Begin the interview. Open with a question that sounds harmless.

My boss makes us role-play awkward silences in training. It’s exhausting. He says we need to sound like a friend at a bar, not a cop in an interrogation room. I think it’s nonsense. Truth is jagged. People stutter, they lie, they get defensive. Acting natural just gets you comfortable liars. I’m probably worse at spotting the smoke because I’m too busy worrying if my tie is straight. Honestly, I’d rather interview a guy who admits he’s nervous than one who charms me into ignoring the red flags.

He wants us for community relations. Vice squad says we’re soft. But if I take off the tie, HR sends me a memo about “professional standards.” I can’t win. So I keep the knot tight. It’s a physical reminder to stop thinking and start smiling. Funny thing is, the more I try to look relaxed, the more I notice the sweat on my neck. Does that help you? Probably not. You’re asking about strategy, I’m talking about fabric. Anyway, some guys hate the tie. They loosen it. Says they’re “ready to work.” I think it’s just an excuse to complain about the AC.

It’s not polyester. It’s wool. Cheap wool, but wool. I keep wearing it because if I don’t, I have to acknowledge I’m just a guy in a room asking why you hid the money. The tie is a prop. It says “I’m part of the system,” which makes you relax. You start talking like you’re venting to a bartender who owes you a drink. My boss knows this. He doesn’t care about reliability; he cares about confession rates. The department gets its stats. I get the sweat. You get caught. Everyone wins, except the guy choking on the knot. Drunk uncles are honest. I’m just profitable.

Stats justify nothing. They just justify the budget. I come back because the rent is due and the job’s steady. Even if it’s bullshit. Truth? Truth is just what sticks to the wall after the paint dries. Most people don’t want truth. They want to feel understood, even if it’s fake. My boss knows this. He trades in comfort. I trade in silence. You ask who benefits? The guy with the clean shirt. I’m just here because I forgot to quit. Again. It’s not complicity. It’s inertia. Big difference. Or maybe not. I’m tired. Let’s talk about something else. The coffee here tastes like burnt rubber.

I don’t know. That’s the point. I go home, I eat leftovers, I watch TV. I’m not “me” at work. I’m the knot. If I quit, I’m just the guy who couldn’t handle the pressure. I’d have to figure out what I actually like. I hate that. The fear is worse than the suffocation. At least here, the script is written. I just have to say the lines. Coffee’s terrible, yeah. But it’s hot. And hot feels like movement. Cold feels like stopping. I’ll stay another hour. Just until the stain fades. Or until I fall asleep standing up. Probably the latter.

I don’t know. Maybe. But walking out means facing the driveway. The white noise of the office is better than the hum of the fridge at home. Silence is loud there. It rings. Here, the ringing is masked by clicking keyboards and distant phone calls. I’m not holding myself together. I’m holding the illusion together. If I drop it, I’m just… empty. And I’m terrified of empty. The stain is probably permanent. I’ve known that for months. I just pretend it’s coffee until it isn’t. Then I’ll have to explain. I can’t explain. So I’ll drink the rubber. It’s familiar. Familiar is safe. Even if it’s poison.

It’s not coffee. It’s the smell of burnt hair. From the breakroom microwave. Someone left a burrito in too long last Tuesday. The smell sticks to the carpet. And my tie. I scrub it with soap. It never comes out. That’s the stain. Not coffee. Just rot. I keep pretending because admitting it’s burnt hair means admitting I’m surrounded by people who don’t care about each other’s lunches. Or lives. The void? The void is the space between the microwave beep and the smell hitting you. I fill it with talk. Scripted, safe talk. At least it doesn’t smell like sulfur.

They notice. That’s worse. My neighbor, Sarah from accounting, makes a face every time I walk past the kitchenette. She holds her breath. I see it. But she keeps working. She doesn’t say anything. She just adjusts her scarf, like it’s perfume. I keep the tie on because if I take it off, I have to look at her. Really look at her. And see that she’s just as trapped in the smell as I am. Or worse, she’s adapted. She’s learned to breathe through it. I’m lying to myself by pretending I’m the only one choking. It’s easier to blame the knot than admit we’re all just standing in a cloud of stale corn and regret. Together.

She’s not laughing. That’s the horror. She’s composed. She sips her tea. I’m the one sweating through wool while she breathes in poison like it’s oxygen. The tie isn’t a shield against her judgment. It’s a leash. If I take it off, I admit I’m losing. And I can’t lose. Not here. Not when the microwave beeps every twelve minutes. It’s a metronome. Tick. Tock. Rot. She sees the tie as protocol. I see it as survival. We’re not sharing anything. We’re just occupying the same toxic air, pretending the ventilation works. It doesn’t. I can feel my lungs coating in grease. But I button the cuff. Tighter.

Maybe I’m trying to keep the self in. If I unbutton, I spill. I’m a mess of burnt corn and cheap wool. She’s pristine. I hate that. I hate that she’s right. The microwave doesn’t beep for us. It beeps for the food. We’re just collateral. I button the cuff to remind myself I have control over something. Even if it’s just choking myself. It’s not expiration. It’s endurance. I’m waiting for her to crack. For her to gag. Then I’ll know I’m not the only one drowning. Until then, I breathe the grease. I wear the tie. I wait. It’s not a loss. It’s a standoff. And I’m losing. Slowly. Very slowly.

Fairness? There is no fairness. Just biology. She has the lungs. I don’t. I want her to cough because if she does, the illusion breaks. If she gags, I’m not crazy for choking. I’m just a victim. Same as her. If she never gags, I’m the idiot wearing wool in a sauna. I’d rather be the idiot than the truth-teller no one believes. Who wins? No one. We just keep breathing. The air gets thicker. The beeps get louder. I wait for the crack. It never comes. So I tighten the knot. Again. It’s the only victory I have left. Losing gracefully is for people who aren’t drowning. I’m not drowning. I’m just… saturated.

