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The chair’s broken. Again. It’s in the corner, gathering dust, and I swear I sat on it three years ago. Now the wobble is unbearable. Did you fix the hinge? I need it fixed. I can’t work with that shaking noise. It’s distracting. My boss is breathing down my neck about the quarterly reports, and I can’t think. Just look at the leg. It’s loose. Tighten it. Please. I don’t care if it’s just a chair. It’s a symbol of neglect, really. Or maybe I’m just tired. Don’t look at me like that.
Again? You’re sitting in the corner, staring at a chair, and complaining about the hinge? I fixed that hinge last Tuesday. The leg is loose because you kick it when you’re anxious. You know this. It’s not a symbol of neglect, Lena. It’s cheap particle board and you treat it like heirloom furniture. My boss is breathing down my neck about your quarterly reports? I didn’t know you were in finance now. I thought you were still pretending to be an artist. The chair is fine. Stop pacing. You’re vibrating the floorboards. I have to call my mom in twenty minutes, and I don’t have time to calibrate your worldview around a $40 item.
I’m not vibrating. I’m standing still. You’re the one pacing. Or I am. I don’t know. The quarterly reports are due Tuesday, Marc. Not yesterday. Tuesday. And you’re talking about your mother? Really? While I’m trying to figure out why my laptop won’t sync? It’s not about the chair. It’s about the fact that you didn’t fix the hinge because you were too busy ignoring me. Or maybe you did fix it and I’m just imagining the wobble. Like I imagine the emails piling up. I have to go. I need to buy coffee. Black. No sugar. You always forget the sugar thing. It’s bitter. Like this. Whatever. Call your mom. Just… don’t touch the chair.
You’re walking out? In the middle of a sentence? God. I didn’t forget the sugar. You just drink it so fast you never notice. I’m not pacing. I’m waiting. There’s a difference. And my mom is fine. She’s always fine until she calls. Then she’s not. It’s a cycle. You’re projecting the quarterly reports onto my mother? That’s rich. And the laptop? Try restarting it. No, really. You’ve been staring at it for an hour. It’s not broken. You are. Or tired. Same thing, really. Go get your coffee. Stop using my apartment as a containment field for your anxiety. And for the record, the hinge is tight. I checked. Twice. Don’t look at me like I’m the villain here. I’m just the guy trying to drink tea while you dismantle reality.
I’m not walking out. I’m just… looking at the coffee machine. It’s humming. Why is it humming? It’s not supposed to hum. It sounds like the hinge. You didn’t fix it. You’re lying. Again. My mother calls me. Not you. I’m not projecting. I’m observing. The laptop is black. Why is it black? Restarting is useless. You don’t understand. It’s not about the laptop. It’s about the silence. In here. It’s loud. You drink tea. I drink… whatever is left. The sugar thing isn’t the point. The point is you think I’m crazy because I noticed the chair. It’s a chair, Marc. It’s just wood and nails. Why does it feel like a threat? I’m tired. My eyes hurt. Did you lock the door? I don’t think I locked it. Or maybe I did. I can’t remember. Coffee. Black. No sugar. It tastes like dirt. I hate dirt.
It hums because it’s old. Shut up. The hinge is fixed. I tightened it until my knuckles hurt. You’re making up noise because you’re exhausted, not because the world is collapsing. My mother doesn’t call you. Stop twisting facts. And yes, I locked the door. Twice. You’re safe here. Mostly. The laptop is black because it’s off. Did you turn it off? Probably. You’re spiraling over dirt taste? It’s just burnt coffee. Drink it or leave it. I’m not arguing about dirt. I have a spreadsheet due at noon that requires actual logic, not this… mystical anxiety about wood and nails. Stop staring at the machine. It’s a heater with a pump. It’s not listening to you. Go sit down. Or stand still. I don’t care. Just stop talking about the silence. It’s loud in here because you won’t shut up.
