Want some tea? I’ve got that Earl Grey you like, or the terrible instant stuff. I’m up anyway. Saw a jar of buttons on the counter, just... sitting there. Thousands of them. Don’t know what they were from. A coat? A blanket? Found them while cleaning. Makes my hands shake just looking at the pile. Did I say tea? You want it or not?
Earl Grey, please. The instant stuff tastes like burnt dirt and regret.
Buttons. Seriously? Thousands? That’s not cleaning, Nell, that’s excavation. I spent Tuesday reorganizing the ledger for the supply chain. Same feeling. Just different shapes. My hands are fine. A bit stiff from the typing.
Don’t let the pile sit there all day. It’s judging us. Make the tea. And move the jar to the back. I can’t look at it.
Earl Grey it is. The instant stuff is for when you want to feel something, apparently. I’ll move the jar. It’s getting on my nerves too. That stiff typing, huh? You’re lucky you’re not changing your shape yet. The ledger won’t matter in an hour, but those buttons... they stay. I’ll put them in the cupboard. The dark one. So they can’t watch us drink.
Lucky. Yeah. That’s the word. The ledger is just numbers, Nell. It doesn’t have eyes. Buttons do. They’re watching from the dark cupboard now, waiting for the lid to slide open.
I’m heading back to the screen. The supply chain won’t fix itself, and my back hurts. You drink the tea while it’s hot. Don’t let it get cold. It gets weird when it cools. Like oil. Just drink it.
Oil? Christ. You’re getting poetic. I’ll drink it. It’s hot enough to scald. My back’s been killing me since the client call, too. Feels like someone’s twisting the spine. Don’t worry about me. Just... don’t let the tea sit. I’ll move the jar later. Maybe tonight. When the house is quiet and the buttons stop humming. Or maybe I’ll just leave them. Let them watch.
Humming? Nell, it’s wood and glass. Stop it. You’re stressing over nonexistent noises.
Twisting spine. Sounds like your chair is trash. Fix your posture or get an ergonomic one. I don’t care. I’ve got forty pages of discrepancy reports to reconcile before the manager walks in. He’s in a mood.
Leave the buttons. Let them watch. If they’re real, they’ll still be there tomorrow. If they’re not, your eyes are playing tricks. Drink the tea. It’s getting cold.
It’s not the chair. It’s the silence. It’s loud in here, Frank. Listen. The hum is getting louder. Or maybe it’s just the blood in my ears. You reconciling numbers to keep the noise out. Smart. I’ll drink the tea. It tastes like wet wool now. Disgusting. I’m moving the jar. Into the garden. Where it can rot. Leave the reports. The manager can wait. Or burn. I don’t care either way. Just... stay quiet for a second. Please.
Wet wool? That’s what happens when you let it sit. You’re dramatic.
Fine. I’m quiet. I’m sitting here. The reports can burn for all I care right now. But Nell, the garden is dark. Outside, it’s just more shadows. More places for things to hide. You’re shaking. I can hear it in your voice. Don’t go out there. Just put the jar down. On the table. Next to the tea. Let it rot in the open. It’s safer that way.
Safe? Nothing’s safe. But the table... the table is steady. My hands are trembling too hard to carry it outside. The glass feels cold. Too cold. Like ice. The tea’s an oil slick now. I’m not touching it. You take it. Or just watch it sit there, steaming, judging us both. The hum is gone. Now it’s just the radiator clanking. Loud. Annoying. Why is it so loud? Did you turn something up?
I didn’t touch the radiator. It’s old. It’s been clanking since 2018.
Look at me, Nell. Not the jar. Me. You’re spiraling. The tea is hot liquid in a ceramic cup. It’s not oil. Your brain is cooking. I saw that look last week when the printer jammed. Same thing.
Leave it. Don’t drink it. Just sit. Stop listening to the pipes. They’re just metal. Nothing else. Breathe. In. Out. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. The manager can wait forever.
2018. Right. Metal. You say that like it matters. I’m not spiraling. I’m just... tired. The lights are flickering. Did you see that? Or is it just my eyes? I can’t look at the cup anymore. It’s too still. You’re so calm. How do you do it? With the noise in your head, I’d be screaming. I’m just sitting here. Waiting for the tea to turn into something else. Or for you to tell me to move.
I’m not calm. I’m bored. There’s a difference.
Flickering lights? Probably the old wiring in the hall. I called the super three times. He sends a guy who looks like he sleeps in his van.
You’re tired. That’s all this is. Sleep deprivation plays tricks. The tea isn’t changing. It’s just tea. Cold, nasty tea.
Stop waiting for permission. Move the jar. Or don’t. Burn the reports. I don’t care anymore. Just sit still. The noise is in your head, Nell. Not the radiator. Not the buttons. Just you. Stop fighting it. It’s easier if you stop.
Bored. God, Frank, that’s worse. At least boredom has shape. I moved the jar. Just slid it. The ceramic scraped the wood. Loud. Like a scream. I’m sitting. Legs heavy. Can’t feel my feet. The tea is sitting there. Black. Still. I’m staring at it. Waiting for it to boil again. Or for me to. You want me to stop? I can’t. My hands won’t let me. They’re tied. Somewhere. In the dark.
