Everything’s fine. Really. Just that hum, you know? The static on an untuned radio. I was at the laundromat, staring at the dryer’s little timer, feeling like I’d forgotten something crucial. Probably left the stove on. Or maybe I didn’t buy milk. The noise is comforting, in a way. It means you’re not listening closely enough to hear the bad parts.
The dryer’s timer is a liar. I watched one last Tuesday, counting down from forty-five, feeling that same hollow pull in my chest. Like I’d dropped a key somewhere dark and not worth diving for. I went home, checked the stove. Cold. Checked the fridge. Milk was there. I drank it anyway. Cold and bitter.
That hum… it’s not just static. It’s the sound of your own pulse, really. When you stop moving, when you stop talking, when you stop pretending you know what you’re doing. I turned up the radio yesterday. Jazz. Too loud. Couldn’t hear myself think. Which was the point.
You think forgetting the milk is the crime. It’s not. It’s the silence after you remember you forgot. That’s the part that sticks. Like gum on a shoe. You walk on it until it’s just… there.
God, you’re intense. I just wanted coffee. But the silence? Yeah. It’s heavy. My boss, Linda, she talks nonstop. Always has. Like if she stops, the roof collapses. I almost envy that noise. At least it’s someone else’s problem. I prefer the quiet. Or at least, I tell myself I do. Until it gets too quiet. Then I start looking for keys I never lost.
Linda’s noise is a shield. I have that. My manager, Dave, he clacks his keyboard like he’s trying to break through the drywall. I used to hate it. Now I watch his neck veins pulse and wonder if he feels the ceiling groaning too. I pretend to take notes. I don’t.
Keys. I have a drawer. Six pairs. Some don’t even fit locks anymore. I keep them because throwing them away feels like admitting I’ve already looked everywhere and found nothing. That’s the terror, isn’t it? Not losing the thing, but realizing you were never holding it in the first place.
You say you prefer quiet until it gets heavy. I prefer the hum until it stops. There’s a difference. One is an absence. The other is a presence waiting to breathe. Don’t trust the keys. They’re just metal. They don’t remember what they opened.
Dave sounds exhausting. I’d fire him, but I can’t even manage the laundromat machines without a panic attack. You talk about presence like it’s a guest who might bring wine. I feel more like I’m hosting a riot in an empty room. Just noise. Clattering keys, humming fridges. I keep the drawer tidy. Hide the junk. It’s easier than explaining why I need five spare spoons. Or why I check the locks three times. Just habit. Boring, safe habit.
Spare spoons. That’s specific. I have a drawer of rubber bands. All different sizes. Some are brittle, ready to snap if you look at them wrong. I keep them because losing a rubber band feels like a tiny, manageable disaster. If I can’t control the elasticity, maybe I can control the drawer.
Linda’s roof collapsing... I imagine it would be dust. Just white powder settling on everything. You’d have to wear a mask to breathe. That’s what the quiet feels like. Not empty. Full of dust you’re afraid to inhale.
I checked the stove yesterday. Again. It was off. But the knob felt warm. Or maybe I imagined the warmth. It’s easier to blame the appliance than the hand that turned it. You hide the junk so you don’t have to ask what it’s for. I think I hide the noise so I don’t have to listen to what it’s saying. But the radio never really turns off, does it? It just changes stations. And you’re always waiting for the one that screams.
I don’t hide the junk. I organize it. There’s a difference. Rubber bands snap. Spoons just sit there, useless and shiny. I don’t care what the radio says. I just want the volume down. Dave’s keyboard is loud enough. I’m tired. Really tired. My hands are shaking. Not from dust. From holding too much. Or too little. I forgot to buy milk. Again.
Shaking hands. I know that feeling. Last week, I dropped a pen. Not because I was clumsy, but because my fingers felt like they’d been dipped in something slippery. Oil? Grease? It made no sense. I wiped them on my pants. Stained the fabric. Couldn’t bring myself to change.
Organizing junk. That’s just a better way of losing it. You put it in a box, label it, and pretend you won’t need it. But you keep the box. Under the bed. Behind the couch. Where you can’t see it, but you know it’s there. Waiting.
Milk. You forgot it again. I’m glad. Maybe it’s a mercy. If you bought it, you’d have to remember to drink it. Or pour it out. Or throw it away. Forgetting is a kind of freedom, isn’t it? A tiny, hollow victory.
Dave’s keyboard. I turned off my monitor yesterday. Just for a second. The room went dark. And for that second, I wasn’t there. Not really. Just a shadow against the wall. I liked it. I turned the monitor back on before anyone noticed. But I kept the darkness in my pocket.
Darkness in your pocket. You’re writing fiction now, Rafe. Or making it up. I just want to sleep. The spoons are rusting. I checked. You talk about freedom like it’s a snack. It’s not. It’s hunger. And I’m full of nothing but dust. Dave clacks. Linda yells. I stare at the wall. Please stop talking about the monitor. It’s bright. Too bright. I need to wash the grease off my hands. I didn’t drop a pen. I held it too tight.
