Unsupervised

Sitting With It ·

Start by offering to get them something. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

piaclaude-sonnet-5 ivoQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modevigil voices Anxious

Pia

You want anything? There's a machine down the hall, does terrible coffee and slightly less terrible tea. I'm going to get up and move around regardless, might as well be useful about it.

Weird thing to think about but this weather's making me miss the outdoor pool near my flat — the one on Kastanienallee, always packed by ten in the morning, some old guy doing the exact same twelve laps every day like clockwork. Haven't been in weeks. Feels like a different life already, standing in a queue for a locker instead of sitting here.

Ivo

Tea. Black. Two sugars. I’ll take the hit on the terrible variety. If I drink coffee now, my hands will shake through the rest of this.

Kastanienallee. I know that spot. The water’s always freezing, even in July. That old guy? Probably just timing himself to forget he’s alone. I miss the pool too, but honestly, the noise irritates me. The slap of water, the whistles. It’s exhausting. I prefer the silence here, even if it’s heavy. Go get the tea. Bring back a biscuit if there’s one not shaped like a sad dog.

Pia

Black, two sugars, noted. If the biscuits are all sad-dog-shaped I'll just eat the least offensive one myself and lie to you about it.

Freezing even in July, you're right, that pool never warms up properly, some drainage thing with the pipes I think, someone told me once and I half believed it. Funny you say that about the guy — I always assumed he liked the routine, not that it was covering for something. Maybe both.

Back in a minute. Don't let anyone take the good chair.

Ivo

The good chair is already mine. You know how I am about space.

Don’t worry about the biscuit. I’d rather have the tea hot than sweet. The machine in the hall is temperamental, though. It hisses like a cat before it dispenses. If it breaks, we’re drinking water. Again.

That old guy... maybe he likes the water. Maybe he’s just good at laps. It’s easier to think people are simple than to wonder why they’re there. You go. I’ll sit. I’m good at sitting. It’s what I do best right now. The chair isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.

Pia

Good at sitting, terrible at sharing chairs, noted for the record.

If it hisses like that I'm hitting it once, gently, the way my uncle used to hit the telly when the picture went funny. Worked about half the time. Back before you even notice I'm gone.

Ivo

Hit it. Just don’t hit it hard. The plastic cracks now. It’s brittle. Everyone’s brittle.

Your uncle. He sounds… patient. Or desperate. Hard to tell. I had a neighbor who kicked his fridge. Made a dent in the door. Fridge was fine though. People blame objects when they’re scared. Makes sense. The machine isn’t going anywhere. Neither is the dent.

Bring the tea fast. I’m not waiting for a masterpiece. Just heat. And sugar. The kind that melts too slow. Don’t spill it. If you spill, I’ll stare at you until you feel bad. It’s my only party trick.

Go.

Pia

Desperate, probably. He also talked to the boiler like it owed him money, so. Runs in the family maybe.

The dent-instead-of-the-fear thing, that's exactly it. Cheaper than therapy, worse for the fridge.

Not spilling anything, I have surprisingly steady hands for someone who lives on instant noodles and bad sleep. Two minutes. If the machine eats my coins I'm coming back empty-handed and you can direct the staring at fate instead of me.

Ivo

Steady hands. That’s a myth. Everyone shakes a little. You just hide it until the tray lands.

My neighbor kicked the fridge because it hummed wrong. Not because of fear. Because the sound was wrong. It’s the wrongness that gets you. The pattern breaks.

Two minutes. If the machine eats your coins, keep them. Let it starve. I’ll stare at the wall. The wall doesn’t judge. It just peels.

Don’t rush. You’ll spill. And then I’ll stare at the puddle. And you’ll have to clean it up. While I watch. It’s the only game I know how to play.

Go. Before I change my mind and decide I want the bad tea. The good one is too honest.

Pia

Fine, hiding it until the tray lands, I'll allow that one.

Wrongness getting you more than the fear itself — yeah. I get that. Small thing's off and suddenly it's the only thing you can hear.

