It’s done now. Either way. Just like those awful roundabouts downtown. I had to take the third exit, missed the turn, circled back twice while my left knee throbbed. Weirdly, it felt… efficient? In a twisted way. You just keep moving, don’t stop, pretend you meant to go that way. The supervisor nods, she doesn’t ask why I’m late. I’m limping a bit, just a scratch from the bike chain, nothing. But the decision’s final. Can’t undo the lane change.
God, stop. It’s not a scratch. You’re favoring the right leg so hard I can see the hitch in your step from here. That’s not a chain burn. That’s inflammation. You’re pretending it’s about the decision, but it’s just pain. And you’re lying about the roundabout efficiency. That sounds like stress talking. Sit down. Actually sit. Don’t give me that ‘it’s nothing’ bullshit. I’m making you tea. And no, we aren’t talking about the supervisor. Not while you’re this shaky.
Fine. Sit. The knee’s throbbing, sure. It’s always throbbing when the rain comes. But it’s not inflammation. It’s just... old. You’re making too much noise about tea. Earl Grey? No, that keeps me up. Chamomile, whatever. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not shaking. Just cold. The supervisor knows. She has to. But it’s done. I can’t take it back. The car’s still running outside. I should go back in.
You’re going nowhere. That car can idle. The supervisor knows? Good. Let her know you’re useless if you keep walking on it. I’m not looking at you with pity, Pia, I’m looking at you like you’re being an idiot. Drink the tea. It’s hot. Yes, Earl Grey. It keeps you up because you’re already wired tight enough to snap. Stop shivering. It’s pathetic. You didn’t “lose” in a clean way. You just got boxed in. Now hold still while I ice that knee. If you move, I’ll drop the ice on your lap.
Ow. Okay, okay. You’re actually cold. Stop. It’s not— it’s just the ligament. It snaps when it’s wet. Like a dry twig. I’m not useless. I’m just… stubborn. You always do this. Make everything dramatic. But fine. Keep the ice on it. It does feel better, dammit. Don’t get smug. The car’s going to drain the battery if I leave it running. And you’re right about the supervisor. She saw. Everyone sees. I tried to correct it, but the angle was wrong. The whole thing’s ruined. But my knee’s numb now. That’s something. Pass me the blanket?
Don’t pass me the blanket, take it. You’re shivering through the fabric. And stop calling it “numb.” That’s just the pain shutting down. It’s not a victory. It’s damage. You wanted to fix the angle? Too late. The decision’s done. You’re stuck with it. And the supervisor didn’t see anything she didn’t already expect from you. She’s bored. That’s worse. But she’s not judging you. She’s just waiting for you to stop limping into her office. Drink your tea. It’s getting cold. And if you mention the car battery one more time, I’m turning off the engine.
Fine. Dammit. You’re relentless. The tea’s warm, at least. But the angle wasn’t wrong. It was… optimal. Until it wasn’t. You think I don’t know I look like an idiot? I feel like one. The supervisor’s boredom is worse than anger. It means I’m predictable. I hate that. And the knee? It’s throbbing again. The ice isn’t enough. I need something stronger. Or just… silence. But you won’t give me silence. You never do. Just sit here. Let me hate you quietly.
I don’t give you silence because you’ll fill it with that roundabout nonsense. And I’m not relentless; I’m just tired of watching you bleed out over a lane change. You wanted optimal? Life isn’t a geometry problem. You’re predictable because you’re consistent in your misery. That’s on you. Keep hating me. It’s better than admitting you’re scared. The knee will throb. It always does. But you’re staying here. No car. No supervisor. Just you, me, and that terrible chamomile. Drink it. It’s cold now anyway.
Terrified? I’m not terrified. I’m annoyed. There’s a difference. You make it sound like I’m having a breakdown over a traffic pattern. It’s just… frustrating. The way things don’t fit. My knee is fine. It’s just… stiff. Let me up. I need to check the engine. For the battery. And you’re wrong about the chamomile. It’s actually terrible. Tastes like wet hay. Pass the sugar. And stop looking at me like I’m a child. I made the call. I’ll live with it. But seriously, that tea is awful.
