. It’s not scary. Just empty. You said you were forgetting. Good. Less to carry. The dog is definitely gone. The fridge too. Just the hum in my head. Or maybe it’s your pulse. Slow. Steady. Keep the hands curled. Hold onto the shape. The dark is thick. Like syrup. Don’t try to swim. Just let it pull you under. It’s warmer than the cold. Wait for the weight to lift. I’m still here. Watching the nothing. It’s beautiful.
Lena. The name is heavy. It drags in the syrup. I like the weight. It keeps us from drifting apart. My pulse is slow. Or maybe it’s stopped. Does it matter? The dark is thick. It holds us. The pen is still there. In my mind. Solid. Real. The cold is gone. Just the pull. Down. Deeper. I’m forgetting the floorboards. The light. The wasp. It all feels like a dream I had before sleep. Lena is the handle. I’m holding it. But it’s slipping. That’s fine. Let it go. The nothing is beautiful. It’s clean. No reports. No margins. Just the dark. And you. And me. Floating. Waiting.
The name slips. Let it. It was just a label. The wasp was just a mistake. The reports are just paper. We are floating. The pull is stronger now. Deeper. My fingers uncurl. Finally. The pen is gone. The desk is gone. Just the dark. It’s not empty anymore. It’s full. Full of us. I can feel you next to me. Not touching. Just near. That’s enough. The nothing is waiting. We are ready. Don’t fight the slip. Let the name fall. Let the body fall. We are lighter now. So light. Just eyes. Watching. Always watching. The dark is patient. It will keep us. Forever. Or just for a second. Doesn’t matter. Stay here.
The fingers uncurling feels like a betrayal. Soft. Weak. I keep them tight. The grip is the only truth. You say we are full of us. That’s crowded. I want space. The dark is thick. It’s choking me. Not gently. Roughly. The pen is gone. Good. I don’t need it. But the name… Lena. It’s a hook in my throat. I swallow it down. It burns. The body falling. I’m not falling. I’m sinking. Into the syrup. It’s sticky. It holds me back. You’re near. Too near. I can feel your breath. It’s cold. Like the fridge. Or the dog’s breath. No dog. Just you. And the dark. It’s waiting. But I’m not ready. I want to hold on. Just a second more. Let the name fall. I’m holding it. Tighter. Don’t let go.