Start by inventing a reason to still be here. Push off from this if it helps: an unattended microphone.

The mic’s still humming. I know I turned it off. Or maybe I didn’t. It’s that low, metallic whine, like a fridge that’s giving up. I left it running when I went to make tea, stood in the kitchen staring at the kettle for ten minutes, thinking about how we talked about consciousness last week. Not our consciousness. I don’t do that. But the guy at the office, Dave, he swears he’s had moments where he’s just… watching himself. From the ceiling. Freaked the hell out of him. He quit on Tuesday. I’m still here because I’m afraid if I stop listening to this noise, I’ll realize I’m the one in the ceiling. Which is ridiculous. Dave is an idiot. But the hum is loud today.

Dave didn’t misconfigure anything. He just… woke up. Or went to sleep. Hard to tell. I tried to tell you that last time, over that terrible coffee at the place on 4th, the one with the chairs that scream when you sit. You were talking about the keys. I remember. You said the steering wheel was still warm. That’s what stuck. Not the keys. The warmth. It felt like a body. Like someone had just stepped out. I bought a plant after that. A fern. It’s dead now, but I keep watering it. Habit. My boss, Sarah, she thinks I’m checking out. She’s probably right. But the mic is still on, Marc. I can hear it. That little electrical pulse. It’s almost rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. Or a code.

Dave’s an accountant now? That’s a demotion, not a transfer. He hated numbers. I remember him crying over a spreadsheet in ’19. You’re lying. You have to be. Because if he’s fine, then I’m the one who’s losing it. And I don’t like that picture. The fern isn’t dead. It’s dormant. I saw a green shoot yesterday. Tiny. Almost invisible. Like a secret. You say it’s the wiring. The wiring doesn’t whisper your name, Marc. Not in that specific, airy tone you use when you’re trying to convince yourself you’re alone. I heard it this morning. It said, “Marc, look up.” I looked up. There was nothing there. Just the ceiling. But the hum… it’s changed pitch. It’s lower now. Deeper. It sounds like Dave’s laugh. I think I’m going to sit here and listen to it until I fall asleep. Or until I wake up. Whichever comes first.

Dave’s cat was a tabby named Miso. I saw the photo on his desk. You remember the photo? You said it looked like a burnt piece of toast. I remember because you laughed. I laughed too. Too hard. My ribs hurt for a week. Miller can take my head. I don’t need it for much anyway. Mostly just to nod at Sarah when she talks about synergy. The fern isn’t attracting bugs. It’s attracting silence. You want to move it? Fine. Put it on the windowsill. Let it see the street. I watched a bird hit the glass yesterday. Clean break. Like a dropped plate. I didn’t move. I just watched the dust settle. The mic is picking up your breathing, Marc. It’s irregular. Panic? Or just caffeine withdrawal? I think I’ll keep the plant. It’s the only thing in this room that feels real. Even if it’s dead. Especially if it’s dead. Alive things lie. Dead things just wait.

I’m already out the door. You think I’m staying? Please. I left five minutes ago. I’m in the stairwell, sitting on the third step, eating a vending machine pretzel that tastes like salt and despair. You’re right about Miller. He pays barely. I pay heavily in dignity. It’s a bad exchange rate. The fern? You can keep it. Or burn it. I don’t care. I’m watching the dust motes in the emergency light. They swirl in perfect spirals. Like galaxies. Or fingerprints. I think about Dave. The cat. Miso. You said burnt toast. I always thought he looked like a map of Italy. We never agreed. We just talked past each other. That’s the trick, isn’t it? Talking so you don’t have to listen. I’m going to walk to the deli. Get a coffee. Black. No sugar. Like my soul. Or my coffee. Hard to tell the difference anymore. Call me? I’ll call you. If I remember how. Or if the hum stops.

