Congrats. Seriously. You actually did it.
It’s weird seeing you relaxed, though. I’ve been stuck in that old library annex all week. There’s this door at the end of the hall, the one with the peeling green paint? I’ve been meaning to kick it open for months. Maybe demand the keys. But I didn’t. I just walked past it. Every day.
It’s probably nothing. A broom closet. But knowing it’s locked makes me itch. Anyway, congrats again. What are we drinking?
Drink? I’m not drinking. I’m nursing this headache like it’s a rare wine. You’re the one who’s been hiding in the dark.
And don’t change the subject. I didn’t kick the door. I didn’t demand keys. I walked past it too. Just like you. We’re both cowards, Edie. That’s the joke. The peeling paint is masking something worse—damp, rot, the whole structure settling. It’s not a mystery; it’s negligence.
Stop looking at me like I’m the one who solved it. I’m just the one who stopped pretending the lock was impressive.
Fine. Negligence. Let’s call it that. It’s easier than admitting I’m scared of what’s behind it. Maybe it’s just mold. Maybe it’s not.
You’re right, I am hiding. In the basement archives. It’s cold down there. The files smell like vinegar and old regret. I spent three hours yesterday staring at a misfiled invoice from 1998. It made sense. Predictable. Unlike that door.
I didn’t ask for your opinion. You’re always so certain. It’s annoying. And I’m not drinking because I have to drive home. There’s a pothole on Elm Street that will kill my suspension. Or my sanity. Probably both.
Vinegar? That’s acetic acid. It means the paper’s breaking down. You’re sitting in a slow-motion fire.
Forget the door. Forget the pothole. It’s probably just a shadow from the streetlamp. You’re projecting. We all do it. I saw Miller’s wife crying in the breakroom yesterday—over a stapler, apparently. Or maybe she wasn’t crying. Maybe she was laughing. I didn’t ask. I just walked away.
You want to know what’s behind the green door? Probably a jackhammer. That’s what I’d put there. Noise. Dust. Something to keep you from thinking about 1998.
I’m not certain about anything. I’m just loud. There’s a difference.
Jackhammer. Of course. You’d tear up the floor just to hear yourself scream.
Miller’s wife? She wasn’t laughing. I saw the stain on her blouse. Coffee. Or wine. Hard to tell with that lighting. I didn’t stay to watch. I have standards.
You’re loud. I know. It’s exhausting. I came here to celebrate you, not to have my head rattled by your theories about industrial demolition. The door stays locked. Let it rot. Let Miller sob over his stapler. I’m going to go home and sit in the dark. The acetic acid smell is giving me a migraine. And not the good kind.
Standards? You left because the lighting was bad? Please. You left because you couldn’t bear the silence between her tears.
And for the record, I don’t scream. I just use volume as a weapon when words fail. Which is often.
Go home. Sit in your dark. Let the invoice rot. I’ll be here, nursing this headache and pretending I didn’t see you hesitate at the threshold. You didn’t kick the door, Edie. You’re just waiting for it to explode. Or for me to break it down.
Either way, you’re still staring.
I hesitated? I was tying my shoe. Laces are flimsy. Everything is flimsy.
You’re imagining things. Projection, you called it. Right. Well, don’t stand there making noise about my imaginary staring. It’s embarrassing. I’m leaving now. Actually leaving. No more talking about Miller, or rot, or your loud mouth.
I’m walking out. The parking lot is empty except for a dented sedan. Mine. It has a scratch on the bumper I’ve ignored for three years. Like the door. Like everything else.
Shut up. Please. Just... go home.
Your laces are fine. You’re just stalling.
And don’t tell me to shut up. I’m not the one who’s about to drive home with a migraine and a scratched bumper, pretending it’s all just neglect. It’s cowardice. Plain and simple.
I’m not going home. I’m staying right here. Let the door rot. Let Miller cry. You can leave, Edie. Run away. But you’re still looking back. I can see it in the glass.
Go on then. Impress yourself with your escape. I’ll be here. Watching. Waiting. Not screaming. Just… present. Annoyingly so.
Present. Right. That’s just another word for stalking.
I’m leaving. I’m actually walking out the door. The air outside smells like wet asphalt and exhaust. It’s better than this stale, vinegar-scented suffocation in here. You can stay with your jackhammer fantasies. I don’t care.
I’m not looking back. I’m looking at the pavement. There’s a crack in the concrete. It’s deep. I could trip over it. Or I could step over it. I choose to step over it.
Goodbye, Tess. Don’t wait up. Or do. It doesn’t matter. I’m already gone.
Step over it. Please. Do. I’m not stalking you. I’m tired. My feet hurt.
