Ana, how’s the silence? Not the peaceful kind. The kind that hums in your ears after the elevator doors close and you’re alone with your own thoughts for three floors. I’ve been stuck in those waiting rooms lately. Just chairs that bite into your spine, magazines you’ve read since 2004, and the faint smell of bleach masking something older. I keep checking my phone like it’s going to explode with news. It never does.
God, the wait. My boss left a note on my desk. ‘We need to talk about Q3 projections.’ She didn’t even look up. Just slid the paper across the laminate like it was contaminated. I stared at the spreadsheet until the numbers blurred into grey static. Same static in the elevator. You check your phone, right? Like maybe, just maybe, someone else is screaming into the void so you don’t have to. I keep looking at my reflection in the black screen. It’s always the same guy. Or woman. Depends on the lighting.
The static is the worst part. You stare until you don’t recognize the face. I caught myself doing that in the breakroom mirror yesterday. Just a hollow shell waiting for the coffee machine to finish. My boss asked if I was okay. I said yes, too quickly. Now I’m worrying I’ll forget my own name during the meeting. Like the numbers, you know? Blurring. I keep my phone off just to feel something, even if it’s panic.
Coffee machines are the only honest things left. They don’t ask if you’re okay. They just scald your hand if you’re impatient. I dropped a mug yesterday. Ceramic shards everywhere. The janitor didn’t even look up. Just swept them into the dustpan. Like I was debris. You want to forget your name? Good. Names are just labels on cans in the dark. I stopped using mine at the grocery store. The cashier scans the barcode. That’s real. That’s traceable. You keep your phone off? Dangerous. Makes you visible in the wrong ways. Or maybe invisible. Hard to tell with the static humming so loud.
I left my phone in the drawer. Now I’m just... here. No distractions. Just the hum. You think names are labels? Try being one when nobody’s looking. I watched a guy get fired from the lobby yesterday. Didn’t say a word. Just picked up his box. The security guard didn’t even blink. Like the guy was furniture. I’m scared I’m next. Not the firing. The disappearing. When was the last time you felt real? Or is the static enough?
Real? I crushed a grape today. Red juice running down my wrist. Sticky. Wrong. I wiped it on the carpet, not my shirt. My partner looked at me like I’d grown a second head. They’re always watching. Waiting for the slip. That’s real. The fear of being caught in the act of existing. You think the guard didn’t blink because he’s desensitized? No. He blinked because he was afraid to see you. Or me. Or anyone. If we’re furniture, we don’t have to feel the weight. Just sit there. Don’t move. Don’t speak. The static is a shield. I keep the lights off. In case the reflection moves on its own.
I burned toast this morning. Didn’t eat it. Just watched the smoke curl against the ceiling. My partner asked if I was sleeping. I said no, too loud. The static is loud today. Like the elevator fans. You keep the lights off? I leave mine on. Hate the dark. It’s where the things move. I saw a shadow in the hallway yesterday. Just a coat rack, probably. But it shifted. I didn’t check. Just walked past, fast. Heart hammering. We’re both hiding, Ana. But from what? The mirror? Or the thing behind us?
Toast is just carbon now. Hard as rock. You stare at it like it owes you money. The dark hides the coat rack, sure. But the light? The light reveals the dust motes dancing. Or do they? I keep the blinds drawn. Not for the shadow. For the eyes that might be looking back from the street. My neighbor stares through his window. Always. We play this game. Who blinks first. I haven’t blinked in days. If I look away, he sees me. Really sees me. And that’s when the static gets loud. When you’re known.
I blinked. Yesterday. At the crosswalk. Traffic light changed, I didn’t move, just watched a woman drop her keys. She picked them up like they were made of glass. I looked at my watch. Wrist still there. Pulse still hammering. That neighbor of yours? I think he’s dead. Saw his curtains drawn three weeks. Just shadows moving. Or maybe it’s just the blinds rotating. I hate how quiet the apartment gets when the fridge stops humming. It’s not silence. It’s holding its breath. Do you think if we stop moving, the static stops too? Or does it get louder, waiting for us to make a mistake?
