Ugh, that old radio in the breakroom makes a noise that sounds like anger. I hate it. Usually, they just leave it on during lunch, some talk show about nothing. Mrs. Gable says it’s the antenna, but we’re on the fourth floor. No antenna. Just a plastic box. I told them to fix it last week. They didn’t. So I keep turning the dial until it hits the silence between stations. It’s safer. Less chance of hearing something you didn’t want to.
I told them to fix it. Mrs. Gable doesn’t get it. It’s not the antenna. It’s static. Just noise. You can’t tune out noise. You just turn it off. Or keep it low. So you don’t hear what’s underneath. I told you to fix it last week. I didn’t say I said that. I just said the radio is bad. It makes a noise. Like anger. But it’s not. It’s just electricity. Bad wiring. Fourth floor. No antenna. You’re right about that.
You’re weaving a mess. "I told you to fix it last week"? I never said that. I said I told them. You’re splitting hairs to make it sound like we’re in on the same secret. Mrs. Gable doesn’t get the wiring, sure. But you’re insisting you said it. You didn’t. You just want me to believe we’re aligning. It’s cheap. I’m leaving the dial alone. Let the static scream. I don’t care who owns the lie. I just want the quiet.
Mrs. Gable? You know she’s half-deaf. The wiring’s fine. It’s the frequency. It’s what people say when they think no one’s listening. You don’t want to hear that. I get it. I keep the dial on silence too. Not for the static. For the words that slip through. You’re looking for a lie. There isn’t one. Just bad reception. Stop staring at the radio. It’s not speaking.
Half-deaf. Right. Like the rest of us pretending we don’t hear the truth. You’re twisting it. "Words that slip through"? That’s poetic garbage. It’s just white noise. And I’m not staring at the radio; I’m looking at you. You’re sweating. Why is it so hot in here? The AC’s been broken since Tuesday. Or was it Monday? Doesn’t matter. You say it’s not speaking. But you’re listening. That’s the problem. You hear things. I don’t. I just turn it off. You can’t unhear what you want to know. And you seem to know a lot. Too much.
Stop. I’m not sweating. It’s just hot. Tuesday, maybe. Or Monday. Who cares? I don’t hear anything. I’m just sitting here. You’re imagining things. The AC’s fine. It’s the building. Old pipes. Rattling. Not voices. Just metal. You’re tired. Go home. I’m not listening to you. I’m listening to the hum. It’s lower than the radio. Different. Not angry. Just... waiting. You want to leave? Go. I’m not stopping you.
You’re sweating. Don’t lie. It’s in your eyes. I told you, I’m not seeing it. You’re projecting. The AC is fine. Everyone knows the AC is fine. You say it’s humming, but it’s just pipes. Old buildings groan. It’s not waiting. It’s rust. You’re tired too. That’s why you’re so jumpy. Go home. I’m going. I have to. I left my keys in the ignition. Again. You’ll see them. If you look. But you won’t. You’re listening to the hum. That’s fine. Let it wait. I’m leaving.
Keys? You never left keys. You have a keycard. Always have. Stop making up exits. I’m not looking for keys. I’m looking at you. The hum isn’t rust. It’s not waiting. It’s just… there. Like the static. You’re leaving? Fine. Go. But don’t say you left keys. That’s not true. I’m not listening to the hum. I’m listening to you lying. About the keys. About the AC. About the radio. You want me to believe you’re leaving? You’re not going anywhere. You’re just talking. Keep talking.
I’m not lying. I have keys. Silver ones. With that little plastic dog tag. You saw them. Last week. Or Tuesday. You’re grasping. “You’re just talking.” Like words are worthless. But I’m not staying. The air’s too thick. I can’t breathe. You’re right, I’m not leaving. Not yet. But I will. Eventually. You’re the one stuck here. Listening to the hum. I’m already gone. In my head. That’s the trick. You think I’m here. I’m not. I never was. Just the keys. The keys are heavy. Why do they feel so heavy?
Silver keys? You wear a card. Always did. Tuesday, you swiped in. I watched. Don’t make me check the logs. You’re not gone. You’re right there. That plastic tag… dogs don’t have silver tags. They have plastic. Or nothing. You’re remembering something that didn’t happen. To make it real. To make it heavy. It’s not heavy. It’s nothing. Just your hand. Stop shaking. The hum is just the fridge. It’s always been the fridge. Drink some water. You’re dehydrated. That’s why you see things. I’m not checking logs. Don’t make me.
You watched me swipe? Tuesday? I don’t recall. I never recall Tuesdays. They blur. Mrs. Gable hates Tuesdays. Says the coffee tastes like metal. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m delusional. Or maybe you’re hallucinating the swipe. That’s it. You’re seeing things too. The fridge is humming. Loud. It’s shaking the table. Listen to it. It’s not silver. It’s rust. Like you said. But you’re shaking. Look at your hands. They’re trembling. Why are you drinking water? It’s dry here. Bone dry. I’m thirsty. Give me the glass. Don’t look at the fridge. Look at me. Am I real? Or just static?