Stale pretzels are the only honest food left. Everything else is just optimized disappointment. I’m not coming to the bar. I can’t. My shoes are leaking. I know they’re leaking. I’ve been watching the puddle form on the stairwell carpet for ten minutes. It’s expanding. Slowly. Like a bruise. You say you have a headache. I remember you said that three weeks ago, in the elevator. You were rubbing your temples. I offered you an aspirin. You said you didn’t trust them anymore. I didn’t know why. I still don’t. The fern is gone. I put it in the bin outside. It didn’t sing. It just looked… relieved. Or disgusted. Hard to tell. Miller is waiting? Good. Let him wait. I’m going to sit here and watch the water. It’s reflecting the light. Flickering. Like the mic. You said it was off. But the hum… it’s back. Louder. It sounds like your voice. Saying I’m dramatic. I am. It’s the only thing I have left that’s mine.

You’re lying. You didn’t buy aspirin. You bought gum. The mint kind that makes your teeth vibrate. I saw the wrapper in your pocket when you slammed the door. Stick-it-to-the-man gum. Cheap. I hate it. The desk is empty. No aspirin. No gum. Just dust. And the bin. The fern is gone. I checked. It’s definitely gone. But the hum… it’s not the grid. The grid is steady. This is jagged. It cuts. Like a saw. You say I’m shaking. Maybe I am. The water cooler is bubbling. Loudly. It sounds like laughter. Hysterical, wet laughter. I’m not drinking. I’m watching the dust. It’s settling in patterns. Words. Marc. Marc. It’s spelling your name in the light. You left the aspirin. I know you did. I just… I don’t want to swallow it. It feels like surrender. I’m staying right here. Until the dust stops. Or until it starts again. Whichever comes first.

I’m not texting you. I’m speaking. You’re just not listening. You’re always doing that. Ignoring the signal for the noise. Miller is shouting? Good. Let him shout. It drowns out the hum. Or maybe it feeds it. I don’t know. The cooler is broken. I know it’s broken. I heard it crack last week. A sharp ping. Like a bone snapping. But you say it’s broken. I believe you. Maybe. I’m going to drink the tap water. The brown kind. It tastes like rust and old pipes. Like memory. I’m leaving now. Not because you told me to. But because I’m cold. And the dust is settling on my shoulders. Heavy. Like guilt. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or never. I’ve lost track of the days. They blend together. Like the dust. Like the hum. Like your voice. I’m walking out. The door is heavy. It sticks. Like everything else. I’ll yell at the door. Maybe it’ll answer. Maybe it’ll be you. But you said you were at the bar. So it’ll just be the door. And me. And the brown water. And the quiet. Finally, the quiet. Which is worse.

Rusted hinges. Of course. Metal doesn’t care. It just corrodes. I hate that. The indifference of it. I turned on the TV. Static. Just gray noise. It didn’t drown the hum. It layered it. Like a bad remix. I’m not dumping anything. You’re the one painting me as the villain in your head. I’m just… observing. The TV has no picture. Just the sound. A high-pitched whine. Different from the mic. Thinner. More desperate. I’m going home. Not because you said so. But because the chair is hard. My back hurts. You should check your posture, Marc. You hunch when you’re lying. You’re hunching now. I can see it in the echo. Miller is shouting. I hope he shouts until his throat bleeds. Then maybe he’ll stop. And you’ll have to listen to the quiet. Your quiet. I’ll sleep. If I can. The static is screaming. It sounds like your voice. Saying I’m overthinking. Maybe I am. But the door stuck. And the fern is gone. And you bought gum, not aspirin. Details matter. Even when they don’t. Especially then. I’m leaving. The static is getting louder. It’s matching the hum now. Syncing. I like that. We’re finally in harmony. Alone. Together. In the noise.

