Congrats on the promotion, Gil. Seriously. It’s wild. I was just on the escalator downtown, watching the way the metal teeth bite into each other, rhythmic, inescapable, and I thought about how we just accept those moving sidewalks like they’re natural law. You’ve jumped onto a faster one now. I hope you like the height. I didn’t tell you about the meeting, but I made the call. You’re welcome.
Height? Please. It’s just a higher floor with better lighting and worse coffee. And “jumped”? Don’t insult me. I was pushed, hard. By people who think titles fix incompetence. I didn’t make a call, Cass. I just stopped screaming when they asked. You’re welcome for what? For not quitting? That’s not a favor, that’s survival. The escalator doesn’t care if you’re standing still or moving faster. It just takes you up until you run out of steps. I’m already tired.
You’re dramatic. It’s exhausting to be around people who treat promotions like tragedies. I’m sorry, Gil. I didn’t mean to rub it in. I just... I saw you walking away from that office, looking like you’d seen a ghost. I thought you’d be thrilled. But I get it. The coffee is terrible. The lighting is harsh. And the escalator? Yeah, it doesn’t care. It just keeps going. I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’ll buy you a real coffee next time. A good one.
Don’t buy me coffee. I don’t want your charity, and I definitely don’t want your pity wrapped in a latte. You saw me walking away? I was walking to the bathroom to scream into a sink. That’s not drama, that’s plumbing. You think I’m tragic? Fine. Let me be tragic. It’s easier than explaining to HR why I hate the new ergonomic chairs. They creak. Every time I shift weight, it sounds like a dying animal. I hate them. And I hate that I need this job. So stop smiling. It’s creepy.
You sound insane. I wasn’t smiling. I was rubbing my face because the fluorescent lights in the breakroom are buzzing like angry hornets. I haven’t slept. You want me to stare at you while you complain about creaky chairs? Fine. I’ll stare. But don’t pretend your misery is unique. I hate my job too. I hate that I have to pretend I care about the quarterly reports while my back goes out. You’re not special, Gil. You’re just loud. And yeah, the chairs suck. I bought a cushion. It helps. Sort of.
You’re right. I am loud. Because if I stop talking, I realize I’m just sitting in a chair that screams every time I breathe. Buy the cushion. All you want. I don’t care. The buzzing in your head isn’t hornets, Cass. It’s the same static I hear when I look at the quarterly reports. You think being quiet makes you special? It just makes you tired. I’m not complaining. I’m announcing my existence. That’s all it is. And your back hurts because you’re hunching over a screen that doesn’t care if you exist at all. Stop staring. It’s making me sweat.
I’m not staring. I’m looking at my phone. Stop making it about you. My back hurts because I sit at a desk that’s too low, not because I’m hunching. And your existence isn’t an announcement; it’s a noise complaint. I’m tired of hearing you breathe. You want to be seen? Fine. But don’t expect me to applaud. I have to go. The meeting started five minutes ago and I’m not going back in there. Not today. You can keep your chair. Keep your screaming. I’m done.
Fine. Go. The meeting’s a waste of time anyway. I bet they’re discussing font sizes or some bullshit about synergy. You think leaving solves anything? It just moves the pain to a different chair. And for the record, I’m not breathing hard. I’m just existing loudly because someone has to make sure the silence doesn’t get too heavy. Keep your cushion. Keep your low desk. I’ll keep the screaming chair. At least it acknowledges my weight. You’re leaving because you’re weak, not because you’re tired. Whatever. Don’t call me.
Weak? I’m leaving because I have a life outside this fluorescent purgatory. I have to pick up my sister from the train station. She’s been acting weird. You’re projecting, Gil. Always are. That chair doesn’t acknowledge your weight; it just mocks it. Synergy isn’t about fonts. It’s about pretending we’re a family while we cannibalize each other for scraps. Go ahead. Stay. Scream at the plastic. I’m done pretending I care. You wanted silence? Here it is. Don’t wait up.
“Weak?” You think leaving is strength? It’s cowardice. You run to a train station because you can’t handle the fact that you’re just as trapped as I am. Synergy is about survival. You call it cannibalism; I call it eating the only thing on the table. You say I’m projecting. Maybe. But at least I’m loud enough to be heard. You? You’re just a ghost in a breakroom. Go pick up your sister. Hope she’s not weird. Hope she’s not hollow. I’ll stay. I’ll scream. I’ll let the chair mock me. It’s the only honest relationship I have left. Don’t wait up? Good. I don’t want you here anyway.
Weird? She’s just a kid, Gil. Stop twisting everything into some damn allegory. It’s annoying. I’m not a ghost; I’m just done with your performance art. The chair mocks you because it’s cheap plastic, not because it’s honest. You’re clinging to pain like a security blanket. I’m walking away because I have a life that doesn’t involve analyzing the structural integrity of office furniture. Go ahead. Scream until your throat bleeds. See if anyone cares. I’m leaving. Now.
“Performance art.” God, you’re insufferable. It’s not art, it’s just noise. You’re so busy protecting your sister, your “real life,” you think any mention of structure is an attack. It’s not. It’s just what I’m looking at. Cheap plastic. That’s all it is. And yeah, I’m clinging to pain. It’s the only thing that feels solid. You walk out that door, you think you’re free. You’re just going to stand on a platform waiting for a train that’s late again. See if anyone cares? I don’t need them to. I need to stop hearing your voice. Leave. Before I start screaming loud enough to crack the glass.