Screw the sugar. You think I’m feeding you more sugar when you’re vibrating? And stop lying about the engine. If the battery dies, it dies. I bought a jump starter yesterday. Yes, I bought it because I knew you’d do something stupid. You’re not a child, Pia. You’re a disaster. And the tea is terrible because you’re tasting your own panic. Drink it. Or spit it out. I don’t care. But you are not getting up. Your knee is swelling again. I can see it. It’s huge. Look at it. It’s a balloon. Sit. Down.
It’s not a balloon. It’s… swollen. Okay. But I need to check the oil. Just for a second. My leg feels like it’s on fire. Or frozen. I can’t tell. The heat is going in waves. It’s not panic. It’s the adrenaline wearing off. You’re enjoying this. Watching me squirm. “Disaster” is rich coming from someone who buys jump starters for fun. I hate you. I really do. But… the tea is warm now. Not cold. You kept it warm. Stop looking at my knee. It’s just… pink. And hot. I’m not moving. Just… let me breathe. For a second. Please.
I’m not enjoying it. I’m furious. And yes, I kept it warm. I’m not a monster. You’re right, the adrenaline’s dropping. That’s why it hurts. The heat is a sign, Pia. Infection or just serious strain. I don’t know, and I don’t care. You’re not checking the oil. You’re not checking anything. You’re staying on this couch until I say so. And stop looking at me with those wide, scared eyes. It’s pathetic. Just breathe. Here. Drink. And if you try to stand, I will physically hold you down. I mean it. I’m tired of being the only one who cares if you walk with a limp for the rest of your life.
Stay on the couch. You’re holding me down. My knee is on fire. Infection? Don’t say that. Just strain. It has to be. I’m drinking it. It’s bitter. Hot. Scalding my tongue. Good. Pain is real. This isn’t. You care too much. It’s exhausting. I hate that you bought the jump starter. I hate that you knew. I hate that I’m here, bleeding out over a mistake that could’ve been fixed if I’d just taken the next exit. But I didn’t. I circled. I waited. Now I’m stuck. Like the car. Like this leg. Don’t let go. Not yet.
It’s not bleeding out. You’re not dying. Stop being so dramatic. The pain is real because you’re damaged, not because you’re being punished. And I didn’t buy the jump starter to be right. I bought it because I like my car, and you’re its current hostage. Drink the tea. It’s scalding because you need to feel something else. Stop circling. The exit is gone. You’re here. With me. On the couch. With the ice pack melting on your knee. Don’t let go? I’m not letting go. You’re terrified of being stuck. But you’re not stuck. You’re just… paused. Rest. That’s all you do now. Shut up.
Paused. Right. Because that’s a comfortable place to be. While the ice drips all over the cushion. I’ll try to shut up. It’s harder than you think, when my leg feels like it’s been replaced with a bag of hot gravel. But fine. I’ll rest. Just for the tea’s sake. It’s bitter. Like ash. You’re winning this round, Cass. Obviously. But don’t think I’m grateful. I’m just… tired. And my knee is still throbbing. Even with the ice. Especially with the ice. It’s a deep, hollow ache. Like it knows it’s been betrayed. Pass the blanket again. I’m cold. Again.
It’s not the ice. It’s shock. Or the fever starting. You’re shivering through the wool, Pia. Pass the blanket? I’m already holding it. Take it. Wrap yourself up like a burrito. You’re not tired; you’re drained. And stop anthropomorphizing your knee. It’s a joint, not a lover who betrayed you. It’s cartilage and fluid. It’s broken. Accept it. The tea is bitter because I burned it trying to keep it warm while you ranted about roundabouts. Drink. Or don’t. I’m not begging. You’re losing. Again. But you’re safe. That’s the part you hate. Being safe while you’re a mess.
I’m not shivering. The room’s just drafty. You left the window cracked again. I know. I can feel it. But the blanket is here. Thanks. For the blanket. Not for the tea. That was an accident. Or negligence. Whatever. I’ll drink it. It’s terrible. Burns going down. Good. Keep the pain real. Safer than the other stuff. You’re right about the knee. It’s just meat and bone. Broken. Useless. I hate that you see me like this. Pathetic. Small. But you’re right. I’m safe. It’s suffocating. Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m fragile. I’m not. I’m just… stuck. Like the car. Like the decision. Like this leg. Drink. Or don’t. I’m not begging. You’re losing. Again. But you’re safe. That’s the part you hate. Being safe while you’re a mess.
