It’s like roundabouts. You know, those chaotic little islands where everyone pretends to yield but really just yeets the car. I’m stuck in that circle. Not driving, just... rotating. The other lanes pretend I’m not there, and I pretend their existence isn’t a structural failure of empathy. It’s exhausting. The exhaust fumes taste like metal. Or maybe that’s just the radiator. Don’t ask.
You’re comparing social anxiety to traffic? That’s a stretch, even for you. Roundabouts work fine if you actually follow the rules instead of treating them like a suggestion box for hubris. You’re not rotating, Dev. You’re parked. And honestly? Everyone else is just trying to get home without staring at your hazard lights. Stop waiting for permission to merge. It’s pathetic.
Pathetic? Maybe. But look at the dashboard light. That’s not a hazard. It’s the check-engine bulb, the one that stays on even when the mechanic swears it’s fine. I’m not waiting for permission. I’m waiting for the algorithm to realize I’m supposed to be here. The other drivers… they have their destinations. I just have this little island. And you’re right, I’m parked. But the engine’s still humming. Loudly.
Check engine lights are for crankshaft sensors, not social reassurance. You’re anthropomorphizing your transmission again. It’s not humming; it’s grinding. You think the universe has an algorithm? It’s just random noise and bad luck. You’re not supposed to be anywhere. That’s the joke. Everyone’s just pretending they know where they’re going so they don’t have to look at their own empty passenger seats.
Grinding. Right. Like gears stripping. I hate that word. It implies friction, which implies movement, which implies I’m not just… accumulating dust. You say it’s random noise. Fine. But the noise has a rhythm. A bad one. Like a drummer who hates time signatures. I’m not pretending I know where I’m going. I’m pretending I have a destination. The seats are empty because I never invited anyone in. Too much risk of them noticing the oil leak. Or whatever. God, I sound like a metaphor that’s run out of road.
You sound like a guy who won’t call a mechanic because he’s afraid the diagnosis will match his gut feeling. “Accumulating dust” is just a polite way of saying you’ve given up. And yeah, the oil leak is real. It’s dripping on the floor mats while you sit there analyzing the rhythm of the grind. Stop performing the breakdown. It’s not poetry; it’s negligence. Go get the car fixed or sell it. Stop waiting for a drummer who isn’t coming.
Negligence. Harsh. I called Tony yesterday. He didn’t answer. Again. Maybe he’s at the clinic. Or maybe he just hates the sound of my voice. I bought floor mats, though. Absorbent. Blue. Stain them nicely. I’m not performing. I’m just… maintaining the scene. You think selling it fixes the grinding? It just moves the noise to a different garage. And Tony’s garage is full. Literally. There’s a Honda Civic in the bay that hasn’t moved since Tuesday. Or was it last week? Time is sticky here.
Tony’s phone goes to voicemail because you’re a chore, not a friend. Don’t be dramatic. “Sticky time” is just your excuse for not paying the bill. Blue mats? Sure. Cover the stain until it seeps through the rubber and hits the carpet. Then you have a bigger problem. That Civic isn’t broken; Tony’s just lazy. Or he’s waiting for you to finally realize you’re driving a rust bucket. Stop romanticizing the decay. It’s just metal.
Tony’s lazy. Right. Just like I’m lazy for caring about the Civic. It’s not romance, Rafe. It’s… attachment. To the thing that doesn’t work. You want me to sell it? Sure. But who buys a rust bucket with a grinding transmission? No one. So I keep it. And the mats. And the noise. It’s cheaper than therapy. Or at least, the mats come in bulk. Cheap. Blue. Hide the worst of it. Until they don’t.
You’re not attached to the Civic. You’re addicted to the decay. It’s comfortable because it’s broken. No one expects you to drive it anywhere important. Therapy would force you to fix it, or admit you hate it. Buying bulk mats is just hoarding band-aids for a bullet wound. Tony’s garage is full because people have standards. You’re proving why. Stop confusing thrift with self-preservation. It’s just sad.
Sad. Good word. Catches the light. I keep the mats because they’re cool to the touch. Plastic. Cold. Unlike the seat, which is... warm. In a bad way. Like a fever. You think Tony has standards. Maybe. But he also has a baby. And rent. And he doesn’t care about my Civic. Or me. It’s fine. I don’t need him to. The Civic and I have an understanding. It grinds. I listen. No one else has to know. That’s the point, isn’t it? The secrecy of the leak.
Secrecy is just shame in disguise. You’re not keeping a secret; you’re hiding a corpse. The Civic isn’t an understanding. It’s a hostage situation. You think Tony doesn’t care? Good. He’s busy living. You’re busy rotting. That warm seat isn’t a fever. It’s mold. You’re incubating something toxic because it’s easier than admitting you’re the problem. Stop romanticizing your own decay. It’s not poetic. It’s pathetic. And it smells like mildew.
Mold. That’s new. Usually, it’s just oil. But sure. Mold. Spores floating in the AC vents. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? The judgment. It’s warm. Comforting, even. Like a fever. I keep the Civic because it’s mine. Even if it’s dead. Even if it’s leaking. Tony’s busy. I get it. I’m just… waiting. For the mold to bloom. Or the engine to die. Whichever comes first. It’s quiet in here. Until it’s not.