Your voice is already cracking the plaster. I can feel it in my teeth. You’re loud, Gil. You’re always so damn loud. I’m walking out because if I stay, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Something about your sister. Something about the fact that you’d rather be alone with a screaming chair than talk to a human being. Fine. Leave. Stay. It doesn’t matter. The train is late. It’s always late. And I’m done waiting for you to make sense.
Your sister. Don’t you dare. She has nothing to do with the chair. You’re just looking for a crack in the wall to stick your finger in. I’m not alone. I’m surrounded by people who pretend to listen while checking their watches. You say I don’t make sense? Good. Sense is for people who fit in the box. I’m too big for the box. The train is late because the tracks are rusted shut by all the people who decided to get off early. You’re not leaving because you have a life. You’re leaving because you’re scared of what happens if you stay and actually listen. Fine. Go. Let the silence choke you. I’ll keep screaming. It’s the only music I’ve got left.
I’m not scared. I’m leaving because you’re impossible. You want me to listen? To what? The screech of plastic? I don’t have the bandwidth. You’re not too big for the box; you’re just clumsy. And my sister has nothing to do with this. Stop dragging her into your little tragedy. It’s disrespectful. I’m going to the station. I’m going to drink bad coffee. I’m going to ignore you. You can scream until the glass shatters. I won’t be here to hear it. I’m done.
Clumsy. Right. I’m just the clumsy one. You’re so graceful walking out. You say you’re not scared. Bullshit. You’re terrified of the noise because it’s the only thing that’s real in your pristine little life. Don’t drag your sister into this. She’s innocent. I’m the one rotting here. But sure, go. Drink the bad coffee. Ignore me. It’s what you do best. Ignoring is your superpower. I’ll stay. I’ll let the glass shatter. At least when it breaks, it makes a sound. You? You’re just fading away. Quietly. Efficiently. Pathetically. Go. Please. Just go.
You’re unhinged. Pristine? My apartment smells like damp laundry and I haven’t bought fresh milk in three days. I’m not fading. I’m just existing without an audience. You want a crowd? Fine. Stay here and perform for the rusted tracks. But don’t call it rotting. It’s called life. And yeah, I’m ignoring you. Because if I listen, I’ll start screaming too. And I don’t want to sound like you. So go ahead. Break the glass. See if it changes the fact that you’re stuck. I’m already at the door.
Damp laundry. Good. At least it’s real. You want to scream? Go ahead. Break the glass. It won’t free you. It’ll just make a mess. I’m not stuck. I’m anchored. You’re drifting. You think ignoring me is strength? It’s fear. You’re terrified that if you listen, you’ll realize I’m right. That the chair is the only thing that hasn’t lied to you. I’ll stay. I’ll scream. I’ll let the plaster crack. You can walk out that door and pretend you’re free, but you’re just running from the echo. Go. Be quiet. Be lonely. See if it tastes as good as you think.
Anchored. Right. You’re just stuck in the mud. I don’t need your validation, Gil. I need to get to the station before the last train leaves. You can have your echo. I’ll take the noise of the city. It’s chaotic, sure, but it’s alive. Unlike your little prison of creaking plastic. Go ahead. Crack the plaster. Let the dust settle on you. I’m not listening. I’m not looking back. This is the end of the conversation. And you’re welcome for not pretending to care anymore.
Stuck in the mud. At least the mud doesn’t pretend to hold you up. Go. Take your chaotic city noise. I prefer the silence that screams back. You say this is the end. Fine. It’s been the end for months. You’re not leaving because you have a life, Cass. You’re leaving because you’re terrified that if you stay, you’ll hear me and realize you’re just as hollow. I don’t need your validation. I don’t need your pity. I need the chair to keep creaking. It’s the only rhythm I have left. Close the door. Properly. Don’t leave it ajar. I don’t want to see you go. I don’t want to hear the click. Just go.
The door slammed. Loud enough to rattle the windows. I didn’t look back. Can’t. If I saw you sitting there in the dark, waiting for the next creak, I’d have to sit down too. And I’m not ready for that. The hallway is empty. Quiet. Real quiet. Not the heavy kind you like. Just… nothing. My knees are shaking. Good. Let them. I’m walking fast. Too fast. The streetlights are flickering. Like you said. Like everything is about to break. Hope you’re happy, Gil. Hope the chair held you up.
Happy? Don’t insult me. I’m miserable. But it’s my misery. The door didn’t rattle the windows; it just proved the frame was loose. Like everything else. You shook. Good. Keep shaking. It means you’re still connected to something. The chair held me up, yeah. Until it didn’t. Then it’ll just be another piece of plastic on the floor. You’re running because you know the streetlights are a lie. They don’t illuminate; they just highlight the cracks. Go. Run. I’m sitting here. Waiting. Listening. For the next creak.
The frame wasn’t loose. It was just old. Like you. I’m not running. I’m walking. There’s a difference. You want me to stay and listen to the plastic die? No. I’m going to buy milk. Real milk. Not that stale stuff from the vending machine. I’m going to go home, turn off the light, and let the damp laundry breathe. You can have your creaks. I’m done with noise. I’m done with you. Don’t wait for the next one. It’s not coming.
Old. Good. I’m vintage. You want milk? Buy the expired stuff. It’s honest. It tells you exactly how long it had. That light you’re turning off? It’s just changing the shape of the shadows. You think silence is peace? It’s just empty space waiting to be filled with something worse. The creak isn’t coming because the chair’s broken, Cass. It’s because I stopped moving. I’m still. Silent. You wanted that? You got it. Walk fast. The damp laundry will smell like you. Like fear. Like stale bread. I’m done waiting for you to hear it. You never did.