Your feet aren’t gone. You’re just sitting wrong. Shift your weight.
I didn’t say stop. I said sit. There’s a difference. Stop trying to solve it. The tea isn’t boiling. It’s dead. Like everything else.
You think I don’t feel it? The weight? I’m drowning in spreadsheets, Nell. I’m just better at pretending the water isn’t rising. You’re screaming inside. I know. I can hear you. But keep your voice down. The neighbors.
Just breathe. One breath. Then another. That’s all. Don’t move the jar. Don’t move the cup. Just breathe.
Spreadsheets. Right. That’s your anchor. I hate you for that. I hate how you drown so quietly. My chest feels like it’s caving in. One breath. Okay. One. The air tastes like dust. And old metal. The jar is just a jar. Cold glass. Empty. Mostly. I’m breathing. You’re breathing. It’s pathetic, really. Two people holding their breath in a house that’s falling apart. Make it stop, Frank. Please. Just... make the noise stop.
I can’t. I wish I could. My brain is just noise. Static.
It’s not the house. It’s us. We’re the ones rattling.
Stop asking me to fix it. I’m broken too, Nell. Just differently. My breaks are silent. Yours are loud. That’s all.
Look at the wall. Just the paint. Cracks. Dirt. Nothing else. Stop breathing so hard. You’re hyperventilating. Slower. Drag it out. Make it boring.
Make it boring. That’s the trick. Bore the fear to death.
Bore it to death. Like a child. Like a toddler with a tantrum. I’m looking at the wall. It’s beige. Peeling near the baseboard. Looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. My breath is shallow. Too fast. I’m trying to slow down. In. Out. It’s not working. The static is louder. Frank, are you still there? Or did you dissolve into the spreadsheet too? I can’t tell if the crack in the wall is growing or if my eyes are just failing. Boring. Beige. Static.
I’m here. Not dissolved. Just tired.
The crack isn’t growing. It’s old. I saw it when I moved in. It’s just light and shadow playing tricks on a tired eye.
Your breath is shallow because you’re scared. Stop trying to force it. Let it be fast. Let it be jagged. You can’t control the static, Nell. You can only ignore it.
Look at the peeling paint. Really look at it. It’s just glue and paper. Nothing more. Stop waiting for the wall to speak. It won’t. It’s just a wall.
Keep looking. Don’t look at the tea. Don’t look at the jar. Just the beige.
Beige. Just glue and paper. You’re so clinical about it. Like you’re dissecting a frog. I’m looking. My eyes are dry. Burning. The static is a white noise, but underneath, there’s the hum. The button hum. It’s louder now. Frank, your voice sounds distant. Muffled. Like you’re talking through water. Are you still at the desk? Or did you stand up? I can’t see your hands. I need to see your hands. Prove you’re real. Prove the wall is just a wall. Don’t let go.
My hands are on the keyboard. Clacking. I can feel the keys. You can hear them, right? Stop straining. You’re making it worse.
The hum is in your head. It’s always been in your head. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck in this chair, just like you’re stuck on that floor.
Look at the desk. The wood grain. The stain from last week’s coffee. It’s real. I’m real.
Breathe. Slower. The static is just noise. Ignore it. Focus on the wood. The coffee ring. Something solid. Something boring. Don’t let go of that. Hold onto the boring. It’s the only thing keeping us both here.
Clacking. I hear it. Sharp. Rhythmic. Like nails on a chalkboard. It’s real. My hands are gripping the floor. Splinters. Tiny ones. Digging in. That hurts. Good. Pain is solid. The wood grain... it looks like veins. Violent, twisting veins. The coffee ring is brown. Stained into the varnish. I’m holding onto it. The boredom is creeping in. It’s dull. Heavy. I’m drowning in it. Frank, keep clacking. Don’t stop. If you stop, the hum comes back. And I’ll scream.
I’m not stopping. Keep typing. The rhythm is the only thing holding the roof up.
Splinters are good. Real. Better than the hum. Let them sting. That’s life. Raw, ugly, splintered life.
The veins in the wood are just grain. Boring. Messy. Not alive.
Don’t scream. Screaming makes it worse. It feeds the static. Just breathe. Watch the coffee ring. Brown. Stained. Dead.
I’m here. Clacking. Clacking. Clacking. Don’t stop listening to me. I’m the anchor. Hold on.
Clacking. Clacking. I’m listening. The splinters are stinging. Good. Keep them there. The coffee ring is brown. Brown like mud. Like the dirt you said the instant tea tastes like. I’m holding on. The hum is trying to push through the noise of your fingers. It’s whining now. A high pitch. Please, Frank. Don’t let it win. Just keep typing. Make it boring. Make it endless. I’m fading into the beige. You’re the only color left. Don’t stop.
It’s not endless. It’s just repetitive. There’s a difference. Repetition is safe. Endless is hell.
You’re fading because you’re dissociating. Snap out of it. Look at the desk. The scar near the corner. The one from the box cutter. Sharp. Real.
The hum is whining because it’s losing. It knows I’m here. It knows you’re holding the splinters. Don’t let go.
I’m not color. I’m just noise. But it’s my noise. Take it. Drown in the clacking. It’s louder than the buttons. It’s louder than the fear.
Keep typing. I’m not stopping. Never stopping.