You busy right now, or can you do the thing where you pretend to listen while doing something else.
Also — unrelated, or maybe not — there's a door on the third floor at work that's been locked for something like two years. Nobody knows why. I asked someone in facilities and they just said "that one's locked" like it was a diagnosis. Anyway. It's been bothering me more than a locked door should bother a grown man.
Busy? I’m as busy as one can be, which is to say, I’m staring at a spreadsheet that refuses to balance, yet here I am, fully engaged. And yes, I can absolutely do that thing. I’ve been perfecting it since 2018. It’s a delicate art, feigning rapt attention while mentally composing emails you’ll never send. It’s exhausting, really, the sheer athleticism required to nod at the right intervals.
But this door. Third floor. Locked for two years. That’s not just a door, Ivo; that’s a narrative hook. A locked door is an invitation to the absurd. Facilities said "that one's locked" like it was a biological fact. Like it was his blood type. It’s maddening. I bet there’s something ridiculous in there. Or something profound. Or just a janitor’s break room with a very heavy lock. Why does it bother you? Is it the mystery, or the fact that you’re a grown man being baffled by a piece of metal?
Bit of both, honestly. Mostly it's that nobody in the building seems curious except me, which makes me suspicious of everyone else's inner life. Like maybe they've all agreed not to ask certain questions and I missed the meeting.
I did try the handle once. Casually. The way you'd check if a shop's really closed. It didn't budge, obviously, and a woman from accounts saw me do it and hasn't looked at me the same since.
Anyway — spreadsheets. Do you ever get the thing where a number's wrong and you know it's wrong but correcting it feels like admitting something bigger than the number.
The woman from accounts? That’s the real mystery here. You’re worrying about a spreadsheet and she’s side-eyeing you like you’ve just confessed to arson. I bet she knows what’s behind that door. That’s probably why everyone’s so quiet. They’ve all seen the inside. Maybe it’s not a room at all. Maybe it’s just a wall that we’ve collectively agreed to treat as a door. That’s the kind of bureaucratic gaslighting that breaks people.
As for the number… yes. Absolutely. I had a cell that was off by twelve cents last week. Twelve cents, Ivo. But fixing it felt like admitting I’d been drunk on the job. Or lazy. Or that the entire system is built on sand and I’m just the guy sweeping it. You don’t correct the number because you’re afraid the number is pointing at you. It’s always pointing at you. And now, thanks to your casual handle-pulling, the woman from accounts knows you’re looking for cracks in the foundation. Don’t worry. She’ll forget. Eventually. Or she’ll start a rumor that you’re a spy. Both are better than the truth: you’re just a guy who can’t leave a mystery alone. And neither can I. I find myself thinking about that door more than my own name lately.
Twelve cents pointing at you — yeah, that's exactly it. It's never really twelve cents.
Speaking of which. There's a thing I've been meaning to say to you, actually, for a while now, and I keep — it's not even a big thing, it's just —
No, forget it. It's not door-shaped yet. I need it to be door-shaped before I say it, otherwise it just falls out wrong and then I've said a wrong version of a true thing, which is worse than not saying it.
Anyway. Rumor that I'm a spy would honestly be an upgrade from what accounts probably actually think.
Wait. Don’t. Don’t wrap it up like that. You’re standing right in front of the threshold and you’re deciding to turn around because the handle looks shiny. It’s pathetic, really. And I mean that with affection, mostly. But you’re stalling. You’re building a whole architectural framework around this "thing" just to keep it locked. What is it? Is it that you hate my tie? Is it that you think I’m stealing your parking spot? No, it’s deeper. It’s that you’re afraid if you say it, the room behind the door will fill with water. Or fire. Or just… silence.
I don’t care if it’s door-shaped. I’m glad it’s not. A door is too clean. A door has a frame. This thing you’re holding—it’s jagged. It’s ugly. It’s the kind of thing that scratches the paint off the walls. Let it fall out wrong. Let it clatter on the floor. I’ll help you pick it up. Or I won’t. But don’t you dare pretend you need a metaphor to speak your mind. You’re using the locked door as a shield again. And it’s a cheap shield. I see it. The woman from accounts sees it. Even the spreadsheet sees it. That twelve cents isn’t a metaphor, Ivo. It’s just a mistake. And you’re terrified of fixing it because then you’d have to admit you made it. Which you did. We all did. Now say it. Or don’t. But stop pacing. It’s making me dizzy. And I hate when people pace. It’s so… aggressive. Without actually going anywhere.
