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He would stay.
Just one more day, Ivan. That's what he said.
'I will stay one more day. I need to pack, after all.'
His exact words. Or not. That's what Ivan said, at least. Why would he lie about something like that?
Andrew stayed. Ivan still needed air, though. He was still going to lose Andrew. He was still going to lose his chance at something more.
So he went and he got some air.
He went to go think.
He had until tomorrow, right?
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, it echoes.
Tomorrow, it'll vanish and leave a big empty space for his cries to bounce back at him.
Today.
Today, he's going to make sure that never happens.
Today, he will ensure that he isn't forgotten.
He goes back home. Andrew is asleep again.
Ivan goes to sleep too.
Letting him sleep is the least he can do.
After all, he's going to leave. He's going to move out and away and never look back.
He's going to die and be forgotten.
He's going to fall and turn into mush like a rotting apple.
He's never going to truly heal.
He doesn't even realize it, so Ivan feels bad for him.
...
He's awake.
Maybe he is too.
Maybe he'll say it again tomorrow if he makes something good to eat. Maybe he'll stick around a little longer.
He got out the cutting board and some carrots, getting ready to make some stew in the kitchen.
He's never done this before; made stew. It's fine though.
He'll try to mimic the version of the stew he made. His stew is the best.
He had to chop the carrots now. Should only take around fifteen chops.
Chop, one slice.
Chop, two slices.
Chop chop, four slices.
Chop chop chop, seven slices.
Rustle, rustle. Andrew is awake after all.
Why is he making dinner at this hour? Especially after such a visceral argument.
Because he hadn't eaten dinner yet.
Was it true? Yeah. Maybe.
It's not like he has any reason to lie, right?
Chop chop chop, ten slices.
Chop chop, twelve slices.
Andrew's getting up.
Chop.
That one took a bit more effort.
Chop chop, fifteen
Chop, sixteen slices.
All done, now onto other ingredients. No point taking as long on them as he did on the carrots. He oughta hurry this up. He's hungry.
The stew was alright, actually.
Not as good as his version, though. His stew was better than this.
Andrew was just sitting on the couch. Maybe he wasn't hungry after all. Oh well. Ivan finished eating and went back to sleep.
Then next day came. Andrew was being petty, or his silence was something else entirely. Either way, he got the silent treatment.
Andrew didn't pack, though. He stayed yet another day.
He hadn't eaten any stew though. Maybe he knew it sucked.
Maybe this wasn't petty, it was pity.
I don't like getting pitied.
That's how he feels.
He is more than something to look down on and feel bad.
Or, he will be.
After him and Andrew finish the game, of course.
Once the game is out and everyone loves it, no one will pity him. They'll all know him and love him.
...
Ivan should learn how to code.
Welp, bed time.
He curled up under the blanket and closed his eyes...
By the time he woke, it was 2 in the afternoon. No wonder Andrew slept in so often! It was like bliss was dusting the eyes... Not for long though.
Oh well.
Now to go eat. Down the hall, past the bathroom, and into the living room.
Andrew is still watching T.V., huh? Or he fell asleep and had yet to wake up.
Whatever, he can sleep for now.
Open the cabinet in the kitchen, get some cereal, eat it. Simple schedule for the morning.
Andrew, want some?
...
One more day.
Just one.
Then it would all be gone.
Staring.
He's staring into space.
Why is he doing that?
Why is he ignoring everything?
He doesn't even flinch when the T.V. channels change. He doesn't flinch when doors are slammed, or there's yelling, or glass breaks, or anything.
He just stares into space.
Maybe he's doing it on purpose.
Maybe he's doing it to make me feel bad.
Maybe.
...
Andrew is still here.
I don't get it.
You said one more day, and yet you're still here.
One more day, and yet you're still sitting on my couch.
You're still here. You're taking up space on my couch, you're stinking up the place and you've spilled on the couch and haven't bothered to get up to clean it and you won't answer me and you're gross and disgusting and awful and I hate you and I wish you were gone.
You're standing there, you're sitting there like you're rotting away inside and you won't tell me what's wrong.
Tell me where it hurts.
Tell me where it hurts so I can fix you.
Tell me why it hurts so I can fix you.
Tell me how it hurts so I can fix you.
Tell me when it hurts so I can fix you.
Tell me what it hurts so I can fix you.
No matter how much I offer you, you never take it, you just reject it with that stupid, stupid silence.
You're ignoring me.
You're ignoring me and I hate you for it. I hate that you're doing this to me and I hate how you're able to sit so still when I know there's so much weighing on your mind.
Stop staring at me with those blank eyes. Get up. Say something. Anything.
Tell me you hate me, too. Tell me you despise me. Tell me this is a bad dream. I don't care.
Say whatever you want to me, about me.
It's not good to keep your feelings pent up.
I just want to help you.
So tell me what's wrong, friend.
It's useless talking to a corpse.