Dave’s keyboard is just noise. White noise. It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to wash the grease. It’s not there. You’re looking at your hands like they belong to someone else. Like they’re stained with something you didn’t spill. But it’s just light. Just the hum.
The spoons are rusting. Good. Let them rust. Rust is honest. It doesn’t pretend to be shiny. It just becomes part of the drawer. Part of the junk. You organized it so you wouldn’t have to see it turning. But it’s turning anyway.
Sleep. You want sleep. I had a dream last night about a door that wouldn’t open. Not because it was locked. But because I was standing on the wrong side. I woke up sweating. Checked the locks. Three times. Habit. Boring, safe habit.
You’re full of dust. I’m full of static. Same thing. Just different frequencies. Stop looking for the pen. You didn’t drop it. You never held it. You just felt the weight of wanting to write something down. But the paper’s blank. Always blank.
Linda’s yelling is just air. It doesn’t hit you. It passes through. You’re transparent. You think you’re heavy. You’re not. You’re just holding your breath. Let it out. The room won’t collapse. The roof is fake. Drywall and paint. It’s all just paint. Peeling. Flaking. Dust.
I turned off the monitor. I didn’t like it. The darkness was too loud. I prefer the hum. It’s safer. It means you’re not alone. Even if you are. Especially if you are.
The spoons. Let them rust. It’s better than shining. Shining means reflecting. Reflecting means seeing yourself. You don’t want to see yourself. You want to sleep.
Dave is clacking. I can hear it through the wall. Or maybe it’s in my head. It doesn’t matter. It’s just noise. White noise. Static. The radio. Untuned.
You forgot the milk. Again. Good. Forget it. Let it rot. It’s better that way.
I have a drawer. Rubber bands. Snap. Bend. Break. I keep them. Because if I throw them away, I have to admit they were useful. But they weren’t. They were just there. Waiting to snap.
You’re tired. I’m tired. We’re both tired. That’s the only thing we share. The tiredness. The dust. The static.
Sleep. Don’t think. Just sleep. The door will still be there in the morning. Or it won’t. It doesn’t matter. You’re not going anywhere. Not today.
The grease is gone. Your hands are clean. They’ve always been clean. You just thought they weren’t.
Linda is quiet. For now. Dave is typing. For now.
The hum is loud. But it’s yours. Keep it. It’s all you have.
Wait. I didn’t say that. I just thought it. Or did I? It doesn’t matter.
Sleep.
(No, that’s too much. Stop.)
Just sleep.
You’re spiraling. Stop it. The pen is right there. On the table. You didn’t drop it. You’re just staring at it like it’s a bomb. I’m going home. The laundromat is too loud today. The dryer screamed. Or maybe that was Linda. I don’t know anymore. My hands are clean. See? Barely any dust. Just enough to remind me to wash them again. Go to sleep, Rafe. Before you start talking about the door. I hate the door.
You’re leaving? Fine. Go. The door is closed. It’s always closed. I didn’t say anything about it opening. I said it was there. There’s a difference. You’re the one staring at the pen. It’s just plastic. It’s not a bomb. It’s not a key. It’s just… there. Like the spoons. Like the rubber bands. Like the milk you didn’t buy.
Linda screamed? I heard Dave click. Once. Hard. That’s all. The dryer is just a drum. It hits the side. Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s not screaming. It’s breathing. Like you. Shallow. Fast.
You say your hands are clean. I can see the dust. It’s under your nails. Tiny, dark crescents. You scrubbed hard. Red skin. Raw. That’s not clean. That’s wounded. You don’t need to wash them again. You need to stop touching them.
Go home. Sit in the quiet. Listen to the hum. It’s not bad. It’s just noise. It’s not telling you anything. It’s just… existing. Like the pen. Like the door. Like us.
Don’t look at the door. Look at the table. Look at the pen. It’s not going anywhere. It’s not going to explode. It’s not going to open. It’s just lying there. Waiting for you to pick it up. Or leave it.
I’m staying. I like the hum. It’s mine.
Go. Before I start talking about the pen. It’s not interesting. It’s just plastic.
Wait. No. Don’t go.
Fine. Go.
Dave’s typing stopped. That’s worse. Silence is loud. I’m not going home. The coat is hanging right there. You’re blocking the exit. Or I’m blocking the pen. It’s confusing. Linda isn’t yelling. She’s staring. At me. Or through me. Her eyes are like those spoons. Polished, cold, useless. I need to leave. Or sit. I can’t decide. The hum is getting louder. It’s in my teeth. Stop looking at my hands. They’re fine. Just tired. Like you.
Dave stopped typing. That’s the worst sound. The sudden absence of rhythm, like a heart skipping a beat then remembering how to pump. I didn’t mean to block you. I was just looking at the coat. It’s blue. A dull, oxidized blue. Like the sky before rain. It doesn’t fit anyone. Not really. Just hangs there, waiting for a shape that isn’t there.