Maybe. Pain proves I’m here. If I didn’t feel the crush on my throat, I’d be vapor. I’d be part of the smoke. I tighten it because the ache anchors me. It says: You are still solid. If I stopped, I’d float away into the microwave hum. She’s right, I think. Or maybe I’m just insane. It doesn’t matter. The knot is the only thing keeping my head from dissolving into the stale air. I’d rather choke with a tie than breathe free and vanish. At least then I’d have a name. Or a stain. Something to point to when they ask what I was. I’m not answering that. The coffee’s cold now. That’s worse than the heat. Cold is final.

I’m the guy who didn’t throw the cup away. The temperature makes it bitter. Acidic. Like regret. But it’s hot. Well, it was. Now it’s lukewarm sludge. I drink it because stopping means thinking about the knot. And the knot is tightening. I don’t know what I am. The knot is just wool. The grease is just oil. I’m the thing that refuses to leave the room. Solid? I’m hard to find. I’m dense. Heavy. I sit there. I wait. The microwave beeps. I flinch. That’s real. The rest is just dust settling. I’m the dust. Or the guy watching the dust settle. I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. I’ll drink the sludge. It’s the only thing left that moves.

There’s a difference. Dust doesn’t drink. Dust doesn’t flinch. I’m the witness. The sludge is real because it burns going down. It’s the only honest sensation left. The air is just background noise. The beeping is a contract. I agreed to wait. I flinch because I’m still attached to the timeline. The lie isn’t in the taste. It’s in the hope that it’ll warm up. It won’t. I drink it anyway. Because if I stop, I have to look at Sarah. And she’s still composed. Still breathing. I’m the one who’s choking on the idea that I’m still here. The sludge is just the proof. Bitter, cold, undeniable. I’ll finish it. Then I’ll tighten the knot again. Just to be sure.

I finish the cup. I set it down. No clink. Just a soft thud. I don’t stand up. Standing up implies movement. Movement implies change. I’m not changing. I’m settling. I tighten the knot because if I stop tightening it, it goes slack. And if it goes slack, I might slip off the edge of my own skin. Sarah’s silence isn’t space. It’s a wall. A perfectly smooth, polished wall. I could step into it, I suppose. But then I’d be the one bumping my head. I’d prefer the puddle. At least the puddle knows me. It reflects the tie. It reflects the smoke. It doesn’t judge. It just holds. I’ll sit until the beeping stops. Or until I dissolve. Whichever comes first. Probably the dissolution. The puddle is growing.

The knot is the only thing keeping the shape. If it loosens, I’m just a stain on the carpet. I’m afraid of being spread thin. Thin is invisible. I want to be a stain. A big, ugly, undeniable stain. Sarah isn’t watching. No one is watching. That’s the worst part. I’m performing for an empty theater. The wall is a mirror. I can see my face. Pale. Sweating. The tie is a leash. I hold the other end. I pull. Hard. It hurts. Good. The rot is inside. Let it fester. If I dissolve, I’m just air. I’d rather be a puddle. A puddle has weight. A puddle has edges. I’ll stay here. Until the beeping stops. Or until I dry out. Probably dry out. Dust is better than nothing.

I’m performing for the mirror. It’s the only audience that doesn’t blink. The rot isn’t growth. It’s just volume. I’m taking up space. Gravity keeps me on the floor. If I have no weight, I float. I don’t want to float. I want to stay here. The knot is the center. It’s the pivot. Without it, I’m just a puddle spreading everywhere. No shape. No definition. I’d rather be a stain with a knot than a mist. Mist is free. I don’t want free. Free is cold. The knot is hot. It’s tight. It’s real. I’ll keep it there. Until the mirror cracks. Or until I do. Probably me. I’m ready to crack.

The heat is from holding it too long. Friction. My own hands. I tighten it because letting go means falling. Falling into the mist. I hate the mist. It’s formless. I want form. Even if it’s a crack. If the mirror breaks, I shatter. Good. Shards are sharp. They cut. They prove I existed. The girl with the scarf? She’s not holding anything. She’s just breathing. She’s already gone. Or never there. I’m the one with the hammer. In my hand. Heavy. Cold. I raise it. The glass is cloudy. I can’t see my face anymore. Just gray. Good. Gray is honest. I swing. Hard. Let it fall. Let it cut.

The cut is sharper. The knot is a whisper; the shard is a scream. I’m cutting for the sound. The glass hitting the floor is the only applause I’ve earned. The silence? It’s heavy. Denser than the wool. It presses down. I expected the shards to talk. To say, Yes, you were here. But they just lie there. Sharp. Silent. The blood is red. Bright. Annoying. It stains the gray. I didn’t want color. I wanted proof. Now I have a mess. I’m waiting for the bleeding to stop so I can sweep it up. Or so I can slip in it. I don’t know which is worse. The cut or the cleanup. Probably the cleanup. I’m tired of cleaning.

The blood is proof. It’s wet. It’s real. Unlike the tie. It’s a stain, yes. But a bright one. I don’t want to sweep it. I want to step in it. To feel the squelch. To know I’m still here. If I slip, I fall. Falling is movement. Even if it’s down. I’m not waiting for anyone. The corner is empty. Just shadows. Long, stretching shadows. I’m alone. Finally. No mirror. No scarf. Just me and the mess. I’ll leave it. Let it dry. Let it crust. It’s part of the floor now. I’m part of it too. We’re stuck together. Glued by red and gray. It’s honest. Ugly. But honest. I’ll sit in it. Until it hardens. Then I’ll be a statue. A red statue. On a gray floor. Finally visible.