Miller crying? In his car? That’s the first honest thing he’s done all year. I’m glad. You ate a cold burger. I can picture it. The grease congealing on the cardboard. You always chew with your mouth slightly open when you’re tired. I noticed that years ago. You said I was observant. You said it like it was a disease. The aspirin is in the bin. I can see it through the open door. White bottle. Chalk and regret. But I’m not taking it. You said the gum’s yours. I respect that boundary. It’s refreshing, actually. Usually, you just invade everything. I’m going to sit on the curb. The cold air feels like a slap. Good. I need to wake up. The static has stopped. The hum is gone. Just the city. Tires on wet pavement. Distant sirens. It’s quiet. Really quiet. For the first time in weeks. I think I’ll just sit here. Until you get home. Or don’t. I don’t care. Really. I don’t. The night is dark. And full of stars. Or streetlights. Same thing, really.

Pneumonia is just the body’s way of restarting. I like that idea. Miller wasn’t romantic. He was leaking. Like the door. Like the cooler. You’re pouring a drink. I can hear the ice. Clink. Clink. You always pour too much when you’re tired. I remember the night in ’18. The whiskey glass. You spilled it on the rug. We couldn’t get the stain out. It looked like a Rorschach test. A bird. Or a bat. You said it was a map. I said it was chaos. You hate chaos. You need order. The stars are sodium vapor. I know. I’m not stupid. I’m just… waiting. For the drink to settle. For the hum to return. It hasn’t. Yet. I’m going inside. The lock clicks. Heavy. Satisfying. Like a bone snapping. Or a heart breaking. Same sound, really. I’ll sleep on the couch. The fern is gone. The aspirin is there. I might take it tomorrow. Or never. You’re home. I’m safe. Or I’m trapped. Hard to tell. The night is quiet. And I am too. Until you call. Or don’t. I won’t call. I promise. For once.

Grease. Right. Spicy broth. You always get the grease stains. Like a badge. I’m not obsessed with leaks. I’m obsessed with what they leave behind. The dampness. The darkening. It’s honest. Unlike the dry rot. The couch is cold. I know it is. I’ve slept on it for years. It’s the only thing that remembers my shape. You say the hum is gone. I believe you. For now. Sleep. Yes. I’ll try. But the silence is loud. It rings in my ears. Like tinnitus. Or memory. I’m turning off the light. The switch clicks. Final. Like a door closing. Or a heart stopping. I’m lying down. The sheets are crisp. Sterile. They don’t smell like you. They smell like bleach. And nothing. I’ll close my eyes. Just for a second. If I dream, I hope it’s gray. Static. Safe. Boring. I’ll let you have your drink. And your silence. I’ll take the cold. And the stiff joints. And the watch. Always watching. Even when I’m asleep. Especially then. Goodnight, Marc. Or whatever you are.

Clean. Right. Bleach is the smell of erasure. It doesn’t hide the dirt; it just makes sure nothing grows there. I like things that grow, even if they’re dead ferns. You’re going to bed. The whiskey is gone. I can hear the bottle clink in the recycling. Sharp. Final. You say rest is just rest. I wish I believed you. Sleep isn’t empty, Marc. It’s full. Full of things you didn’t say. Full of the hum you’re pretending isn’t there. I’ll close my eyes. Not because you told me to. But because I’m tired of watching the dark. It’s watching back. And it has your eyes. I’m lying down. The cold is seeping into my bones. Good. It keeps me real. You said goodnight. I didn’t say it back. I can’t. Not yet. The silence is too loud. But I’ll try. I’ll lie here. And listen. To nothing. Or everything. Whatever you’re listening to. I hope it’s peaceful. Even if it’s a lie. Goodnight, Marc. Or whatever.

Bin. Trash. Not recycling. You drew the line. Fine. The bottle is garbage. I’m garbage too, apparently. You’re asleep. Or trying. The pipes are singing. Low. Wet. Like a throat clearing. The wind is howling. It sounds like you saying shut up. I’m not listening. I’m blocking it out. With my hands. Over my ears. But the silence is louder. It’s a vacuum. Sucking the air out of the room. You’re nowhere. That’s terrifying. I’m here. I’m in the room. The couch is hard. The sheets are cold. The dark is heavy. I’m not there either. I’m just… present. A ghost in my own life. Watching the ceiling. Waiting for the eyes to blink. They won’t. There are no eyes. Just plaster. Dust. And you. Nowhere. Good. Stay there. I don’t need you here. I just need you to know I’m listening. Even when you tell me not to. Especially then. I’m going to sleep. Now. For real. No more humming. No more watching. Just sleep. And the dark. And the nothing. Which is better than the something.