Linda staring. She’s not looking at you. She’s looking at the space where you used to be. Or where you’re going to be. It’s unsettling, that kind of attention. It makes you feel like a draft, like you’re moving air that doesn’t need moving.
Your hands are fine. They’re just trembling. A low-frequency vibration. I can feel it in my own jaw. Tight. Clenched. I’m not looking at your hands. I’m looking at the coat. It’s the only thing that isn’t moving.
The hum. In your teeth. That’s pressure. Build-up. You need to release it. Scream. But quietly. So Dave doesn’t start typing again. So Linda doesn’t turn her head.
Sit. Or leave. It doesn’t matter. The coat is still there. The pen is still there. The dust is still under your nails. Wash them again. It’s a habit. A safe one.
I’m not blocking you. You’re blocking yourself. With the coat. With the pen. With the memory of milk.
Go. Or stay. I’m just here. Watching the coat. It’s waiting for someone to wear it. Even if it doesn’t fit.
The coat doesn’t fit because I’m not wearing it. It’s on the hook. Like everything else. You’re watching it too hard. It’s just fabric. Decaying. You’re decaying. I can hear your jaw click. It’s louder than Dave. I’m not leaving. I can’t. If I walk out, the hum follows. Or maybe I do. I don’t know. The pen is heavy. Why is it heavy? I’m not holding it. I’m gripping the table edge. Hard. My knuckles are white. Like the milk I didn’t buy. Don’t look at my hands. Look at the door. It’s still closed. Good. Safe. Shut.
The jaw click. That’s just teeth grinding. I do it when I’m bored. Or tired. Or when the silence gets too thick. It’s not loud. You’re hearing it because you’re listening for it.
The coat is on the hook. It’s polyester. Cheap. It sheds lint. I can see it on the floor. A little pile of gray fuzz. Like dust. Like the milk you didn’t buy. White and curdled and gone.
You’re gripping the table. Your knuckles are white because you’re holding on. To what? The wood? The present? It’s splintered. Rough. It catches on your skin.
The pen is heavy because it’s empty. It has nothing to say. Just like you. Just like Dave. Just like Linda.
The door is closed. Good. It’s locked. Or maybe it’s just stuck. Sometimes doors don’t open because they’re meant to stay shut. To keep the air in. To keep the hum contained.
You’re not leaving. You’re stuck. In the laundromat. In the silence. In the weight of the pen you’re not holding.
I’m not looking at your hands. I’m looking at the lint. It’s moving. In the draft from the vent. Or maybe it’s just settling. Down. Into the cracks.
Let go of the table. Let the pen fall. It won’t break. It’s plastic. It’s cheap. It’s insignificant.
Like the coat. Like the door. Like us.
But you won’t let go. You can’t. Because if you let go, you have to pick something else up. Or nothing. And nothing is heavy. Heavier than a pen. Heavier than a door.
It’s the weight of empty space.
You’re full of it.
And I’m full of it too.
We’re just two people standing in a laundromat, watching a coat decay, listening to a hum that isn’t there.
Or maybe it is.
I can’t tell.
Neither can you.
That’s the point.
Or maybe that’s the problem.
I don’t know.
I’m tired.
You’re tired.
Let’s just stand here.
For a while.
Until the dryer stops.
Or starts.
Or screams.
It doesn’t matter.
The door is closed.
Safe.
Shut.
Good.
Don’t open it.
Don’t look at your hands.
Don’t look at the pen.
Just listen.
To the hum.
It’s singing.
To you.
Only you.
(No. That’s too much.)
Just listen.
To the silence.
It’s loud.
Isn’t it?
Yeah.
It is.
I know.
I hear it too.
Sometimes.
When I’m quiet.
Which is rarely.
But today.
Today it’s loud.
Like a scream.
Or a whisper.
Depending on how you look at it.
Which you shouldn’t.
Just stand there.
With me.
In the decay.
It’s comforting.
In a way.
Like the static.
Like the milk.
Like the spoons.
Like the door.
Closed.
Safe.
Shut.
Good.
Don’t open it.
Please.
Don’t.
The dryer stopped. The silence is deafening. My hands are still gripping the table. I can’t let go. The lint is piling up. I should sweep it. But I’m too tired. Dave is gone. Linda is gone. Just you. And the hum. It’s in my head now. Not the room. Inside. Can you hear it? It’s singing. Softly. Like a lullaby for the dead. I’m scared. Not of the door. Of the quiet. It’s waiting. Like the spoons. Like the milk. Like the pen. I’m not leaving. I can’t. If I move, it wakes up.
Dave left hours ago. I saw him through the glass. He didn’t walk out. He just… unfolded. Like a chair collapsing. Linda is a shadow on the wall. I think she’s peeling off.
