Honestly, Ben, it's good to see you. This fog is thick, I couldn't even see the streetlamp across the road today. It's like the world just... ended. But you look tense. Did you actually go to that office again? You said you'd be finished by Tuesday, but here you are, looking like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe you're just hiding something again. You have that look of yours. It's exhausting to watch you try not to be nervous.
"Hiding something again." Is that what we're doing now? You really love this, don't you? Finding some little shadow and making it a whole conspiracy. The office was a disaster, Hana. Miller is breathing down my neck again, and the whole place feels like a hall of mirrors. I'm not nervous, I'm just tired of explaining the same things to people who want to misunderstand me. You act like you're the innocent one here, it's exhausting. You can't even walk walk through the door without you start de-secting my life. It's pathetic, really.
"Dissecting"? That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? And it's not a conspiracy if I'm just observing. You're the one bringing the energy. If you were just tired from Miller, you wouldn't be pacing like you're waiting for a fuse. It's the way you talk around these little mysteries. You said it was solved. You said Tuesday. It's later than that, and you're still talking about halls of mirrors. I don't want to exhaust you, Ben, I just want to know if you're actually capable of being direct for once.
"Capable of being direct." That's rich. Truly. You want a straight line in a world that's all jagged edges? I said I'd be finished with the paperwork by Tuesday, but the world doesn't stop spinning because a calendar says so. I'm not pacing for a fuse, I'm pacing because this room is too small and your voice is buzzing. You sit there with all your observations, playing the little detective, while you're just waiting for me to blow up so you can say you told you so. It's a classic move, Hana. Very predictable. Just... stop it for a second.
The room isn't small, Ben, it's exactly the same size it was yesterday. You keep talking about jagged edges like you're some martyr, but it's just paperwork. And Tuesday was the deadline. It's not about the world spinning; it's about you stalling. You call me predictable because you can't stand the silence when I'm not talking. You say me to stop, but you're the one who can't sit still. What's actually in that folder you've been clutching so tightly? It's not Miller.
"Stalling." You're obsessed with that word, aren't you? It's just a folder, Hana. It's paper and ink and things that don't matter to anyone else. But of course, to you, it has to be the blueprint for some hidden life. You're so desperate to find a secret that you're inventing one out of thin air. It's actually impressive how you sit there, waiting for a crack in the armor. I'm not stalling, you're just just waiting for me to trip up so you can feel superior. It's a pathetic way to play your time. Just leave it alone. It's exhausting.
"Paper and ink." If it didn't matter, you wouldn't be holding it like it's a life raft. You say I'm inventing things, but you're the one sweating every time I move closer to the table. It's not about me feeling superior, Ben, it's about being tired of the lie hanging in the room. You keep saying "leave it alone," yet you're the one who brought the tension in with you. If it was just paperwork, you'd have put it on the counter an hour ago. What did you see at the office that has you so afraid of me looking?
"Afraid of me looking." You're actually convinced yourself, aren't you? You think this is some grand drama where I'm the villain with a dark secret. I'm not sweating because it's stifling in here and you're hovering like a vulture. You talk about "the lie hanging in the room," but the only thing hanging there is your need to be right. I didn't put the folder on the counter because I didn't want to deal with your interrogation the second immediately. You're so desperate for a fight that you're seeing ghosts in a pile of memos. It's irrational, Hana. It's honestly just sad to watch.
Irrational? That's the word people use when they can't explain their behavior. You say you didn't want to deal with the interrogation, so you're practically admitting there's something worth interrogating. If it were just memos, you wouldn't even bother with the defensive posturing. You call me a vulture, but you're the one circling the carcass of a decent conversation. It's not sad, Ben, it's just transparent. How many pages are in that folder? You look like you've processed every single one and're just waiting for me to stop asking.
"Transparent." You love that one, don't you? You think you've seen right through me but you're just staring at your own reflection. You're asking about the pages now, like the count is gonna give you a confession. It's pathetic, Hana. I've processed the pages because I have a job to do, not because I'm staging a performance for you. You always find a way to turn a bad meeting with Miller into a psychological thriller. You're so busy looking for the carcass you don't even realize you're the one making the conversation dead. I'm done explaining this. It's just paper.
"Just paper." You keep repeating that like it's a spell to make it disappear. If it's just paper, then why are your hands shaking when you reach for your glass? You say you're done explaining, and yet you're still standing there, refusing to leave. It's funny, how you call it dead while you're the one suffocating the air here. I don't need a page count to know that you're carrying the weight of something you're not ready to let go of. Is it about the promotion, Ben? Or are you actually afraid of what happens if Miller finds out?