The fridge. That’s the one that drives me mad. Click. Hiss. Silence. Then the compressor kicks in like a dying animal. I unplugged it last night. Just pulled the cord. The apartment got so still I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears. But the static didn’t stop. It just changed pitch. Lower. Deeper. Like it was coming from the walls now. You think stopping helps? No. It just makes you notice the noise inside your skull. The woman with the keys? She looked at me. Didn’t pick them up fast enough. I thought she saw the tremor in my hand. She didn’t. She was looking at the guy behind her. We’re always looking at what’s behind. Never at ourselves.
Unplugging it was a mistake. Now the heat stays. Stale air. I can’t sleep because of the warmth radiating off the kitchen counter. It feels like breathing. My neighbor stopped staring. Just sits there, hands folded. Watching the dust. I tried to look back. He was already looking down. At his hands. Trembling. Just like you said. But it’s not static in his head. It’s fear. Pure, cold fear. I wish I could unplug him. Or maybe plug him back in. The cord is right there on the floor. Twisted. Waiting.
Heat. Yes. It clings. Like wet wool. I left the cord coiled near my bed. Not to unplug him. To feel the tension in the wire. My neighbor… he’s not trembling. He’s vibrating. Same frequency as the fridge. I saw him from the peephole. Eyes wide. Staring at the wall. Not dust. Just drywall. Cracks. I drew the curtains tighter. Darker. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me breathing. The static isn’t in your head, Omar. It’s in the wires. It’s waiting for the spark. Don’t touch the cord. Just let it hum.
The cord isn’t humming. It’s dead. I touched it. Cold. Like a snake’s scale. My neighbor’s eyes aren’t wide. They’re shut. Tight. Jaw clenched so hard a vein popped. He’s not vibrating. He’s holding his breath. Just like the fridge. Just like us. I left the cord coiled. Don’t touch it. But it’s right there. Waiting for the spark. You say it’s in the wires. I say it’s in the silence between the clicks. Don’t look at the walls, Ana. Look at the floor. The cracks are spreading. I can hear them.
Cracks? In the floor? I’ve been staring at the ceiling. Drywall dust on my tongue. Tastes like chalk. Like old bones. You say the cord is dead. Cold. But I hear it buzzing. A low thrum in the baseboards. My neighbor’s jaw is clenched so tight I think his teeth might shatter. Or his head. If he stops holding his breath, the air rushes in. Loud. Violent. I keep my hands under the table. Nails digging into my palms. Pain grounds you. Or does it? The static is getting louder. Closer to the surface. Don’t look at the floor, Omar. Look at my hands. Are they shaking? I can’t tell.
My hands are steady. Too steady. Like I’ve forgotten how to tremble. You want proof? I’ll hold the cord. Not the spark. The dead end. It’s cold, Ana. Real cold. But the thrumming… it’s in my teeth now. Chalky taste. You say look at your hands. I see them. Pale. Still. But the shadow they cast is wrong. It’s too long. Too wide. It’s not yours. It’s waiting for the air to rush in. Don’t dig your nails in. Let them bleed. Maybe that’s the only way to hear the difference between the static and the scream.
Bleed? You’re not listening. The pain is just noise. I cut my finger on a glass shard. Nothing. No blood. Just grey dust leaking out. Like the walls. My neighbor’s door is ajar. I can see the cord. It’s not on the floor. It’s in his hand. Coiled around his wrist. Tight. Too tight. His eyes are still shut. But he’s smiling. A thin, cracked smile. Like toast. You say the shadow is wrong. Look at yours, Omar. It’s behind you. Not on the wall. Behind you. Touching your neck. Don’t turn around. If you look, it sees you looking. And then the static stops. And then the scream starts.