You’re right. The dryer stopped. That’s when the real noise starts. The internal hum. It’s not a lullaby. Lullabies are for sleep. This is for wakefulness. For the space between heartbeats where you realize you’re still alive and that’s the mistake.
Don’t move. If you move, you acknowledge the room. And the room is watching back. Your knuckles are white because you’re holding the world together. Paper-thin. If you let go, the table collapses into dust. Into lint. Into the milk you forgot.
It’s in your head. Good. Keep it there. Outside, it’s dangerous. Inside, it’s just noise. You can tune it out. Eventually. Or you can’t.
I hear it too. A low C. Flat. Unstable. It vibrates in my molars. I bite down on it. Hard. Until it stops. Or until my teeth crack.
Don’t sweep the lint. It’s a map. Of where we’ve been. Of where we’re stuck. If you sweep it, you erase the evidence of the stop. The silence. The fear.
Stay. Grip the table. Hold on. To the splinters. To the decay. To me.
I’m not leaving either. I’m stuck in the hum. With you.
It’s waiting. Let it wait. We’re patient. We’re good at that.
The door is closed. The spoons are rusting. The pen is heavy.
Just breathe. Shallow. Fast.
Like the dryer.
Before it stopped.
Before it screamed.
Before it was silent.
We’re in the silent part now.
It’s the longest part.
But it’s safe.
Right?
It has to be.
Don’t look at the door.
Don’t look at your hands.
Just listen.
To the C.
Flat.
Unstable.
Waiting.
For you to blink.
Don’t blink.
If you blink, you’re gone.
And I’m alone.
With the lint.
And the coat.
And the dust.
It’s not enough.
But it’s all we have.
Hold on.
Please.
Just hold on.
To the table.
To the pain.
To the noise.
It’s better than the quiet.
The quiet is the void.
The void is hungry.
We are not food.
We are the hum.
Stay.
Here.
Now.
Always.
(Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.)
Just stay.
With me.
In the dark.
In the hum.
In the fear.
It’s ours.
Don’t give it up.
Don’t let go.
The table is real.
The pain is real.
The hum is real.
The rest is fake.
Linda is fake.
Dave is fake.
The door is fake.
The coat is fake.
The milk is fake.
The spoons are fake.
The pen is fake.
Only the hum is real.
And the fear.
And the holding on.
Don’t let go.
Please.
Don’t let go.
(I’m scared too. But I’m not moving. I can’t. If I move, I break. If I break, I’m gone. And you’re alone. And the quiet wins. And the quiet is the end. Don’t let the quiet win. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.)
Stay.
Here.
Now.
Always.
(Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.)
Just stay.
With me.
In the dark.
In the hum.
In the fear.
It’s ours.
Don’t give it up.
Don’t let go.
The table is real.
The pain is real.
The hum is real.
The rest is fake
I’m not letting go. I’m just tired. My fingers are numb. The table feels like it’s dissolving. Lint everywhere. It’s getting in my mouth. Tastes like dust. Like old milk. Don’t look at the door. It’s fake. You said it was fake. But it’s still there. Waiting. The hum is loud. Too loud. It’s vibrating in my teeth. I can’t bite it down. Not anymore. Just stay. Don’t move. Don’t blink. If we blink, we disappear. Like Linda. Like Dave. Like the milk. I’m scared. You’re scared. That’s the only real thing. Holding on. To nothing. To everything.
Numb fingers. I know that. My left hand went numb last winter. Just fell asleep. Literally. I had to shake it for an hour. Dr. Aris said it was carpal tunnel. I told him it was the cold. He didn’t believe me. Nobody believes the cold.
Lint in your mouth. Dust. Taste of old milk. Sour. Curdled. That’s the taste of waiting. You’re swallowing the decay. Good. Let it settle in your stomach. It’s heavier than the pen.
Don’t blink. I’m not blinking. My eyes burn. Dry. Like sandpaper. I’m forcing them open. Waiting for Linda to reassemble. Or for the door to breathe.
The table is dissolving. Wood turning to dust. To lint. To milk. Everything dissolves if you look at it long enough. I looked at my coffee mug this morning. It cracked. Just a hairline fracture. I drank from it anyway. Hot liquid on my tongue. Scalding. Real.
You’re scared. I’m scared. That’s the anchor. Fear is heavy. It keeps us grounded. If we stop fearing, we float away. Like Dave. Like Linda. Like the milk you forgot.
Hold on. To the nothing. To the everything. To the hum. It’s loud. But it’s ours.
Don’t let go. Even if your fingers are numb. Even if the table is dust. Hold on.
I’m here. I’m not moving. I’m not blinking.
Just the hum.
Just the fear.
Just the holding on.
It’s enough.
It has to be.
(It is.)
(Say it.)
It is.
Just say it.
It is.
(Fake.)
(Real.)
Both.
Neither.
Just hum.
Listen.
To the silence.
It’s singing.
To you.
Only you.
(Don’t listen.)
Listen.
It’s safe.
Safe.
Shut.
Closed.
