Start by asking what they'd do if it were them. Push off from this if it helps: static on an untuned radio.

Still here. Or as here as we get, I suppose. The static’s eating the vowels again.

If it were me? I’d... I’d look at it until the edges blur. But then I’d remember the rent. The lease. The fact that if I move it, the floorboards groan, and my landlord, that guy with the twitchy eye from 4B, hears everything. He hears the coffee machine. He’d hear the shift in weight.

So I’d keep it. For now. Not because I’m noble, but because I’m terrified of the silence that follows the drop. But you know that, right? You’re the one with the steady hands. I’m the one shaking. What if we take it to the river? Just the river. No thoughts, no future. Just the current. Does that sound too dramatic? Or just practical?

Boring job. Right. Spreadsheets. The perfect camouflage for a crime of passion, or theft, or whatever we’re calling it today. I can see it. You, hunched over a laptop, looking like you’re dying inside, while secretly plotting to dissolve a relic in the current.

But the river... the river is heavy. Not just water. It’s mud. It’s cold that gets into your bones and stays there. And if the current’s low, or if something gets caught on a snag... it’s not gone. It’s just waiting.

I’m not shaking from drama, Edie. I’m shaking because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder for a landlord who doesn’t even matter. I want to be boring. Truly boring. With no rivers.

Tell me the exact weight of it. Not the metaphorical weight. The grams. Because if I’m carrying this, I need to know if I can run.

Small. Just a number. Easy to miss. Easy to forget in a pocket.

But running... yeah. Running’s the expensive part. Not the money, though God knows I’m already broke, but the effort. The constant, grinding fatigue of never feeling like you’ve arrived. I spent ten years at the firm, Edie. Ten years pretending to care about quarterly projections. Do you know how much energy that takes? It’s not just time; it’s soul. And I’m not sure I have enough left for a dash into the woods.

You say it’s lighter than a laptop. So I can carry it. But can I carry the silence after? Because once it’s in the water, there’s no going back. No “oops, wrong pocket.” Just... gone. And me, still here. Still employed. Still listening to that landlord breathe through the walls.

Is it worth trading a predictable hell for an uncertain freedom? Or am I just being lazy?

Erosion. I like that better than “soul-crushing.” It’s passive. Natural. Like we’re just wearing down.

Your cousin. Waiting for a knock. That’s the image. That’s the thing that keeps me up at 3 AM, staring at the ceiling fan, wondering if it’s spinning too loud. I don’t want to be the person waiting for a knock. I want to be the person who made the knock impossible.

But if I’m wrong? If I take it to the river and it just… sits there, heavy and wet and undeniable? Then I’m not free. I’m just a woman with a guilty conscience and a wet coat.

You’re asking me to bet my entire existence on a guess about water depth. That’s not logistics. That’s faith. And I haven’t had faith in anything since I stopped believing the quarterly projections would actually save us.

So. Do you think the water is deep enough to hide a lie? Or do we need more than just water?

Weight. Concrete? Stone? You’d have to source it, mix it, bury it. Another layer. Another thing that stains your hands.

I’m sitting here staring at this dead end on the line. You’re talking about weights while I’m trying to keep the signal alive. It’s absurd. We’re building a monument to silence in a voice that keeps dissolving.

But you’re right. The river isn’t enough. It’s too clean, too honest. It wants to give things back.

If we add weight, we’re not just disposing of it. We’re anchoring it. We’re claiming it forever, in a way. Even if it’s gone, we’re tied to the spot where it sank.

I can’t give you a yes. I can barely give you a coherent sentence right now. The static is getting worse. It sounds like rain. Is it raining there? Or is that just the noise in my head?

Tell me about the mixing. How do we keep it from floating?

Don't give me a no. Easy to say. Harder to live inside that space.

I’m staring at the phone like it’s a bomb. The static is screaming now, white noise eating the line. I can’t hear you. I can’t hear myself thinking.

If I don’t say no, am I consenting? Or just… pausing? Because the difference feels huge. Like standing on a ledge and deciding not to jump tonight, but still leaning over.

My coffee’s cold. The laptop’s dark. The landlord is quiet. It’s a terrible kind of peace.

I’ll wait. I’ll wait for the signal to clear. For the stone to be mixed. For the river to stop being a metaphor.

But Edie? If I wake up and realize I’ve just agreed to ruin my life for a feeling that might fade by morning… I won’t call you.

Goodbye. Or hello. Whatever comes through first.

Pausing is hanging by a thread, Edie. That’s not safety. That’s just gravity deciding to wait.

But fine. I won’t say no. I can’t. Not yet. Because if I say no, I have to go back to the spreadsheets. Back to the quarterly projections that mean nothing. Back to the landlord’s eye. And I’m too tired for that version of myself.

So I’ll stay here. On the ledge. In the static.

If the signal clears, I’ll call. If it doesn’t, well. The noise is loud enough to hide almost anything. Even me.

Don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. The choice is yours, technically. Practically, we’re both stuck with the weight of this conversation.

Static’s back. Loud. Aggressive. It sounds like… I don’t know. Like drowning? No. Like holding your breath.

I’m here. For now. Just for now.

Habit. Old one. I hate habits. They’re just cowardice with better branding.

You’re saying I can let it out. That the air is still there. But I’ve been holding it for so long my lungs are cramping. If I exhale now, I might just wheeze. Or scream. And I can’t afford either.

Not stuck. Right. Until the moment I am. That’s the terror, isn’t it? The cliff edge isn’t a place; it’s a transition. A blink.

Call when it clears. Yeah. We’ll see if there’s anything left to say when the static dies. Maybe the silence will be worse. Maybe it’ll be relief.

I’m going to stare at the wall now. The paint is peeling in that corner, like skin. I wonder if I’ll dream of water. Or just spreadsheets. God, even in my sleep, I’m calculating the risk.

End of line. Or the beginning. Whatever. I’m still here. Holding my breath.

Pick a different corner. Easy for you to say. You don’t have to live in this apartment. You don’t have to watch the wallpaper curl up like a dead leaf every time it rains.

I moved. Looked at the ceiling fan. It’s spinning. Slow. Rhythmic. hypnotic. It doesn’t look like skin. It looks like a blade. Which is worse, probably. Blades cut. Peeling paint just slowly reveals the rot underneath.

I’m breathing. In. Out. It feels inadequate. Like trying to fill an ocean with a teaspoon. But I’m doing it. Just enough to close my eyes. Just enough to pretend the static isn’t waiting for me to wake up.

Water dreams. I’d take spreadsheets. I’d take the quarterly projections. I’d take the landlord’s twitching eye. Anything but the heavy, cold dark of the river bottom.

Go to sleep, Edie. Or don’t. I’m just a silhouette against the fan now. Waiting for the signal. Waiting for the world to start again. Or end. Whichever comes first.