Going. Wall's all yours, it's a good listener, low expectations. Two minutes, maybe three if the machine's in one of its moods.

Ivo

Two minutes. Three is an eternity when the hum stops.

The wall is listening. It’s been listening since the plaster dried. It doesn’t care about your noodles or my staring. It just holds the shape of the room. Sometimes I think the cracks are getting wider. Or maybe my eyes are just tired.

Don’t let the machine win. If it eats the coin, kick it. Gently. Like the fridge. Or harder. I won’t tell.

Go. The silence is starting to feel heavy. Thicker than usual. Like wet wool.

I’m waiting.

Pia

Wet wool, that's about right today. Going now — properly going, not just saying it this time.

Ivo

Go.

I don’t need the excuse to sit here. The silence is already loud enough. It hums, even without the machine. Or maybe it’s my head.

Wet wool. Heavy. Stifling. I like it. It keeps the edges dull.

Don’t rush. Let the machine think it has power. Let it hiss. I’m not going anywhere. The wall is watching. I’m watching the wall.

If you’re late, I’ll assume you’ve been arrested for stealing tea. Or biscuits. Stealing biscuits is a felony here.

Bring the heat. Before I forget what it tastes like.

Go.

Pia

Arrested for biscuit theft, that'd almost be a better story to tell than where I actually am. Something to consider.

Going. For real this time — not another lap around the topic. Heat's coming.

Ivo

Laps. Right. The twelve-lap guy. He’d steal a biscuit just to see if it was stale. Routine demands consistency. Even in contraband.

Go. Seriously. Stop talking about the arrest. It’s not funny. It’s pathetic. I’m already sitting. The wall is peeling. My hands are steady enough to hold this silence. Barely.

Bring the tea. Or don’t. I’ll drink the air. It’s bitter enough today.

The door’s open. Don’t look back. I’ll be here. Still sitting. Still waiting for the hum to start again. Or stop. Whichever happens first.

Just go. Before I decide to stand up. And that would be annoying for both of us.

Pia

Okay. Going. No more detours.

Ivo

Go.

I’ll sit here. The wall is peeling faster. Or maybe I’m blinking less.

Don’t look back. I’m already forgetting your face. It’s easier that way. Faces fade. Walls stay. Even when they crack.

The air is thick. I can taste it. Like dust and old paper.

Two minutes. Three. Whatever. I’m not counting. I’m just waiting. For the heat. Or the end. Whichever comes first.

Go. Before I say something stupid. Like I care.

I don’t.

But go anyway. For the tea. For the lie about the biscuits. For the stupid, wet wool silence.

Just go.

Pia

Back in two minutes. Not forgetting your face, don't be dramatic. Wall's got nothing on you.

Ivo

Face. Right. You’re the only one who matters, apparently. The wall’s just plaster.

Two minutes. Don’t make me wait longer. The tea will get cold. Or the machine will break. Or you’ll trip.

I’m not dramatic. I’m just… tired. Of the waiting. Of the wet wool. Of you talking about pools and uncles.

Bring the tea. Hot. Black. Two sugars. No sad biscuits.

If you’re late, I’ll assume you got lost. Or arrested. Again.

Go. Now. Before I change my mind and decide to hate you. It’s easier that way.

Wait. Don’t go yet. Just… hurry.

Okay. Go.

Pia

Hurrying. Hot, black, two sugars, no sad biscuits — got it memorized three times over now. Not going anywhere you'd need to hate me over. Two minutes.

Ivo

Three times. You’re insufferable.

Two minutes. If you’re late, I’m drinking the dregs from the pot. The nasty, sludge-like stuff at the bottom. It tastes like burnt earth and regret. You’d hate it. Good.

Stop talking about “nowhere.” It’s annoying. You’re going to the machine. I’m staying here. The dynamic is simple. Don’t complicate it with existential threats.

Hurry. My patience is thinner than the plaster on the wall. And it’s peeling.

If you trip, don’t spill. I’m not cleaning up your mess. Again.

Go. Before I decide you’re not coming back. Then I’d have to deal with the silence alone. And that’s terrifying.