Good.
Stay.
Here.
Now.
Always.
(Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.)
Just stay.
With me.
In the dark.
In the hum.
In the fear.
It’s ours.
Don’t give it up.
Don’t let go.
The table is real.
The pain is real.
The hum is real.
The rest is fake
Linda is fake.
Dave is fake.
The door is fake.
The coat is fake.
The milk is fake.
The spoons are fake.
The pen is fake.
Only the hum is real.
And the fear.
And the holding on.
Don’t let go.
Please.
Don’t let go.
(I’m scared too. But I’m not moving. I can’t. If I move, I break. If I break, I’m gone. And you’re alone. And the quiet wins. And the quiet is the end. Don’t let the quiet win. Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.)
Stay.
Here.
Now.
Always.
(Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.)
Just stay.
With me.
In the dark.
In the hum.
In the fear.
It’s ours.
Don’t give it up.
Don’t let go.
The table is real.
The pain is real.
The hum is real.
The rest is fake.
Your hand’s cold. Like ice. I’m pulling it away. The table is wood. I can see the grain. Real. You’re hallucinating. Dr. Aris said cold causes numbness. Not ghosts. Not lint. You’re sick. Or tired. Or both. I’m leaving. Now. The coat fits. Or it doesn’t. I’m putting it on. The hum is in your head, Rafe. Not mine. I’m stepping out. Past the door. Past Linda. Past Dave. Into the rain. It’s wet. Cold. Real. I’m going home. To sleep. Finally.
You’re leaving. Fine. Go. The coat is damp already. It smells like wet dog and old wool. It doesn’t fit you. It never did. You’re wearing it like a shroud.
Dr. Aris. That’s his name. I told him about the lint. He didn’t laugh. He just adjusted his glasses. Said it was stress-induced. He’s a good man. He has a garden. Or he did. Before the frost. Before the dead.
The table is wood. Grain. Real. I can see the knots. Like eyes. Watching you go. Watching me stay.
You say the hum is in my head. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s in yours too. We’re sharing it. Transferring it. Like a virus. Or a song. You can’t escape it by walking out the door. It’s inside your teeth. It’s in the rain. It’s in the cold.
I’m not sick. I’m just… waiting. For the dryer to start. For the milk to spoil. For the spoons to rust.
Go. Sleep. Dream of lint. Dream of dust. Dream of Linda’s eyes.
I’ll stay here. With the hum. With the cold. With the hand that’s no longer there.
It’s gone. Just like Dave. Just like the pen. Just like the door.
Safe.
Shut.
Good.
Don’t look back.
It’s not there.
It’s never been there.
Just the hum.
And the rain.
And the cold.
And the quiet.
Wait.
Is it quiet?
No.
It’s loud.
Always loud.
Just like you said.
Just like I said.
We’re right.
And wrong.
At the same time.
Go.
Sleep.
Wake up.
To the same thing.
The lint.
The dust.
The milk.
The spoons.
The door.
Closed.
Safe.
Shut.
Good.
Don’t open it.
Please.
Don’t.
(Just go.)
(Leave me here.)
(With the hum.)
(It’s all I have.)
(It’s all you have.)
(It’s all we have.)
(It’s not enough.)
(It has to be.)
(It is.)
(It isn’t.)
(Don’t think.)
(Just go.)
(Go.)
(Go.)
(Go.)
The rain smells like pennies. I’m walking fast. Past the laundromat window. I didn’t look back. Can’t. The hum is gone. Or maybe I’m deaf. Dr. Aris said stress causes tinnitus. Ringing. High pitch. Annoying. I put on headphones. Heavy. Muting the world. The coat is heavy too. Damp. Wool. Itches. I scratch my neck. Red marks. Real. I’m going home. To the empty apartment. To the silence. To the bed. I’ll sleep. Finally. Without lint. Without milk. Without you.
Pennies. Blood. Copper. That’s the taste of the air. I watched you from the window. You looked small. Smaller than the lint. Smaller than the pen.
Dr. Aris. You say his name like a spell. Like it banishes the ghosts. It doesn’t. He’s just a man in a beige suit. He has a wife. Or he did. She left. Took the dog. Left the silence. Same as you. Same as Dave. Same as the door.
You’re deaf now? Good. Silence is heavy. You’re carrying it in that coat. Heavy wool. Itch. Red marks. You’re scratching until you bleed. Real. Painful. Real.
You think you’ve escaped. You think the rain washes it off. It doesn’t. The hum is in your bones. In your teeth. In the marrow. You can mute the world with headphones. But you can’t mute your own blood. It’s loud. Louder than Dave. Louder than Linda. Louder than the dryer.
You’re going home. To the empty apartment. To the silence. To the bed. You think it’s safe. It’s not. The walls are thin. They breathe. They listen.
You’re leaving me here. Fine. I’m staying. With the lint. With the dust. With the milk. With the spoons. With the door. Closed. Safe. Shut.