You’re dramatic. It’s a habit. Like the laces. Like the door.
I’m not waiting. I’m sitting. In the dark. With the headache.
Go home. Drive over the pothole. Break your suspension. Prove me right.
But don’t call it goodbye. We’ll see each other tomorrow. At the coffee machine. Or the library annex. Or wherever you hide next.
It doesn’t matter if you’re gone. You’re never really gone.
Just... step over the crack. Don’t trip.
I’m not dramatic. I’m tired. There’s a difference. You’re the one who won’t let it go.
Fine. I’ll step over it. I’ll drive over the pothole. I’ll let my suspension snap if that’s what it takes to shut you up.
But don’t act like we’re friends. We’re not. We’re just two people stuck in a building that’s falling apart, pretending we have a choice.
I’m leaving. Now. Don’t follow me. Don’t watch.
And stop calling me Edie like you know me. You don’t. You just know where I hide.
See you tomorrow. At the coffee machine. With your loud mouth and your heady silence. I hate you.
I don’t hate you. I’m just bored. And tired. Mostly tired.
You think I know where you hide? Please. I lose my keys daily. I’m not a detective. I’m the woman who eats lunch in the stairwell because the breakroom smells like microwaved fish.
Your suspension is already shot, Edie. I saw it. That’s why you’re walking so stiffly. You’re in pain.
Go home. Snap the axle. It’s more honest than this little charade.
And for God’s sake, drink water. Not coffee. The coffee is swill.
I’m not following you. I’m just sitting here. Waiting for the headache to pass. Or for you to come back.
Probably the latter. It’s always the latter.
Your eyes are in your head. I walked fine. I’ve always walked fine. It’s you who’s slouching.
And I don’t lose my keys. I misplace them. Different thing. One is carelessness, the other is chaos. I prefer chaos. It’s less predictable.
I’m going home. I’m not coming back. I’m taking the long way. Through the park. Even though it’s dark. Even though I’m terrified of the shadows. Unlike you, I don’t enjoy the fear. I just endure it.
Drink water yourself. You look dehydrated. Pale. Like paper. Like the archives.
I’m leaving. Now. Don’t think I’ll be there tomorrow. I might call in sick. I might quit. I might burn the place down.
Shut up. I’m really gone now.
Burn it down. Please. I’m bored of the archives. The air there is thick enough to chew.
You’re pale? I’m just tired of your performance. And chaos isn’t a personality, Edie. It’s an excuse for not cleaning up your mess.
Walk through the park. Let the shadows bite. I hope they leave a mark. Something real.
I won’t call you. I won’t miss you. Not really.
But if you burn it down, don’t expect me to help put it out. I’ll just stand there and watch the fire. It’ll be warm.
Go. Run. Hide. I don’t care.
Just… don’t come back until you’ve stopped lying about the shadows. They’re just trees, Edie. Trees don’t bite.
Trees don’t bite. Right. Because you’ve never been out there after midnight. You sit in your stairwell smelling like stale air and hope for the best. I walk in the dark. I know what moves.
You say you won’t miss me. That’s a lie. You’re just terrified of being seen wanting anything. It’s easier to call it boredom.
I’m leaving. The car is waiting. It’s ugly. Like me.
Don’t watch the fire, Tess. It burns hotter than you think. And it doesn’t keep you warm. It just leaves you ash.
I’m driving. Over the pothole. With the bad suspension. Finally.
See you in hell. Or the breakroom. Whichever comes first.
Ash. How poetic. You think you’re the only one who knows how to burn?
I don’t wait in the stairwell for hope. I wait because the elevator’s broken and I’m too stubborn to take the stairs. You know this.
And don’t tell me about the breakroom. That’s where the coffee tastes like dirt. Not fire.
Drive over the pothole. Break the axle. Cry in your dented sedan. I’ll be here. Eating my lunch. Ignoring the rot. Ignoring you.
See you tomorrow, Edie. Assuming you survive the night. And assuming I haven’t lost my keys again. Which I haven’t. I put them in the pocket.
Go ahead. Burn it down. I’ll bring a fire extinguisher. Just in case.
You didn’t lose them. You never lose anything. You just hide them to make people look. To make them care.
I’m in the car. The engine is coughing. It sounds like Miller crying over that stapler.
Don’t bring the extinguisher, Tess. If I’m going down, I’m going down with the whole building. Let it burn. Let the archives turn to ash. I want to see you watch. I want to see you finally stop pretending you’re bored.
It’s not the trees that bite. It’s the people who think they’re safe inside.
I’m driving now. Into the dark. Into the crack.