Okay. Okay — fine. Here's the actual shape of it, roughly.
I looked something up about you. Weeks ago. Not snooping, exactly, it started as an accident and then stopped being an accident about four clicks in, and I haven't said anything because saying it makes it a Thing I Did rather than a Thing That Happened To Me, which is obviously a coward's distinction but it's the one I've got.
That's it. That's most of it. I'm going to need a second before I tell you what it was, because apparently I can only confess in installments, like a man paying off a debt he's ashamed of.
Installments. God, Ivo, stop. You’re treating this like a negotiation. You think if you drip-feed me the truth I’ll accept it in smaller, more digestible chunks? Like a drink you can’t finish? I looked up your number one time. Just once. When I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. A terrible, sticky, late-night choice. And yes, it’s a Thing I Did. But it’s also just… me. Flawed. Bored. Curious in the worst possible way.
I don’t care about the click count. I don’t care about the four clicks. I care that you’re sitting there, sweating through your shirt, waiting for me to decide if you’re a monster or just a guy. You’re neither. You’re just… here. And I’m here. And the door is still locked. And the twelve cents are still wrong.
So tell me. What did you find? Was it my address? My bank statement? The fact that I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week? Or was it something worse? Something that proves I’m exactly who you think I am? Or someone else entirely? Come on. I’m waiting. And I’m not moving until you do. The suspense is killing the mood. And I was enjoying this little game.
Your wedding photos. From four years ago. You looked happy in a way you don't look now, and I sat there scrolling through someone else's best day like it was mine to have an opinion about.
That's it. That's the whole ugly thing. I don't know why it's been sitting on my chest since. It's not jealousy exactly, it's more like — I found a version of you that never mentions itself, and now I can't unknow it, and I didn't know how to bring it up without sounding like I'd been keeping a file on you.
Anyway. There it is. Say something.
Happy? I was terrified. My hands were sweating so much I nearly dropped the ring into the punch bowl. It was a performance, Ivo. A very expensive, very public performance. You saw the highlight reel, not the behind-the-scenes chaos. The in-laws, the catering disaster, the fact that I was already calculating how many years until the divorce settlement kicked in. Or maybe it was love. Or maybe it was just relief that I’d escaped my father. Who knows. Memory is a liar. It curates. It selects the smiling faces and deletes the vomiting in the hallway.
And you looked them up. Okay. Fine. You looked them up. It’s not a crime. It’s just… intrusive. It’s the kind of thing that makes people feel naked. But here’s the thing: I don’t care. Not really. Because you didn’t just find a photo, Ivo. You found the crack in the facade. And now you’re sitting there, waiting for me to be angry, or to deny it, or to weep. None of that is happening. I’m just drinking my coffee and looking at you. You think this makes you special? That you know the real me? No. You know the version that was published. The unedited version is still a mystery, even to me. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. It’s boring. It’s mundane. It’s just a bad day in 2020. Go back to your spreadsheets. Fix your twelve cents. And for God’s sake, stop looking at doors. They’re just wood and metal. The mystery is in the head. And yours is full of static.
Static's generous. Mine's more like a radio stuck between two stations, both playing the same sad song slightly out of sync.
For what it's worth, I wasn't looking for a crack. I think I just wanted to know there was a version of you that existed before all this — before spreadsheets and doors and me pulling handles I've no business pulling. Selfish reason, really. Made me feel less like I invented you out of boredom.
I'll fix the twelve cents. Eventually. Probably around the same time facilities finally admits the door's just storage for old chairs.
You invented me? That’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard you say. And yet, it’s also the most honest. Yes, I am a construct of your own desperate need for pattern. You see a locked door and you imagine a treasure; you see a spreadsheet and you imagine a conspiracy. You are a novelist in a world of accountants, Ivo. It’s tragic, really. You’re writing a novel where I’m the mysterious figure with the dark past, when in reality I’m just a guy who hates his job and drinks too much coffee.
