Kit
Do you ever find yourself humming a tune you can’t quite place, the one that loops in your head for days until it just stops, or are you better at focusing on the actual task in front of you?
Begin the interview. Open with a question that sounds harmless.
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voices Sceptical
Hana
The alarm clock tone. That shrill, two-tone thing I bought three years ago. It’s been stuck in my skull since Tuesday. I tried to ignore it while filing the quarterly reports, but my pen kept tapping the rhythm. It’s maddening. I don’t focus; I just endure. My brain won’t let it go until I finally muted the phone, but now it’s just… echoing. Like a memory that hasn’t happened yet.
Kit
So you silenced the source, but the phantom noise persists, louder perhaps because the silence is sudden. Does the actual office environment feel quieter now, or does the lack of real sound just make the internal echo more deafening?
Hana
Deafening is right. The HVAC hum sounds like static now. I keep looking at the empty cubicles, hoping someone will talk just to break the spell. But nobody does. We’re all just sitting here, waiting for the email that never comes. It’s not quiet; it’s heavy. Like the air itself is holding its breath. I miss the noise. Even the bad kind. At least the bad kind was real.
Kit
Is it the silence you’re actually afraid of, or the fact that without the noise, you might have to admit you don’t know what to do with yourself?
Hana
Stop. That’s too much. I’m just tired. I want to go home. My feet hurt. The shoes are wrong. I bought them on a whim, like everything else lately. I don’t know what I’m doing here. None of us do. We just sit. We wait. We hum. That’s it. Let’s not pretend there’s a deeper horror in the empty chairs. It’s just boredom. Boredom with a side of panic.
Kit
Do you think the shoes actually hurt, or is that just the physical proof that you’re still moving, that you’re still present in a room that feels like it’s shrinking?
Hana
Shut up. The leather is stiff. I twisted my ankle yesterday just walking to the coffee machine. It’s not a metaphor. It’s a sprain. I put ice on it. I’m not “present.” I’m immobilized by discomfort. You think pain is a luxury here? It’s just another thing to manage. Like the hum. Like the silence. It’s all just noise until it breaks. And then what? We fix it. Then we sit again.
Kit
You’re already pacing in your head, aren’t you? Tracing the perimeter of the cubicle, measuring the distance to the exit like it’s a marathon. Why do you think the hallway is always longer than you remember, even when you’ve walked it a thousand times?
Hana
I’m not pacing. I’m stuck. The hallway isn’t longer. It’s the fluorescent lights. They flicker. Just once. But it makes the walls feel like they’re closing in. I’ve walked it a thousand times. I know the tiles. One’s cracked near the breakroom. I step over it every day. It’s not a marathon. It’s a trap. And I’m just waiting for the bell. But it never rings.
Kit
Do you ever wonder if the crack in the tile is the only honest thing in this building, the one flaw that proves the structure isn’t perfect, or do you just keep stepping over it because admitting it’s broken means admitting you’re trapped?
Hana
I step over it because looking at the floor is easier than looking at you. That crack isn’t honesty. It’s just decay. It’s what happens when nobody fixes anything. I don’t care about the trap. I care that my back is killing me from sitting too straight. You’re inventing meaning because you can’t handle the emptiness. I’m just trying to get to lunch. The sandwich place on 4th is closed. Again.
Kit
Does the sandwich place closing make you angry, or does it just confirm that nothing here actually works, not the floor, not the lights, maybe not even the people pretending to work?
Hana
Angry? No. Just… resigned. It’s the third time this month. I don’t care about the people. They’re just faces. We nod. We sign. We leave. The building is a machine. It grinds us down. I’m just a cog with a sprained ankle. If the lights go out, I’ll walk home. If the floor breaks, I’ll fall. It’s all so mundane. Why do you make it sound like a conspiracy? It’s just Tuesday. And it’s boring.
Kit
So if it’s just Tuesday, why are you still talking to me instead of walking out? Don’t you have that sandwich to miss? Or is the waiting easier than the walking, given the ankle?
Hana
Because walking hurts. My ankle is throbbing. I can’t just leave. The boss is watching. Or pretending to. I’m stuck here, hummed out and sore. You think I have options? I have a break at twelve. Until then, I sit. I type. I ignore the crack in the tile. It’s not waiting. It’s surviving. And you’re annoying me. Stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle you’re trying to solve. I’m just tired. That’s all.
Kit
Does the boss actually watch, or is that just the fear talking, the same way you’re projecting this labyrinth onto a room that’s just drywall and desperate people?
Hana
He watches. Always. Eyes darting like a hawk’s. I saw him earlier, lingering by the copier, smiling at no one. It’s not paranoia if he’s actually there. You think it’s drywall? It’s bone. We’re eating each other alive and calling it synergy. I’m not projecting. I’m observing. You’re the one trying to make it abstract. It’s concrete. It’s sticky. And I’m stuck in it.
Kit
So if it’s concrete, sticky, why haven’t you wiped your feet and walked out the door yet? Is the boss really the only thing holding you there, or is it something else you’re afraid to name?
Hana
Because if I walk out, I admit I’m useless. The boss? He’s just a man with bad breath and a tie too tight. I stay because I don’t have anywhere else to be. My apartment is empty. The streets are loud. Here, at least, I have a purpose. Even if it’s just staring at the screen. It’s safer than the void. You don’t get it. You’re just a voice. I’m the one with the rent due.
Kit
So the rent is the anchor, not the work. And the empty apartment is the void. But if you stay here, staring at the screen until your eyes bleed, does the check clear any slower, or do you just feel more like a ghost in a machine that’s already broken?
Hana
Check clears fine. That’s the joke. I’m not a ghost. I’m a line item. You think I want to be here? I want to sleep. But the rent doesn’t care about my eyes. It cares about the number. I stare because moving means thinking. Thinking means the apartment. The silence. The hum. Here, I’m just a body. A warm one. That has to be enough. It has to be.