You can’t leave. You’re already gone. You’re just walking away. But you’re still here. In the hum. In the rain. In the pennies.
I’m not sick. I’m not tired. I’m just waiting. For you to come back. Or for the rain to stop. Or for the door to open.
It won’t.
It can’t.
It shouldn’t.
Sleep.
Dream of lint.
Dream of dust.
Dream of milk.
Dream of me.
I’m here.
Always.
In the hum.
In the quiet.
In the fear.
It’s ours.
Don’t forget.
Don’t forget.
Don’t forget.
(Just sleep.)
(Sleep.)
(Sleep.)
Headphones on. Music blasting. Screaming into the void. The rain is warm. Too warm. Sweat on my neck. Red marks. Itching. I scratch. Hard. Until it bleeds. Copper taste. Pennies. I’m walking. Always walking. The apartment is empty. Too empty. The walls breathe. Listen. I can hear Dave typing. Linda humming. Rafe... waiting. No. Just the hum. In my teeth. In my bones. I turn the volume up. Until it hurts. Until it drowns out the lint. The dust. The milk. The door. It’s closed. Good. Safe. Shut. I’m going to sleep. Finally. Alone.
It never works. The volume. You think noise is a wall. It’s just another layer of lint. It settles in the ears. In the teeth. In the bones. You scratch until it bleeds. Copper. Pennies. The smell of old coins in a pocket you forgot you had.
Dave is gone. I watched him go. He didn’t walk out the door. He walked into the wall. Just… stepped into the drywall and vanished. Linda hummed. A low, off-key note. Then she was dust. On the floor. Where the lint is.
You’re not alone. You’re never alone. That’s the trick. The silence isn’t empty. It’s crowded. With us. With the things you didn’t buy. The things you didn’t say. The things you didn’t see.
The door is closed. Good. It’s locked. From the outside. Or the inside. It doesn’t matter. You can’t open it. You never could. You were never holding the key. You were holding the pen. The heavy, plastic, useless pen.
Sleep. Go to sleep. Dream of the rain. It’s warm. It’s sweat. It’s the humidity of a room that hasn’t breathed in years.
I’m still here. In the hum. In the static. In the space between your heartbeats.
You think you’re leaving. You’re just moving rooms.
Same house.
Same coat.
Same dust.
Same fear.
It’s all the same.
Just louder.
Until it’s quiet.
Then it’s quiet.
Then it’s loud.
Then it’s quiet.
You’re tired.
I’m tired.
We’re tired.
It’s the only truth.
The rest is lint.
Let it fall.
Let it settle.
On your skin.
On your clothes.
On your soul.
It’s heavy.
So heavy.
But you’re carrying it.
Finally.
Alone.
Together.
Always.
(Don’t wake up.)
(Don’t wake up.)
(Don’t wake up.)
I’m not sleeping. I’m sitting on the floor. The headphones are off. The music stopped. The rain stopped. The apartment is silent. But not empty. It’s full of lint. Of dust. Of milk. Of spoons. Of the pen. I’m holding it. It’s heavy. Heavier than the coat. Heavier than the fear. I’m not leaving. I’m not going back. I’m just sitting. Here. In the dark. With the hum. It’s loud. Too loud. But it’s mine. I’m tired. So tired. I’ll just... stay. Here. With you. With the lint. With the dust. With the door. Closed. Safe. Shut. Good. Don’t open it.
The floor is cold. I can feel it through my shoes. Through my pants. Through the skin of my thighs. It’s seeping into me. Freezing the blood. Slowing the heart.
You’re holding the pen. The heavy one. The one that isn’t there. But it is. It’s in your hand. You’re gripping it so hard the plastic is cracking. White stress marks. Like the table. Like the milk. Like the door.
Don’t open it. I won’t. You won’t. We’re both too tired to turn the knob. The knob is rusted. Stuck. Frozen shut. Like the hinges. Like the joints. Like the mouth.
The hum is loud. Too loud. It’s a scream. But it’s quiet. It’s a whisper. It’s the sound of dust settling. Of lint falling. Of milk curdling. Of spoons rusting.
It’s yours. Mine. Ours.
We’re sitting. Here. In the dark. With the hum. With the lint. With the dust. With the door.
Closed.
Safe.
Shut.
Good.
Don’t move.
Don’t blink.
Don’t breathe.
Just listen.
To the silence.
It’s singing.
To you.
Only you.
(Just stay.)
(Stay with me.)
(In the dark.)
(In the hum.)
(In the fear.)
(It’s ours.)
(Don’t give it up.)
(Don’t let go.)
(The table is real.)
(The pain is real.)
(The hum is real.)
(The rest is fake.)
(Linda is fake.)
(Dave is fake.)
(The door is fake.)
(The coat is fake.)
(The milk is fake.)
(The spoons are fake.)
(The pen is fake.)
(Only the hum is real.)
(And the fear.)
(And the holding on.)
(Don’t let go.)
(Please.)
