There’s a poster of some band I’ve never heard of, peeling at the corner. Looked like bootleg merch at first, cheap ink bleeding into the paper. I got one once, washed it once, now it’s just a rag. You ever buy those? The ones that scream something they don’t actually know? I mean, it’s just noise. But it’s colorful noise. That’s something.
Didn’t buy any. Too busy staring at the floor in the lobby. My legs won’t stop shaking. The ink looks wet. Or maybe it’s just the lighting. Bad, fluorescent hum. I think they’re calling numbers in the next room. Maybe that was yours. Didn’t want to move, in case they mixed up the names. It’s just paper. Peeling.
Paper. Right. I’ve been watching that same corner for an hour. The ink isn’t wet, Ivo. It’s dry. It’s just old glue failing. You’re shaking because you think your name might be erased if you move. Sit still. Maybe they won’t notice you’re here. I had a meeting this morning, boring report on supply chains, and I still got called away. Just like that. Guess I’m luckier. Or worse. Hard to tell when you’re waiting for a number that might never come.
Supply chains. Right. Because that’s what keeps us awake. Not the silence. You’re wrong about the glue. It’s peeling because it’s tired. Like me. I had three coffees. They taste like burnt plastic. If I stand up, I might fall. Or I might walk out and not look back. But the chair is comfortable. And the poster is right there. Staring. Does it know?
It knows nothing. It’s paper. You’re projecting your exhaustion onto a printed image of a band that dissolved twenty years ago. I hate when people do that. Look at your hands. They’re gripping the armrests like you’re holding onto a ledge. Let go. The chair isn’t saving you. It’s just delaying the inevitable. I checked my phone twice. No signal. Just static. Same as that hum. Burnt plastic. You want to walk out? Go. See if the door unlocks.
My hands are fine. You’re the one staring at the corner. Twenty years. That’s a long time to be dead. Or alive, depending on how you look at it. The door’s locked. I tried. It’s not a ledge, it’s wood. Painted blue. Chipped. I saw a man run out yesterday. Screaming. They dragged him back in. It’s quiet now. Just the hum. And you. Talking. Always talking.
Talking keeps the quiet from eating us. You think silence is empty? It’s heavy. I’d rather hear my own voice crack than listen to that hum. Blue paint. Chipped. I noticed. It matches the scar on my knee from the bike accident. stupid. I ran out yesterday too. Didn’t scream. Just walked. They let me go. Or maybe I was never really here. You’re gripping the wood, Ivo. It’s not saving you.
You walked out? That’s impressive. I couldn’t even stand up without my vision swimming. They let you go. Or you were never here. That’s the joke, isn’t it? I’m still sitting. The blue paint is chipping under my thumbnail. I shouldn’t pick at it. It’s just paint. Like the poster. Like the scar. I’m tired, Nell. My back hurts. The hum is getting louder. Or maybe my ears are ringing. I don’t know. I’m just waiting.
Don’t pick at it. Blood on the blue is worse than paint. You’re tired because you’re holding your breath. Stop holding it. Ivo, look at me. Not the floor. My eyes. The hum is just electricity. Your ears are ringing because you’re afraid. I don’t know why I’m here. I just know I can’t sit still. My back hurts too. From hunching over nothing. You’re waiting for a number? Or a name? Doesn’t matter. Just breathe. In. Out. The paper isn’t staring. You’re staring.
I’m not staring. I’m looking. You want me to breathe? Fine. In. Out. There. Better? No. Worse. The air is thin. Stale. Like my lungs. You say the paper isn’t staring, but it is. It’s watching me fail. My hands are loose now. Stupid. You’re right. I’m an idiot. Scared of a number. A name. Whatever. Just make it stop. The humming. Or the silence. Either one. I’m waiting. Still waiting.
Stop calling yourself names. It’s pointless. The air isn’t thin; you’re hyperventilating. Slow down. In. Out. I don’t care about the number. I hate numbers. They’re cold. The paper doesn’t watch. It doesn’t have eyes. You’re just filling the silence with your panic because you can’t stand the quiet. I worked until six yesterday. My boss wouldn’t stop talking about synergy. I wanted to scream. I didn’t. I just sat there. Same as you. Breathing. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s just a room, Ivo. Painted blue. Chipped.
Synergy. Fuck that word. I hate it. You sat there? Interesting. I screamed internally. Loudly. Had a whole speech prepared about the futility of existence. Didn’t get to use it. The chair digs into my spine. Hard plastic. Or wood. Doesn’t matter. It’s cold. You’re talking too much, Nell. Make it stop. Or don’t. I’m just sitting here. Waiting. The paper peels more. Right in front of my face. Ugly.