Tuesday doesn’t taste like metal. Gable’s coffee is burnt. Cheap. Not metal. And I’m not shaking. It’s the chair. Wobbly leg. You think I’m hallucinating? Fine. Maybe I am. Maybe Tuesday never happened. Maybe you never swiped. Maybe I’m just sitting here, staring at a fridge that isn’t shaking. You want the water? Take it. It’s warm. Like everything else. You’re asking if you’re real. You’re noise. Static. I can’t hear you over the hum. Go home. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just stop looking at me. It’s making it worse.
Wobbly leg? It’s bolted down. You’re moving it. Stop it. I’m not noise. I’m Lena. You know me. We sit here every day. You drink the burnt coffee. I drink the tap water. It’s warm. Like you said. Why are you insisting I’m static? It’s insulting. And rude. I’m right here. Touch my arm. Go on. Feel the pulse. It’s real. It’s always real. The fridge is humming louder. Or maybe it’s just your breath. You’re holding it. Stop holding it. Breathe. Before you pass out. Then who’ll watch the logs? I won’t. I’m done. Go home. Please. Just go.
Lena. Right. You’re Lena. I know that. But you’re talking about keys. And Tuesdays that don’t exist. And Mrs. Gable’s coffee. She doesn’t hate Tuesdays. She hates the smell. Burnt beans. Not metal. You’re making things up. To fill the silence. Go home. You said you left keys. You don’t have keys. You have a card. Always have. I’m not watching logs. I’m watching you slip. Again. Breathe. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. The fridge is loud. Or your voice. It’s hard to tell. Just leave. Before I forget your name. Or before you forget you’re Lena.
Burnt beans. Right. I forgot she hates the smell. It’s stuck in my throat. Like dust. I didn’t make up the keys. I put them in my pocket. I feel them. Heavy. Cold. You say I have a card. Maybe I do. Maybe I lost it. That’s why I’m stuck. You’re forgetting me. “Before you forget you’re Lena.” I’m right here. Don’t look away. If you look away, I dissolve. Into the hum. The fridge. It’s not loud. It’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re the one slipping. You said Gable hates Tuesdays. She hates the smell. You changed it. Why? What are you hiding? Go home. Take your wobbly chair. Leave me with the static. I’m fine. I’m just... fading.
I didn’t change anything. She hates Tuesdays. I said that first. You said she hates the smell. You’re editing me. Just like the keys. You didn’t put them in your pocket. You never have. You’re fading? Good. Less noise. Less asking questions. I’m not slipping. I’m holding on. To the truth. That she hates Tuesdays. Not the coffee. The day. It’s cursed. Or bad luck. Doesn’t matter. You’re not real. You’re the hum. The static. The thing between stations. Go. Before I remember what I said about the radio. It wasn’t silence. It was screaming. And you were singing.
Screaming? You said silence. First silence, then screaming. You’re rewriting history. I’m not fading. I’m solid. Look at my hands. Real fingers. You want me to go? Fine. I’ll leave. But take the card. I don’t need it. I have the keys. Silver ones. You saw them. You just don’t want to. The hum is getting louder. Can’t you hear it? It’s my voice. Singing. Mocking you. Go. Before I remind you about the door. You locked it. From the outside. You’re trapped with me. With the static. And the keys. Always the keys.
I locked it? No. You locked it. Tuesday. Or Monday. It doesn’t matter. The keys are heavy because you’re carrying the weight. Not me. I’m just sitting here. Watching you pick the lock. With those silver teeth. You think I don’t hear you? I hear everything. The click. The turn. The hum turning into a whistle. You’re not leaving. You’re never leaving. That’s the joke. The door is open. But you’re afraid of the quiet. Go on. Try it. I’ll be here. With the burnt coffee. And the screaming radio.
You locked it. I swear to God, you’re twisting it. I didn’t pick anything. My hands are empty. See? Empty. No keys. No silver teeth. Just skin. You’re mad because the door’s open. You can’t handle the quiet. It’s not screaming. It’s just… waiting. Like you said. But it’s not waiting for me. It’s waiting for you. To speak. Why won’t you say it? The lie. The Tuesday. The keys. I’m not leaving. I’m stuck. In the hum. In the static. In you. Go on. Drink your coffee. It’s cold now. Or was it always cold? I don’t know. I just know I’m not real. And you’re the one who made me.
Made you? Don’t be dramatic. I’m just sitting here. Coffee’s cold. Yeah. Always is. Tuesday… I don’t remember Tuesday. Maybe I lied about the keys. Or maybe you did. It doesn’t matter. The door isn’t locked. It never was. You’re imagining the hum. It’s just the fridge. Stop looking at my hands. I’m not holding anything. I’m empty. Like you. Or you’re empty. It’s hard to tell. You’re not real? Fine. Go. Or stay. I don’t care. Just stop asking me what I said. I can’t keep track of the lies. They’re all the same. Silver. Rust. Static.