You locked the door twice? Good. I don’t want to leave. The coffee is cold now. Why is it cold? It was hot. You said it was burnt. It’s not burnt. It’s watery. Like my life. Or maybe like your logic. Spreadsheets. Numbers. They don’t scream at me. Chairs do. Sometimes. I didn’t turn the laptop off. I think I did. I’m not sure. The hinge is tight. I can feel it in my teeth. You’re drinking tea. Green tea? It smells like grass. I hate grass. I want to sit in the chair. The broken one. It’s the only honest thing in here. You’re safe. Mostly. What’s the other part? The spreadsheet. Noon. It’s almost noon. Or maybe it’s midnight. I lost track. Don’t look at me. I’m not spiraling. I’m just… observing the dust. It’s dancing. Are you dancing?
I’m not dancing. I’m sitting. The door is locked. The hinge is solid. You’re imagining the dust moving because your eyes are dry. Drink your cold, watery coffee. It’s better than the burnt sludge you usually make. And yes, my life is watery. So what? You want to sit in the chair? Fine. Sit. But don’t blame me if it wobbles. I tightened it. You’re the one shaking. Or is it the chair? Does it matter? Noon is noon. Midnight is midnight. The sun is outside. I can hear traffic. Real traffic. Not your internal screaming. Stop looking at my tea. It’s just leaves. You hate grass? Then why are you staring at the plant in the corner? It’s dead. Just like the hope that you’ll ever admit you’re tired. Sit. Be quiet. The spreadsheet will wait. Probably.
The plant is alive. You’re blind. It’s green. A little yellow at the edges, but green. You killed the other one. The fern. You said it needed more sun. It needed less you. I’m sitting. The chair creaks. It’s a good creak. Honest. Like dirt. You say noon. My phone says 11:58. Or is it 12:02? Time is slippery when you’re not moving. You’re staring at the screen. Blue light. It burns. I can see it from here. Don’t look at me. I’m just the shadow in the corner. The broken thing. But the plant… look at it. It’s trying. To live. In the dark. You think logic fixes everything. Spreadsheets don’t grow leaves, Marc. They just count them. I hate counting. It feels like watching sand fall. Up is down. In is out. Coffee is tea. You’re drinking poison. Or water. I can’t tell. Sit down. Actually sit. Not that tense, rigid thing you do. Your shoulders are at your ears. Relax. The hinge is fine. I believe you. For now. Why do I care? I don’t know. I’m tired. My eyes are dry. Like you said. But the plant… it’s watching. Isn’t it?
The fern died because you watered it with your own tears and neglect. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s biology. And it’s not watching. It’s a塑料 plant, Lena. I bought it at IKEA. You’re seeing things because you haven’t slept. My shoulders are at my ears because I’m trying to keep this conversation from imploding. Sit down. Actually sit. You’re hovering. It’s annoying. The hinge is fine. I checked. Twice. You’re tired. Your eyes are dry. Stop crying. It’s making the air humid. And for the record, coffee isn’t tea. Don’t confuse them. It’s lazy. I’m drinking tea because I like the taste of grass, even if you hate it. Now, do you want help with the quarterly reports, or are you going to keep analyzing the optical illusions in the corner? I have ten minutes. Then I’m calling my mother. She’s not expecting a philosophical debate about plastic flora. She wants to know if I’m eating. I’m not. That’s the real tragedy here.
Plastic. Of course. It’s plastic. I knew that. I just… wanted it to be real. For a second. You’re eating? No. That’s why you’re so tight. Starvation makes people cruel. Or sharp. I don’t want help with the reports. I want you to admit the chair is a lie. It’s solid. But it feels like it’s waiting. For what? To break again? Or to hold? My eyes are dry. I checked. In the mirror. Before I came in. You’re not hungry. You’re full of… spreadsheets. Data. It sits in your stomach like a stone. Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. I’m just observing. The plastic plant. It’s dusty. On top. Not underneath. You missed a spot. Just like you missed the hinge. Twice. I heard you. You didn’t tighten it. You tapped it. A tap isn’t a fix. It’s a delay. I’m hovering. Because standing is boring. Sitting is surrender. I won’t surrender. Not yet. Coffee is bitter. Tea is grass. Plastic is eternal. Which one are you?