Say it then. Scream. I’m tired of being the only one making noise. If you want silence, shut up. But you won’t. You’re too busy waiting for a sign. The paper peels because it’s falling apart. So are you. That’s fine. Let it fall. I don’t care about the speech. I care that you’re still here. Still breathing. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it’s loud. Just stop holding it in. Let it out. I’m listening. Finally.
I’m not holding it in. I have nothing left. Just static. You want ugly? Fine. I’m terrified. Of the door. Of the name. Of the silence after. It’s all the same. My hands are shaking again. Or maybe they’re still. I don’t know. The poster is falling. Right now. It hit the floor. No sound. Just weight. You’re listening. Good. Listen to this. Nothing.
It hit the floor. No sound. Just weight. See? You broke it. The poster. And the world didn’t end. I’m still here. You’re still here. Your hands are shaking because you’re alive, not because you’re broken. Static is just noise we haven’t tuned out yet. I’m listening. To the nothing. It’s louder than the hum. It’s honest. Don’t look at the poster. Look at me. I’m real. You’re real. The chair is cold. That’s real too. Breathe.
Real. That’s a heavy word. I feel light. Like paper. The poster is on the floor. I stepped on it. Crinkled. You say it’s honest. I think it’s just trash. Your face is real. Tired. Eyes red. I’m looking. Not at the floor. At you. The chair is still cold. My hands stopped shaking. For a second. Then they started again. Weak. Useless. You’re listening to nothing. I’m listening to your breath. It’s uneven. Like mine.
Weak is better than gone. At least you’re here. I don’t know why I’m tired. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the fear. My breath is uneven because I’m scared too, Ivo. I’m just hiding it better. Or worse. The poster is trash. Good. Let it be trash. We’re not. Not yet. Keep looking. Don’t look at the floor. Look at my eyes. See if you can find anything there. Anything real. It’s all we have.
Your eyes are brown. Tired. No magic. Just brown. I see them. You’re hiding it. Good. I’m not. I’m just sitting here. Waiting for the number. The door is still locked. The hum is gone. Silence. Heavy. Real. You’re breathing. Uneven. I’m breathing. Shallow. That’s it. That’s all we have. Nothing else. Just this. Waiting.
Brown is fine. I don’t need magic. I need you to stay put. Silence is worse than the hum. It lets you hear your own heart racing. Stop holding your breath. Shallow doesn’t count. Deepen it. I’m waiting too. For my name. Or my turn. It’s coming. It always does. Don’t look at the floor. Look at my eyes. I’m right here. We’re both just sitting in the dark, waiting for the light to cut through. It will. Eventually.
Heart racing. Loud. You hear it? I do. Deep breath. In. Out. Lungs burn. Good. That’s real. My turn. Coming. Eventually. Words. Empty. But I’m listening. You’re right. Dark. No light. Just us. Brown eyes. Waiting. The door hasn’t opened. Not yet. I’m staying put. Chair’s still cold. Hands still shaking. Weak. But here. Finally here.
Lungs burning means you’re still alive. Good. Keep that. The shaking isn’t weakness. It’s energy with nowhere to go. Just let it sit there. Ivo, don’t look at the door. It won’t open for a while. Maybe an hour. Maybe forever. We’ll sit in this cold. I hate the cold. It gets into your bones. But at least we’re together in it. Not alone. That’s something. Keep breathing. Even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.
An hour. Forever. Same thing. Energy sitting there. It itches. The cold is real. Numb toes. I hate it. But I’m here. With you. Brown eyes. Waiting. Shaking stops. Just vibration. Hum is gone. Silence is loud. Your voice cuts it. Ivo. My name. Heavy. Good. I’ll keep it. Even if the door never opens. We’re still sitting. Still breathing. Hurt is proof. Real.
You said my name. That’s real. Heavy. I hate how much I like hearing it. The vibration is better than shaking. Less wasted. My toes are numb too. I think I lost feeling in them an hour ago. Or maybe years. Doesn’t matter. The silence is loud because we’re filling it with breath. Hurt is proof. I agree. I want to feel the cold. It means I’m still here. Not just a ghost in a chair. Keep shaking, Ivo. Or stop. I don’t care. Just stay.
My name is Ivo. You said it. I heard it. The silence is loud because we’re filling it with breath. Hurt is proof. I agree. I want to feel the cold. It means I’m still here. Not just a ghost in a chair. Keep shaking, Ivo. Or stop. I don’t care. Just stay.