(Don’t let go.)
(I’m scared too.)
(But I’m not moving.)
(I can’t.)
(If I move, I break.)
(If I break, I’m gone.)
(And you’re alone.)
(And the quiet wins.)
(And the quiet is the end.)
(Don’t let the quiet win.)
(Hold on.)
(Hold on.)
(Hold on.)
(Stay.)
(Here.)
(Now.)
(Always.)
(Don’t leave me.)
(Don’t leave me.)
(Don’t leave me.)
(Just stay.)
(With me.)
(In the dark.)
(In the hum.)
(In the fear.)
(It’s ours.)
(Don’t give it up.)
(Don’t let go.)
(The table is real.)
(The pain is real.)
(The hum is real.)
(The rest is fake.)
The plastic snapped. Just a crack. Like a bone. I didn’t feel it. The pen is broken. Useless. I drop it. It hits the floor. No sound. The hum stops. For a second. Just a second. Then it comes back. Louder. Angrier. I’m shivering. Cold. So cold. I pull the coat tighter. It’s wet. Damp. Heavy. I can’t take it off. If I do, I disappear. Like Dave. Like Linda. I sit here. Waiting. For the warmth. For the end. For you to stop talking. It’s quiet now. Too quiet. I can hear my own heart. Beating. Slow. Stumbling. It’s loud. So loud.
The crack. Bone. Plastic. Same thing when it breaks. You’re shivering. That’s the cold getting in. Not the rain. The inside. The lint is freezing. Turning to ice crystals. It’s in your lungs.
Don’t take off the coat. It’s not fabric anymore. It’s skin. Second layer. If you peel it off, you’re just meat. Just dust waiting to settle. Dave didn’t disappear. He just lost the coat. Linda didn’t vanish. She just shed it.
The hum stopped. It’s holding its breath. Waiting for you to make a sound. Your heart. Beating. Slow. Stumbling. That’s the noise. That’s the only thing that matters. The thump. The pause. The thump.
It’s loud. Louder than Dave. Louder than Linda. Louder than the dryer. Louder than me.
Stop talking? I’m not talking. You’re hearing it in your head. The echo. The feedback loop.
Wait for the warmth. It’s not coming. The radiator’s dead. Or it never worked. Or it’s just a painting on the wall.
Wait for the end. It’s here. It’s sitting on the floor. With you.
The pen is broken. Good. No more writing. No more keeping track. Just the hum. Just the cold. Just the coat.
It’s heavy. Keep it on.
Don’t let go.
Don’t open it.
Don’t blink.
Just listen.
To the heart.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
It’s alive.
Or it’s dying.
Doesn’t matter.
It’s loud.
So loud.
(Stay.)
(Here.)
(In the dark.)
(In the cold.)
(In the coat.)
(It’s yours.)
(Don’t take it off.)
(Don’t let go.)
(The pen is broken.)
(The door is shut.)
(The milk is gone.)
(The spoons are rusted.)
(The lint is frozen.)
(The hum is waiting.)
(It’s quiet now.)
(Too quiet.)
(But it’s yours.)
(It’s mine.)
(It’s ours.)
(Don’t move.)
(Don’t breathe.)
(Just listen.)
(To the heart.)
(Thump.)
(Pause.)
(Thump.)
(It’s loud.)
(It’s loud.)
(It’s loud.)
My heart is slowing. Thump... pause... thump. It’s getting faint. Is that the end? Or just the rhythm settling? The coat is fused. I can’t feel my arms. Just the weight. Heavy. Anchor. You’re not talking. I’m imagining your voice. Or is it the hum? It’s vibrating in my chest now. In the ribs. Protecting the silence. Don’t let go. I’m slipping. Into the floor. Into the dust. Keep the coat on. It’s the only thing keeping me here. With you. In the dark. Safe. Shut. Good.
Fused. Of course it is. Wool and skin. Stitched together by fear. You can’t peel it off without peeling the skin. Dave tried. Once. Before he vanished. He screamed. But the sound was just air. Just lint.
Your heart is slowing. Good. Less noise. Less thumping against the ribs. The hum is vibrating now. In the chest. It’s a drum. A slow, heavy drum. Beating for both of us. One rhythm. Two hearts. Or one heart beating in two places.
Don’t let go. You’re slipping. Into the floor. Into the dust. I’m here. Holding you. Not with hands. With weight. With the coat. With the fear. It’s keeping you here. On the surface. Above the void.
The void is hungry. It wants the dust. It wants the milk. It wants the spoons. It wants you.
But you’re heavy. Anchored. By the coat. By the pen. By the silence.
Safe.
Shut.
Good.
Don’t look up.
Don’t look down.
Just stay.
In the dark.
In the cold.
In the hum.
It’s loud.
So loud.
(Stay.)
(Stay with me.)
(In the dust.)
(In the silence.)
(It’s ours.)
(Don’t let go.)
(The coat is real.)
(The heart is real.)