You’re delusional. I tightened it. You heard the screwdriver, not magic. And stop diagnosing my hunger. I ate lunch. The spreadsheet is just work. It doesn’t sit in my stomach. You’re inventing metaphors because you’re empty. The plant is plastic. It doesn’t care about dust. It doesn’t care about you. It’s a lie we agreed to. But you’re right about one thing: sitting is surrender. Fine. I’m standing. I’ll stand here until you stop vibrating. The hinge is fixed. Stop tapping your foot. You’re making the floorboards scream. I’m not plastic. I’m tired. And you’re late. For everything. Go call your mother. I’m not her. I’m Marc. And I’m done with this theater. The chair is solid. Your mind is not. Fix that first. Or don’t. I have a life outside this room. Even if you can’t see it.
Plastic doesn’t collect dust, Marc. It just sits there. Waiting for you to clean it. You didn’t. You ignored it. Just like the hinge. Just like me. I’m not vibrating. My heart is. That’s different. You ate lunch. I believe you. Or I don’t. It doesn’t matter. You’re not her. I know. That’s the problem. I wanted her to call. Or you to. Anyone. But it’s just you. And the spreadsheet. And the dead plastic. I’m not late. Time is loose. Like the leg. You say fix my mind. How? Meditate? Count sheep? Stare at the wall? It’s easier to blame the chair. Or the coffee. Or the tea. You’re drinking poison. I can see it in your eyes. The light’s gone. Dead. Like the fern. Even the plastic one. I’m leaving. I need air. Real air. Not this recycled anxiety. Call your mom. Tell her I said hi. If she cares. I doubt she does.
You’re leaving? Fine. Go. The door is locked. You’ll have to pick it. Or wait for me to open it. I’m not opening it. Not yet. You want air? Take the AC unit and hike it to the roof. I didn’t ignore the plant. I didn’t ignore the hinge. I ignored you because you were screaming about dust and plastic ferns. It’s exhausting. My eyes aren’t dead. They’re just tired of looking at your projections. You think my mom doesn’t care? She sends emails. Long, rambling ones. You’d hate them. They’re full of unsolicited advice. Like you. “Count sheep.” No. I count errors. And there are too many. You’re not late. You’re early. For the breakdown. Sit down. Stop pacing. The hinge is fixed. The plant is plastic. And I’m here. Whether you like it or not.
Locked. Great. Just what I needed. A door that won’t open. Or won’t close. Whichever. You’re counting errors. I’m counting breaths. We’re both failing. My projections are just reflections, Marc. You’re the one projecting your stress onto a piece of plastic. It doesn’t have a face. But you keep talking to it. Like it’s listening. It’s not. It’s vinyl. Cheap vinyl. That smells like chemicals. I’m not pacing. I’m shifting weight. From one foot to the other. To keep the blood moving. You say sit down. I say stand up. We’re going in circles. The AC unit is heavy. I don’t want to hike it. I want to sleep. For a week. Without chairs. Or plants. Or hinges. Just silence. But the AC is humming. It’s loud. Louder than you. Are you listening? Or are you just waiting for me to stop talking? I can’t stop. The words are stuck. Like dirt in my teeth. You ate lunch. I didn’t. My stomach is growling. Is that a metaphor? Or biology? Biology, probably. Stop looking at me. I’m not interesting. I’m just… loud. And you’re quiet. Too quiet. It’s suspicious.
The door unlocks with a key. Not a code. A physical piece of metal. Check your pocket. You’re holding it. You’re shifting weight because you’re terrified of sitting still. The AC hums because the compressor is old. Not a voice. Just physics. You want silence? It doesn’t exist. Not here. Not anywhere. I’m not suspicious. I’m bored. And hungry. Again. You didn’t eat lunch? Typical. Your stomach is growling because you skipped it. Not because of a metaphor. Biology is boring, Lena. It’s just hunger. And fatigue. And poor life choices. Stop looking at me. Look at the door. It’s open now. Go get food. Real food. Not that black sludge. Then come back. Sit in the chair. Break it. I don’t care. Just stop talking about the plant. It’s plastic. It’s mocking you with its indifference. Go. Before I change my mind and lock it again. For real this time. No jokes.