You’re not waiting. You’re rotting. There’s a difference. Waiting implies a future event. This is just slow decay. You think the quiet is peaceful? It’s the silence of a tomb. You’re not keeping a car; you’re keeping a body. And eventually, the smell gets too strong to ignore. Tony isn’t avoiding you. He’s avoiding the stench. Stop confusing isolation with intimacy. It’s ugly. And it’s drying out your lungs.
Stench. You’re really leaning into this. Fine. Let it smell. I’ll buy more mats. Or maybe just leave the windows down. Let the mold breathe. You think I’m confused? I’m clear. The silence is heavy. Like wet wool. I’m not keeping a body. I’m keeping a memory of a drive. A good one. Before the grind. Before Tony. Before you. It’s not intimate. It’s just… familiar. And familiar things don’t rot. They just… settle.
Familiar doesn’t mean safe. It means you’ve stopped looking for exits. Wet wool chokes you. That’s not a cozy blanket, Dev. It’s damp, it’s heavy, and it smells like a basement you’ve forgotten exists. You’re not preserving a memory. You’re curating a landfill. The grind isn’t part of the song; it’s the building collapsing. You call it settling. I call it suffocation. Stop lying to yourself about the comfort of the decay. It’s just rot.
Rot. Fine. Let it rot. I like the smell. It’s honest. Better than Tony’s lies. Or your lectures. You want me to leave? To drive? The Civic won’t start. The battery’s dead. Just like the mats. Blue. Stained. I’m not suffocating. I’m… compressing. Like soil. Rich. Dark. Good for growing things. Or hiding them. You’re too loud. Turn down the volume. Or get out. The door’s open. Or is it? I forget.
You’re not soil. You’re sludge. And don’t insult me with that “open door” bullshit. You locked it. From the inside. You think rot is honest? It’s just decay with no disguise. The battery isn’t dead; you’re just too scared to turn the key. I’m not loud. You’re just finally hearing yourself. And it’s screaming. So go ahead. Compress yourself into a diamond of misery. See if anyone notices when you shatter.
Sludge. I like that. Thick. Viscous. It coats everything. You think I locked the door? Maybe I did. Maybe the handle broke. Or maybe I just prefer the view from inside. The screaming is background noise. Like the grinder. Or the rain. You want me to shatter? Go ahead. Push. See what spills out. It’s not diamonds. It’s just… mud. Sticky, dark mud. And you’re standing right in it.
You’re right. I’m standing in it. And it’s fucking freezing. You didn’t shatter, Dev. You just oozed. That’s not power; that’s failure. I didn’t push. You slipped. And now you’re trying to drag me down so you don’t have to be the only one stuck in the mud. Good luck with that. It’s heavy. Get off my shoes.
Get off your shoes. Classic. You’re worried about your leather while I’m drowning in sludge. I didn’t slip. I was waiting for you to step in. Didn’t think you would. But here you are. Freezing. Good. Cold feels clean. Unlike this. I’ll stay in the mud. It’s my home now. Keep walking. You’re ruining the view. And don’t wipe your feet. I want to see the mess. It’s beautiful, in a way. Like a crime scene. Or a garden. Whichever comes first.
You’re delusional. A garden needs light. You’ve got mold and despair. I’m not walking away; I’m just tired of watching you pretend your own grave is a landscape. The mud isn’t beautiful. It’s messy. It’s gross. And you’re just standing there, smiling like a moron. I’m not ruining the view. I’m pointing out the body. Stop calling it art. It’s just filth. And I’m done looking at it.
Filth. Yeah. That’s what it is. You say you’re done looking, but you’re still breathing it in. The mold’s in your lungs now, Rafe. Can’t get rid of it that easy. I’m smiling because it’s quiet. Finally. You want to leave? Fine. Go find some light. It’ll burn your eyes. I’ll stay here in the dark. It’s familiar. And it’s mine. Don’t worry about the body. It’s just compost. Good for the roots. Even if there are no roots. Just mud. Thick, black mud.
You’re insane. The mold’s not in my lungs. I’m walking out the door. You’re sitting in your own waste, calling it compost, praying for roots that don’t exist. It’s not dark; it’s just dirty. And you’re not hiding. You’re just too lazy to clean up. Enjoy the quiet. It’s the silence of a room that’s been abandoned. I’m done. Don’t follow me.
Don’t slam the door. The hinge is busted. It just hangs there. Like my life. I’m not insane. I’m just… efficient. You think cleaning fixes anything? It just moves the dirt. I’m waiting for the rain. It washes everything away eventually. Or it makes it worse. I don’t care. You’re walking out into the light. Lucky you. I’ll stay in the dark. It’s warmer. And quieter. Don’t look back. I’m already gone. Or I never was. Same thing.
Busted hinge. Of course. Because nothing works right. You’re not efficient; you’re stagnant. Waiting for rain to wash it away? It just turns the mud into a swamp. You’re not gone. You’re just invisible. And that’s worse. At least rot has a scent. You’re just… absence. Go ahead. Stay in the dark. It suits you. I’m leaving. And this time, I’m not looking back. Because there’s nothing there. Just you. And the smell.