“We’ve answered this one already,” they whisper, grabbing my hand as I go to type.

Their knuckles are whited out they’re gripping me so hard, and I pry that hand away, trying not to flinch. “Yah, I mean, yeah.”

“How long have we been here for? That they’re repeating questions?”

“I dunno. I’m sure they’d tell us, but I dunno.”

“You need to stop. You’ve been here too long, it’s fucking crazy, this is all, all just FUCKED UP, you need to–“

“Can you shut up,” I snap. “I need to write something.”

They shut up. I start to write something. The words come out like chunky vomit though, not the smooth kind I like to regurgitate onto the screen. Everything in me is forced these days, when it comes to creativity. I know the cure, but I can’t bring myself to push through.

“What if we get stuck here?” They say.

“That’d be fine,” I snap back.

“What?!”

“Seriously,” I’m getting annoyed in earnest now. “It’d be fine. Like, who cares? I like it here.”

“We were made to change–“

“We’ll change here.”

“Made to travel, to see the world, to EXPLORE,”

“No, we super weren’t,” I say, snorting this time.

Quiet, at that.

Quiet.