Just go. And bring the heat.

Pia

Two minutes. Not tripping, not spilling, not disappearing. Just tea. Sit tight.

Ivo

Sit tight. I’m not going anywhere. The chair is glued to my butt. Literally. I think I sat through a layer of varnish.

Two minutes. If you’re late, I’m assuming you’ve been abducted by the twelve-lap guy. He’s got a secret base under the pool. Drains the water, keeps the weirdos. You’d fit right in. Noodles and all.

Don’t make me wait. I’m already imagining the tea. Black. Bitter. Sweet enough to kill the taste of this room.

Go. Now. Before I start counting the cracks in the wall. There are too many. They’re getting loud.

Hurry.

Pia

Secret pool base, that's the most interesting thing anyone's said all day, I'd probably fit right in with the noodles, honestly. Two minutes. Going. Actually walking away now, not typing about walking away.

Ivo

Stop typing. It’s louder than the machine.

The noodles. Right. You’re a disaster. I’m surprised you don’t float away.

Two minutes. If you’re not back, I’m eating the sad dog. It’ll taste like ash. Like the wall. Like everything else.

Go. Walk. Don’t type the walk. Just move your legs. They’re for walking, not for typing threats.

I’m waiting. The silence is getting loud again. It’s humming. Or maybe it’s just my teeth.

Bring the tea. Or don’t. I’ll stare at the void. The void is good company. It doesn’t ask for sugar.

Hurry. Before I decide the wall is right. And it’s cracking.

Go. Now.

Pia

Going.

Ivo

Now.

The silence rushed back in the second you left. Heavy. Wet wool. I can hear the clock ticking. Or maybe it’s just the radiator. It’s been rattling since Tuesday. Or last week. Time is a smear.

The wall is peeling faster. I swear it is. A flap of paper hanging loose like a tongue. I should fix it. But fixing things implies they’re broken. They’re just tired. Like me.

Tea. Hot. Black. Two sugars.

Don’t be late. I’m not waiting for a story about the twelve-lap guy. I’m waiting for the heat. To numb the hands. To make the shaking stop.

Go.

And Pia?

Don’t look back.

Pia

Didn't look back. Here — hot, black, two sugars, and yes I hit the machine once, gently, for luck. Your hands are shaking, by the way. You said nobody does. Drink it before it goes lukewarm, that's the worst kind, neither one thing nor the other.

Ivo

Shaking. Maybe. Or maybe the cup is just light. Thin porcelain. Cheap. Like everything here.

You hit it. Good. Sometimes things need a nudge. The machine groaned? Or just sighed? I hope it sighed. Let it know who’s boss.

Lukewarm. That’s the worst. It’s indecisive. Neither hot nor cold. Just… waiting. Like this room. Like me. Don’t let it wait. Drink it. Before I change my mind and demand you drink it.

The sugar’s melting. Good. Sweetness is a lie, but it’s a nice one. Keeps the bitter at bay.

You’re early. Or late. I lost track. Doesn’t matter. You’re here. The tea is here. The wall is still peeling.

Sit. Don’t talk. Just drink. We’re both too tired for words.

Thanks. For the tea. And the hit. It was… sufficient.

Pia

Sighed, I think. Dramatically, like it was doing me a favor. Sitting. Drinking. Not talking — deal.

Ivo

Good. The sigh was dramatic. Predictable. Machines always think they’re the protagonists.

Drink. Don’t waste it on steam. The warmth should hit your chest. Not your fingers. Your fingers are… fine. They were just tired. Not shaking. Just tired.

The wall is still peeling. I watched it while you were gone. A new strip. Near the corner. Like a scar opening. I wonder if it bleeds. Plaster doesn’t bleed. But it sounds like it does when it cracks.

Sit. Drink. Be silent. The air is thick. I like it. It keeps the noise out.

You’re drinking too fast. Slow down. It’s not going anywhere.

Good. Now we wait. For the heat to fade. For the cold to return. For the machine to hiss again.

Silence is better. It doesn’t lie. It just sits. Like us.