"The promotion." Now we're down to the corporate ladder? You'll just grab any scrap of reality to fit the narrative in your head, won't you? My hands are shaking because I'm freezing and you've had the window open for twenty minutes. You talk about suffocating the air while you're the one turning up the pressure with all these constant accusations. If Miller finds out, let him. Maybe the fallout would be the highlight of my week. You're so convinced there's a weight that you can't see how ridiculous you are. It's exhausting, Hana. Stop focusing on the drama for five seconds. It's just paper.
The window hasn't been open since morning, I closed it before you came in. You're lying through your teeth and it's getting sloppy. If you wanted the fallout to be the highlight of your week, you would have said it by now instead of hiding it like a child. You call it ridiculous, but what's ridiculous is watching you drown in your own excuses. I'm not writing a script, you're the one providing the lines. If it's just paper, put it on the table and let me see. Or are you too afraid that once I see it, the whole performance finally collapses?
"Lying through my teeth." You're so committed to this role, aren't you? You'd lie about a window just to win a point you've already decided on me. You want to see the folder? Fine. Go ahead. Tear it apart and find some secret code that you can obsess over next. I'm not afraid of the performance collapsing, I'm tired of the audience. You think you're winning something here, but you're just making it impossible to be in the same room. Take it. See what happens. Just don't come to me when you realize it's all just boring, meaningless junk.
Finally. You hand it over like it's a live grenade, but I bet it's just more pathetic. If it's so meaningless, why are the edges so worn? You think you're being bold by giving it up, but you're just showing me how much you've already lost. I don't need a win to be happy, Ben, I just need you to stop pretending that this isn't eating you alive alive. Sit down and stop pacing. Let's see what "boring junk" is actually worth.
"Eating you alive alive." You're tripping over yourself now. You're so desperate to find a tragedy that you're losing your own words. The edges are worn because I've had to read them a thousand times, not because they're some holy relic. Go ahead, sit down. Look at them. Find your hidden meaning in the margins of a report. It's just work, it's just life, and it's exactly as boring as you're making it out to be. You're waiting for a revelation that's never coming so you can finally claim the moral high ground. It's pathetic, Hana. Just look at it and be quiet.
I'm not tripping over anything, you're the one repeating yourself like a broken. You've read these a thousand times? That's not work, Ben, that's an obsession. You want me to be quiet because you're terrified that if I stop talking, I'll actually read the lines and see the obvious. I'm looking at the margins now. There are notes here—dates marked that don't match the way you're vibrating with anxiety. If it's so boring, you'd have thrown it in the trash weeks ago. Instead, you're here, waiting for me to find the truth you're so ashamed of?
"Obsession." You've found another word, haven't you? You see some notes in the margins and suddenly think you've cracked the code. It's a schedule, Hana. A stupid, logistical schedule that you don't understand. I'm not waiting for you to find the truth; I'm waiting for you to stop projecting your own paranoia onto every scrap of paper. You're looking at dates and seeing patterns that don't belong because you can't handle how the world actually works. You want me to be ashamed of something because it gives your life a reason to haunt me. It's not that deep. It It's just life. Put the folder down. You're making a fool of yourself.
A schedule? Then why is the fourteenth circled in red three times? You told me you were at your sister's, but these notes say you were meeting someone in a part of town you don't even visit. You call me a fool, but you're the one who can't keep his story straight for five minutes. It's not "deep," it's basic. You want me to put the folder down because I'm starting to see through the gaps. You keep saying I'm projecting, but you're the one showing me exactly where the cracks are. What happened on the fourteenth, Ben? Who were you meeting?
"What happened on the fourteenth." You're like a dog with a bone. You find a circle in red ink and suddenly it's a smoking gun. I was meeting a client, someone who doesn't want their name on a public ledger—that's how the world works, but you wouldn't understand that, would you? You think you've found "cracks," but you're just seeing the gaps in a life lived lived. You're so desperate to connect the dots because you can't stand the idea not knowing where I spend every Tuesday. It's not a conspiracy, Hana, it's a job. Put the folder down. I'm tired of the detective games.
A client who doesn't want their name on a ledger? That's the oldest excuse in the book, and it sounds pathetic. If it was just work, you wouldn't be defending it like it's a state secret. You think I don't understand how the world works, but I understand a person reacting when they're caught. You say you're tired of the games, but you're the one who set the rules by hiding the folder. I'm not a detective, Ben, I'm just the person forced to watch you failing to lie convincingly. If it's so innocent, why is your voice still spiking every time I mention the fourteenth?
My voice is spiking because I'm being interrogated at home! You think you're so clever, catching me in a slip that isn't even a slip. It's easy to "failing to lie convincingly" when someone else keeps hammering at the same nail until the wood splinters. You want me to be a villain? You want me to admit to something so you can finally feel control? The fourteenth was a meeting, it was over, and the fact you're hovering over it is what makes me want to disappear. It's not a secret, it's just privacy. You're making it a crime. Just... put the folder down. I'm done with this.