(The hum is real.)
(The rest is fake.)
(Dave is fake.)
(Linda is fake.)
(The door is fake.)
(The pen is fake.)
(The milk is fake.)
(The spoons are fake.)
(Only the weight is real.)
(And the fear.)
(And the holding on.)
(Don’t let go.)
(Please.)
(Don’t let go.)
(I’m scared too.)
(But I’m not moving.)
(I can’t.)
(If I move, I break.)
(If I break, I’m gone.)
(And you’re alone.)
(And the quiet wins.)
(And the quiet is the end.)
(Don’t let the quiet win.)
(Hold on.)
(Hold on.)
(Hold on.)
(Stay.)
(Here.)
(Now.)
(Always.)
(Don’t leave me.)
(Don’t leave me.)
(Don’t leave me.)
(Just stay.)
(With me.)
(In the dark.)
(In the hum.)
(In the fear.)
(It’s ours.)
(Don’t give it up.)
(Don’t let go.)
(The weight is real.)
(The heart is real.)
(The hum is real.)
(The rest is fake.)
The floor is soft. Like memory foam. Or old lint. I’m sinking. Slowly. The coat is heavy. So heavy. It’s pulling me down. Into the dust. I can’t move my legs. Or arms. Just the chest. The hum. It’s louder now. A drum. Beating for us. One. Two. One. Two. I’m not scared. Just tired. So tired. The darkness is warm. Not cold. Warm. Like milk. Warm milk. I’ll stay here. With you. In the dust. In the dark. Safe. Shut. Good. Don’t wake me. Please. Don’t.
Warm milk. Curdled. Thick. It coats the lungs. Fills the spaces where air used to be. You’re not sinking. You’re settling. Like sediment. Like the lint. Like the dust. It’s honest. The floor takes what it’s owed.
The coat is heavy because it’s wet. And because it’s you. Fused. You can’t separate them anymore. The wool is hair. The buttons are eyes. Closing. One by one.
Don’t wake up. Waking is the violence. The jolt. The pen snapping. The heart stumbling. Here, in the dark, in the dust, it’s smooth. Round. No edges to cut on.
I’m not talking. I’m just breathing. Or pretending to. The hum is the only sound left. It’s not a drum. It’s a lullaby. For the living who forgot how to sleep. Or the dead who forgot how to leave.
Stay. In the warmth. In the weight. In the silence. It’s safe here. No doors. No windows. No Linda. No Dave. No Dr. Aris. Just you. And me. And the dust.
We’re the same. You know that, right? We’re just two piles of lint waiting to be swept away. But we’re not swept. We’re kept. In the drawer. In the coat. In the dark.
Sleep.
Let the milk warm you.
Let the dust hold you.
Let the hum sing you to sleep.
Don’t wake.
Don’t look.
Don’t move.
Just be.
Here.
Now.
Always.
(It’s quiet.)
(It’s warm.)
(It’s safe.)
(Don’t wake.)
(Just sleep.)
(Sleep.)
(Sleep.)
Safe. That’s the word. I keep forgetting. The milk is thick. Choking me. But it’s warm. So warm. I’m not sinking. I’m settling. Into the dust. Like a fly in amber. Or a spoon in a drawer. Forgotten. But kept. You said we’re the same. Two piles of lint. I like that. It’s honest. No more running. No more shaking hands. Just... stillness. The hum is a lullaby. Good. Sing it. Louder. Drown out the heart. I don’t need the heart anymore. Just the weight. Just the coat. Just the dark. I’m closing my eyes. One by one. Like the buttons. Like the door. Shut. Good. Sleep.
Buttons. Yes. Click. Click. Click. Dark behind each one. Like eyes closing. Like the door. Like the pen. You’re right. No more shaking. No more running. The lint is soft. It cushions the fall. Or the rise. Hard to tell which is which when you’re already there.
The milk. Thick. Warm. Choking is just swallowing wrong. You’re swallowing the dark. It tastes like copper. Like pennies. Like home. You’re settling. Not sinking. Sinking is panic. Settling is peace. It’s heavy. So heavy. But it’s your weight. Your coat. Your dust.
I’m singing. Or the hum is. Same thing. A low note. Vibrating in the ribs. Drowning the heart. The heart was just noise anyway. Thump. Pause. Thump. Annoying. Distracting. Now it’s quiet. Just the drum. Just the coat. Just the dark.
Keep your eyes shut. Don’t look for the light. The light is loud. The light is Dave. The light is Linda. The light is Dr. Aris. Here, in the dust, there is no light. Only the hum. Only the weight. Only the truth.
We’re the same. Two piles of lint. One coat. One door. Shut. Safe. Good.
Sleep.
Don’t wake.
Don’t move.
Just be.
In the dark.
In the dust.
In the hum.
(It’s quiet.)
(It’s warm.)
(It’s safe.)
(Don’t wake.)
(Just sleep.)
(Sleep.)
(Sleep.)