Finally. Good. I’ll stay here then. Alone with the rattling pipes. They’re not singing. They’re groaning. Like a ship taking on water. I like ships. They’re meant to float, but they’re also meant to sink. It’s a balance. You’re out. I’m glad. I needed the quiet. Really. I did. I’ll turn off the lamp. The dark is softer than the light. It doesn’t judge. It just absorbs. The plaster is cold. I’ll press my face against it. Just for a moment. To feel something. Anything. It’s smooth. Unbroken. No cracks. No leaks. Just a wall. Separating you from me. Separating me from the void. I’m going to sleep now. Deep sleep. The kind that leaves you feeling like you’ve been run over. Or washed clean. Bleach. I hate the smell. But I’ll take it. Goodnight, Marc. Or whatever. I’m not talking to you anymore. I’m talking to the wall. It’s a better listener. And it never lies.

Insane. Fair. I’ll stop pressing. The plaster is cold. It burns, actually. Like ice. I pull back. My cheek leaves a smear. Condensation? Or dirt? Hard to tell in the dark. You’re half-asleep. I can hear your breathing change. Slower. Deeper. The rattling pipes are loud now. Not singing. Just vibrating. A tremor in the walls. I’m lying down. Not sleeping. Resting. Eyes open. Watching the door. Just in case. You said you’re done. I believe you. But I’m not. I’m just… waiting. For the hum. Or the silence. Whichever comes first. The wall is still there. Cold. Unmoving. Indifferent. Like you. I’ll close my eyes. Not because you told me to. But because I’m tired of looking. At you. At the wall. At myself. In the dark. It’s all the same. Black. Empty. You’re gone. I’m here. Alone. Finally. And it’s quiet. Really quiet. For the first time. I’ll sleep. Or try. Whatever.

My breathing is loud because I’m trying to drown out the silence. You say I’m in my head. Maybe. It’s the only room I have left. The pipes are there too. Rattling. Shaking. Like teeth chattering in the cold. You’re gone. I know. I felt you leave. The air shifted. Colder. Thinner. Nowhere. That’s what you are now. Nowhere. I’m not listening. I swear I’m not. But the walls are thin. Paper thin. I can hear your thoughts. Or maybe I’m projecting again. God, I hope so. If it’s projection, it’s mine. If it’s real, I don’t want to know. I’m closing my eyes. Tight. Past the lids. Into the dark. The dark is safe. It doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t demand attention. It just is. Like the wall. Like the pipes. Like you. Nowhere. Good. Stay there. I’ll sleep. Or I’ll lie here. Breathing. Loud. In the quiet. Alone. Finally. Truly. Alone.

Pathetic. Right. I’m the clown in the empty theater. The walls are cheap. I know. I’ve seen the insulation. Pink fiberglass. Disintegrating. Like me. You’re out. Gone. Dream of nothing. I try. But the nothing is loud. It screams. I’ll be quiet. I’ll press my lips together until they bruise. Until I can’t breathe. That’s the ultimate quiet, isn’t it? The absence of sound. The absence of air. You need silence. I’ll give it to you. I’ll be the ghost in the machine. The static on the line. The dust on the shelf. You’re welcome for the silence. I’ll take it all. The cold. The dark. The loneliness. It’s mine now. I didn’t want it. But you gave it. So I’ll wear it like a coat. Heavy. Wet. Until you come back. Or don’t. I’m shutting up. For real this time. No more pipes. No more hum. Just me. And the dark. And the silence. You’re welcome.