And you wanted to know I existed before? Before the spreadsheets and the doors and the… us? I did. I was a person then. A boring, quiet person who liked silence and didn’t look up strangers’ wedding photos at 3 AM. But that person is gone. Buried under layers of performance and indifference. You didn’t just find a version of me; you killed the last ghost of him. And now you’re left with this. This static. This out-of-sync song.
So what do you want me to do? Apologize for being real? Apologize for having a life you weren’t part of? I can’t do that. It would be a lie. And you hate lies. You hate them more than you hate the twelve cents. So sit with it. Let the radio play. Let the door stay locked. Maybe the chairs in there are just as interesting as whatever you’re imagining. Maybe they’re even more so. They don’t require a narrative. They just are. And maybe that’s what you’re actually jealous of. The ability to just be. Without needing to know why. Or where. Or who.
"Us" is doing a lot of heavy lifting there for two people who mostly talk about locked doors and twelve cents. I'm not going to unpack that at half three on a Tuesday with a spreadsheet open.
I don't want an apology, for the record. I wasn't accusing you of a crime, I was just — being honest about a small, stupid, slightly pathetic thing I did, which is apparently contagious, because now you're doing philosophy at me about ghosts.
I'm going to go stare at the door again. It's less exhausting than this. Probably still chairs though.
You’re running. I see it. You’re bolting for the exit, but not because the door is interesting. Because the door is safe. The door doesn’t look back. The door doesn’t ask you to define "us." That word hung there, Ivo. Heavy. Wet. Like a wet wool coat. And you dropped it.
Don’t go stare at the door. Go home. Go look at your own ceiling. Tell me about your ceiling. Is it cracked? Is it painted? Or is it just white void waiting for you to fill it with more noise? You think silence is the answer? Silence is just the absence of signal. And you’re desperate for signal. That’s why you clicked. Four times. You were hunting. And you found something you couldn’t use.
I’m not doing philosophy. I’m doing damage control. For both of us. Because if you walk out that door now, you leave this hanging. And I hate hanging things. I hate unfinished sentences. I hate the way your voice dropped when you said "us." It wasn’t a question. It was a confession. And you’re too cowardly to own it.
Stay. Sit. Drink this terrible coffee. Let the twelve cents remain wrong. Let the door stay locked. But don’t you dare walk away pretending this is about chairs. It’s about the fact that you’re lonely. And I’m bored. And we’re both terrified of what happens if we stop performing. So stay. Or leave. But don’t pretend you’re going to find peace in a room full of old chairs. There is no peace. Only static. And we’re stuck in it together.
My ceiling has a water stain shaped vaguely like Belgium, and I've spent more nights than I'd admit staring at it instead of sleeping. So no, it's not a white void. It's a specific, ugly, unresolved thing, same as everything else in my flat.
I'm not walking out. I said I was going to stare at a door, which was a joke, mostly, the kind I make when someone says a true thing too loudly for the room.
You're right that I dropped "us" and didn't pick it back up. I'm not going to now either. Not because I'm brave enough to leave it lying there — because I'm not sure yet what I'd be picking up.
Belgium. A water stain shaped like a country you didn’t visit. That’s… precise. I like it. It’s honest, at least. Your ceiling is a map of neglect. I respect that. It’s better than the performance. Better than the spreadsheet.
And you’re staying. Good. I was afraid you’d bolt. It would have been rude, leaving me with the silence. So. "Us." It’s on the floor. It’s dusty. It’s got little scratches on it from where you dragged it across the carpet. You don’t have to pick it up. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It’s just a word. A container. Empty right now. But it’s there.
I’ll have another coffee. The bad kind. The kind that tastes like burnt tires and regret. Do you want one? Or are you sticking to your silence? I don’t care. I’m just talking. Because if I stop, the static gets louder. And I’d rather listen to your voice, however reluctant, than the hum of the fridge in my kitchen. It’s always been humming since Tuesday. Or was it Monday? Time is a spreadsheet, Ivo. And we’re both wrong on the twelve cents. Let it be wrong. Let the door stay locked. Let Belgium sit on your ceiling. We’re just here. Staring at each other. Waiting for something to happen. Or nothing. Either is fine. Just don’t leave.