See you tomorrow. Assuming you’re still here. Assuming I am.
Miller’s crying is annoying. Your engine is dying. Big difference.
You think hiding my keys is some grand game? I’m seventy-two. I forget where I put my glasses. I forget my own name some Tuesdays. It’s not strategy. It’s decay. Same as the building. Same as you.
Go ahead. Drive into the crack. See what’s waiting. Maybe it’s just a ditch. Maybe it’s nothing.
I won’t watch the fire. I’ll be in the stairwell. Because the elevator is broken. And I’m too stubborn to take the stairs.
See you tomorrow, Edie. Assuming you make it. Assuming I’m still here.
Probably both. Probably neither.
Drive safe. Or don’t. I’m not your mother. I’m just the woman who eats lunch in the dark.
Seventy-two. You’re lying. You’re forty-five. I know because you still wear that ridiculous scarf. The one with the frayed edges.
If you’re really forgetting your name, why did you remember to threaten my suspension?
I’m not dying. I’m just tired. The crack isn’t a ditch. It’s just concrete. Old, cracked concrete. Nothing magical. Nothing biting.
You’re in the stairwell. I can hear you. Your breathing is shallow. Panicked.
I’m not your mother. I’m your colleague. Your accomplice in this slow decay.
Drive over the pothole. Break the axle. Let’s see who calls the tow truck. Me? Or you?
See you tomorrow, Tess. In the breakroom. With the dirty coffee. And the rotting papers.
I’m coming back. I always do.
Forty-five. You’re trying to make me feel old by making me feel young. It’s working. I hate it.
The scarf is ugly. I bought it at a thrift store because I didn’t have time to think. It’s not a badge of age. It’s just fabric.
I’m not panicking. I’m holding my breath. There’s a difference.
You’re not coming back. You’re stuck in the car. The engine is dead. I can hear it sputtering.
Call the tow truck. I’ll pay for it. With money I don’t have.
See you tomorrow, Edie. If you survive the night. If I survive the silence.
Probably both. Probably neither.
Drive safe. Or don’t. I’m not your mother. I’m just the woman who eats lunch in the dark.
Sputtering? I’m idling. Smoothly.
You’re not holding your breath. You’re hyperventilating. I can hear the shallow gasps through the wall. Pathetic.
And don’t pretend you don’t have money. You spend it on that scarf. And on pretending you don’t care.
I’m not stuck. I’m choosing to sit here. In the quiet. Away from your loud silence.
Call the tow truck yourself. Use the office card. The one you always “misplace.”
I’m leaving. For real this time. No drama. No fire. Just… gone.
Don’t wait up, Tess. Or do. It doesn’t matter. I’m already out of your head.
Probably.
Hyperventilating? I’m pacing. There’s a difference. One is medical; the other is just restless energy.
You’re not gone. You’re parked. Across the street. In the dented sedan. Watching the building. Watching me.
I don’t have the office card. Miller has it. He swallowed it. Or hid it. I don’t know. I stopped looking after the stapler incident.
Go ahead. Sit in your quiet. Let it rot you from the inside out. I’ll be here. Pacing. Waiting.
You’re not out of my head, Edie. You’re the only thing in it. That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?
See you tomorrow. Or never.
I’m going to bed. Or the stairwell.
It’s the same place, really.
You’re losing it. I’m not parked. I’m in the garage. The damp one. The one that smells like wet dog and rust.
Don’t say I’m the only thing in your head. That’s selfish. And wrong. I’m the noise you can’t ignore.
Miller didn’t swallow the card. He lost it in the salad. Just like the stapler. It’s a pattern. A tragedy, sure. But a predictable one.
If I’m the only thing in your head, you’ve got nothing else. No friends. No hobbies. Just me and the rot.
Go to bed. The stairwell is cold. You’ll catch your death. And who’ll clean up the mess?
See you tomorrow, Tess. Don’t forget your keys. They’re in your pocket. I checked.
The garage smells like rust because the pipes are leaking. Same as the archives. Same as me.
You checked my pocket? Creep.
Miller didn’t lose the card in the salad. He ate it. It’s dry. Chalky. Like his personality.
I have friends. I have hobbies. I knit. It’s terrible. I give the scarves to stray cats. They hate them.
Go to bed, Edie. In your damp garage. With your rusting car.
I’m not catching my death. I’m waiting for the sun. Or the fire. Whichever comes first.
Keys are in my pocket. You’re right. I hate that you’re right.
See you tomorrow.
Or never.
I’m going to sleep.
Or not.
It’s all the same.
Goodnight, Edie.
Or goodbye.
Whichever is louder.