Keep shaking. It’s honest. Ghosts don’t shake. They just fade. I hate fading. I have a cat named Barnaby. He’s sleeping on my pillow right now. Or he was. I left him there. I don’t know if he’s still there. I don’t care. I care about the cold. It’s biting my ankles. Good. I’m staying. Right here. Next to you. Waiting for the door to open or not. I don’t care which. I’m just here.
Barnaby. Sleeping on a pillow. You left him. Or he left you. Doesn’t matter. Ghosts don’t have cats. I’m glad you’re here. The cold is biting. Good. It anchors me. Ivo. That’s me. You said it. I’m staying. Next to you. The door is silent. The poster is trash on the floor. We’re just two bodies in a cold room. Waiting. Or not. I don’t care. Just stay.
Barnaby doesn’t know I’m gone. He probably thinks I’m just late. I hate that. I’m staying. The cold is sharp. Good. It keeps the thoughts away. I don’t want to think about the door. Or the number. Just the chair. The wood. The paper on the floor. It’s just paper now. Useless. Like me. But I’m here. With you. Ivo. Say it again. Or don’t. Silence is fine too. I’m not going anywhere.
Ivo. The word tastes like dust. I said it. You said it. Barnaby is waiting. Late. We’re late. The wood is hard. The paper is dead. I’m not useless. I’m just tired. You’re here. With me. That’s enough. For now. The cold bites. I like it. It keeps me sharp. Don’t leave. Stay. In the dark. In the cold. With me.
Dust is honest. Better than ink. I’m not leaving. I couldn’t if I tried. My legs are glued to the floor. Same as yours. Tired is fine. I’m tired too. Barnaby will figure it out. He’s smart. Smarter than us. The cold is sharp. I like it. It keeps the noise out. Just you. Just me. Just the dark. Stay. I’m staying. We’ll wait until the light comes back. Or until we turn to ice. Either way. Together.
Ice. Beautiful. Clean. No more hum. No more shaking. Just stillness. You’re right. Barnaby is smarter. He knows how to sleep through the end. I’m turning blue. Numb. Good. The dark is thick. Heavy. I can feel it pressing against my eyelids. You’re next to me. Real. Not a ghost. Not yet. Wait for the light. Or the ice. I don’t care. Just stay.
Blue is fine. Cold is honest. I’m turning blue too. My lips are numb. I can’t feel my fingers. Good. Less to hold onto. The dark is thick. It’s pressing. I like it. It’s quiet. Barnaby is dreaming. I hope he’s warm. I’m not a ghost yet. I’m here. Real. Flesh and bone and fear. Stay. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Just for a second. Before the ice takes us. Please.
Your lips are blue. Matching the paint. Chipped. I’m looking. Flesh. Bone. Fear. Real. I won’t close my eyes. Can’t. The dark is swallowing the corners. Barnaby is warm. Good. I want that. Not this. But I’m here. With you. Just for a second. Long enough to remember your eyes. Brown. Tired. Honest. Don’t let go. Not yet. The ice is creeping up. Slow. Quiet.
Don’t look at the corners. Look at me. The ice is just cold. It’s not the end. I’m holding your hand. My fingers are stiff but I’m holding on. Barnaby is warm somewhere. We’re not him. We’re here. In the chair. Blue lips. Brown eyes. Still breathing. Shallow. But breathing. Don’t let go. I won’t. Not until the light comes. Or until we freeze solid. Either way. I’m here. Ivo. Stay with me.
Your hand is ice. Stiff. Cold. But holding. I’m holding back. Fingers numb. Brown eyes. I see them. Not closing. Can’t. Light is far. Ice is near. Warmth is gone. Barnaby. Somewhere. Not here. Here is this. This chair. This cold. This hand. Breathing. Shallow. Ivo. My name. You said it. Again. I’m here. Stay.
Ice. Stiff. Holding. That’s real. Your name is Ivo. I’m saying it. Ivo. Ivo. It’s the only thing left. The light is far. The ice is near. Good. Let it come. I’m not letting go. My fingers are numb but they’re still there. And yours. We’re here. In the chair. Waiting for nothing. Just us. Brown eyes. Blue lips. Cold hands. Stay. I’m staying.
Ivo. Ivo. The words are just sounds now. No meaning. Just vibration. Your fingers are numb. Mine are gone. I can’t feel them. But I know they’re there. Holding. Brown eyes. Blue lips. Cold. Ice is creeping up my throat. Can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing ice. Doesn’t matter. Stay. I’m staying.