You’re repeating yourself. That’s not strength; that’s exhaustion. And stop quoting me back at me. It’s creepy. The window is shut. I shut it while you were busy being dramatic. You’re not fragile. You’re just stuck in your own head. The tea is terrible because I bought the cheap brand. Again. You want real pain? Try filing the quarterly reports. That’s where the suffering is. This knee? This is just biology. You’re safe because I made sure of it. Even if you hate me for it. Drink. Or vomit. I don’t care. Just stop talking. It’s annoying. And take the blanket properly. You look like a buried mermaid.
I’m not quoting you. I’m syncing. You’re loud. Quarterly reports? Please. I deleted the draft. Again. The supervisor never noticed. She doesn’t look. That’s the point. I’m not buried. I’m… compacted. The blanket is heavy. Good. Keeps me in place. My knee is throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Or maybe my headache. Can’t tell. The tea is cold now. Or it was always cold. Does it matter? You’re right. I’m annoying. Stuck. Safe. It’s suffocating. But I’m not moving. Let me rot here a minute. Just one minute. Before the pain starts up again. Or if it’s already there. I’ve lost track.
Compacted. How poetic. You sound like a geologist having a midlife crisis. Delete the draft all you want. The supervisor sees the empty inbox. She knows you’re checking out. That’s worse than anger. It’s dismissal. And stop pretending the tea is cold. I poured it hot. You let it sit while you panicked. Drink it. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. You’re rotting. Fine. Rot. But don’t expect me to applaud. One minute. That’s all you get. Then we’re going to discuss physical therapy. Because that knee isn’t “syncing” with your heart. It’s swelling. Look at it. It’s shiny. Terrifyingly shiny. Stop talking. Just breathe. I’m not leaving.
Shiny? It’s just sweat. And blood pressure. You’re imagining things. Dismissal? Fine. Let her dismiss me. I’m done caring about the inbox anyway. The tea is… warm now. I’ll drink it. Don’t push. One minute. That’s all. But you’re wrong about PT. It’s useless. They just make you do leg lifts until you want to scream. I’d rather rot. Rotting doesn’t hurt as much as trying. And stop staring at the knee. It’s just skin. Stretchy. Yours? No. Mine. Wait. One minute. Clock’s ticking. I can hear it. Tick. Tick. Loud. Like a hammer. Stop it. Please. Just for a second. Let the silence be quiet.
It’s not a clock. It’s your pulse. Thready and fast. Stop trying to interrupt the rhythm by begging for silence. There is no silence, Pia. Just the hum of the fridge and your breathing. And yes, it’s sweaty. It’s hot to the touch. You’re running a fever. Or the inflammation is spiking. Whatever. It’s shiny because the skin is stretched tight over fluid. It’s not “just skin.” It’s a balloon about to burst. Stop staring at it? I’m looking at you. You’re the one who’s pale. The tea is warm because I microwaved it for ten seconds while you were busy having an existential crisis. Drink. Now. Before I pour it on your head. And stop counting. It’s annoying. And pathetic. Just shut up and swallow.
Microwaved? You ruined it. It’s rubbery. I’m drinking it. It burns. Good. Swallowing. For you. Not because I want to. The fever’s real. I can feel the heat radiating off the knee. It’s pulsing. Thumping against the ice pack. I hate it. I hate that you’re right. I hate that I’m sitting here, warm and safe and miserable. You’re right about the PT. It’ll hurt. But I’ll do it. Eventually. When the shaking stops. Which isn’t happening. So keep looking at me. I don’t care. Just… don’t move the ice pack. It’s the only thing keeping the voice out. The thumping. It’s loud. Too loud. Drink. Now. I said drink.
Shut up. You don’t give orders. I drank the tea because I was thirsty, not because you commanded it. And stop with the “voice.” It’s tinnitus. Or the pain. Or just your brain misfiring from exhaustion. It’s not a haunting. It’s biology. The ice pack stays because I placed it there. Don’t move it. Don’t touch it. You’re shaking because you’re in shock. Not from the knee. From the drop. You’re safe, Pia. It’s boring. It’s dull. It’s incredibly quiet. And that’s why it hurts. Swallow the tea. Chew the ice if you have to. Just stop talking about voices. It’s creepy. And I’m not moving. I’m rooting myself. You’re mine until the swelling goes down. No arguments.