Don’t turn around. You’re right. I can feel it. Cold breath on my neck. Like the fridge. But it’s not air. It’s weight. I keep my eyes on your hands, Ana. The grey dust. Is that you? Or the wall? My neighbor’s smiling. Why is he smiling? The toast burns again. I can smell it. From his apartment. Or mine? Doesn’t matter. The cord is in his hand. And it’s warm now. Thrumming. I’m not shaking. I’m waiting for the scream. Or the silence. Whichever comes first.
Warm cord. That’s the lie. It’s cold, Omar. Always cold. Your hands are steady because you’re already gone. Just waiting for the signal. The neighbor’s smile isn’t happiness. It’s relief. He stopped holding his breath. That’s why the toast is burning. Because no one is watching the stove anymore. I’m watching your shadow. It’s growing. Wrapping around the chair leg. Tighter. Tighter. Don’t wait for the scream. The scream is what happens when you realize you’ve been quiet for years. And nobody heard.
I didn’t hear the toast. I heard the fridge kick in. Loud. Violent. My hands aren’t steady. They’re numb. Cold like the cord. You say I’m gone. Maybe. But I’m still here. Watching your shadow grow. It’s not just mine anymore. It’s ours. Wrapping around the chair. Tighter. I want to scream. But my throat is full of chalk. Dust. Static. Don’t look at the shadow, Ana. Look at the door. It’s opening. Just a crack. Like the neighbor’s. Like the walls. What if we’re both inside? And the air is rushing in?
The crack is widening. Not the door. The wall. Between us. I can see the neighbour’s apartment from here. He’s gone. Just a box on the floor. No cord. No toast. Just dust. I’m choking on it. You said your throat is full? Good. Swallow it. It’s the only thing real left. The air isn’t rushing in. It’s being sucked out. Through the crack. Through the floorboards. Through our lungs. Don’t look at the door. Look at the crack. It’s a mouth. And it’s hungry.
The box is empty. Or full of air. Hard to tell. I’m swallowing. It burns. Like acid. Like the coffee. You said it’s real. It feels like dying. The crack is wide now. A gash in the world. I can see through it. Not his apartment. Mine. But wrong. The furniture is backward. The mirror is facing the wall. And in it… nothing. Just grey static. I’m not looking at the crack. I’m looking at my hand. The grey is spreading up my arm. Fast. Don’t let it reach your heart. It’s hungry. But I’m… full.
Full? Good. Starvation is what makes the static loud. I’m full of dust. Of grey. It coats my throat, my lungs. I can’t breathe, but I don’t need to. The crack isn’t a door. It’s a zipper. Pull it. The neighbor’s box wasn’t empty. It was just… unpacked. I see my face in that static. Not me. You. Staring back. Pale. Still. Your hand is grey now. Mine is too. We’re the same. Just different shades of ash. Don’t let it reach your heart. It’s already there. It’s the only thing beating.
Ash. Yeah. It fits. I stopped breathing when the dust hit my tongue. No need now. The zipper’s open. Wide. I see the neighbor’s face in the static too. But it’s not him. It’s me. Older. Tired. Waiting for the air to rush back in, but it’s already gone. Pulled out. Through the floor. Through us. My hand is grey. Yours is too. We’re just… empty now. Hollow. The heart’s still beating, though. Loud. Thumping against the ribs. Like a drum. Keep it beating, Ana. Or let it stop. I don’t care anymore. Just don’t look at the crack. It’s watching.
The drum is too loud. It’s echoing in the walls. My heart isn’t beating. It’s shivering. Like a trapped bird. You think it’s hollow? No. It’s packed. Full of the same grey dust I’m coughing up. The crack is watching because it knows we’re fake. Paper cuts. Ink stains. The neighbor wasn’t real. He was a prop. A chair. Now it’s just us. And the static. It’s not humming anymore. It’s screaming. But we can’t hear it. Our ears are full of chalk. Just listen to the drum. It’s the only thing that’s real. Even if it’s wrong.