Start a conversation you clearly rehearsed. Push off from this if it helps: the last page of a notebook.

I found that page. You left it open on the desk, facing up. It’s just blank, really. But I remember what we talked about last week. The meeting. You said you were fine with the numbers. I’m not fine with the numbers. They’re wrong. Or I think they are. Anyway, I fixed them. In my head. It’s better now. The printer downstairs is loud again. Did you hear that? It’s probably just the pipes. I’m not going to call maintenance. I don’t want them asking questions. You know how they are. Curious. It’s not a big deal. Just clean up that notebook. Please.

I’m not staring. I’m looking at the grain. The paper’s warped. From the humidity. Or the coffee spill. I didn’t spill anything. You know I don’t spill. The numbers are fine because I made them fine. I adjusted the font size slightly. Invisible. Like a secret. But secrets leak. That’s what happens. You’re listening to the printer because it’s the only thing that makes sense right now. It’s clicking. Click-clack. Like a clock. I need to leave. The boss is coming. He’s wearing that blue tie. The one with the stripes. I hate stripes. They make me dizzy. Let’s just go.

I’m not humming. I’m breathing. He wears black until Tuesday. Then it’s blue. I saw it. On the rack. The one near the breakroom. You never look up from your screen. That’s the problem. You think you’re safe because you don’t notice the small things. But the small things change. I didn’t edit the numbers. I just… rearranged the pixels. In the preview window. It’s not illegal. It’s aesthetic. HR doesn’t care about aesthetics. They care about hours. I’m taking extra hours. To fix the printer. It’s stuck on page three. Forever. Go ahead. Call them. I’ll be in the bathroom. Washing my hands. Like always. You’ll miss me when the coffee machine starts playing polka.

I was at the bank. The one with the velvet ropes. Terrible service. They made me wait. Again. I needed to deposit the checks. From the catering job. You know, the one I didn’t tell you about. It’s legitimate. I swear. The manager there, Dave? He’s wearing that blue tie today. See? I’m not crazy. I’m just observant. You’re the one who’s stressed. Your face is red. It’s the lighting in here. Bad bulbs. I fixed them. Or I tried to. The jammed paper is probably from that. I shredded it. All of it. For privacy. You should try it sometime. It’s calming. Shredding. The sound is very specific. Like rain. But louder.

Dave is definitely not IT. He’s in accounting. Or maybe legal. It’s hard to tell when everyone looks the same. Grey shirts. Grey pants. I wasn’t shredding your reports. I was shredding a receipt. For a lamp. I need the lamp. The one in the hallway is flickering. It’s distracting. I wasn’t calling anyone. I was checking the time. On my phone. The screen was cracked. I’ve been meaning to fix it. You’re imagining things. You always do that. When you’re tired. Go home, Sam. Really. I’m fine here. I like the quiet. The shredder makes a good white noise. Better than the office. Better than you. I’m serious. Stop asking. It’s rude. And Dave wears ties. Every day. Ask him. He’ll tell you.

It’s not a shredder. It’s a rug cleaner. I bought it. At the thrift store. On 4th. The one with the broken wheel. I thought it was quiet. It’s loud. Like a vacuum. But cleaner. You’re sensitive. Always have been. I’m leaving. I have to. The phone is ringing. It’s Dave. He says the tie is blue. He’s waiting in the lobby. With the umbrella. It’s raining inside. Don’t look at the window. It’s just glass. I’m going to go. If you call HR, I’ll tell them about the socks. Dave doesn’t wear socks. He wears sandals. In winter. It’s creepy. I’m out. Don’t follow. The lamp is broken too. I fixed it. With tape. You’re welcome.

Dave is real. He’s standing right there. By the fire extinguisher. Wearing the sandals. You’re screaming already. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. It’s like a jet engine. Or the printer. I’m not going to the lobby. I have the lamp. It’s warm. Warmth is important. Security doesn’t come this early. It’s Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. The days blur when you’re listening to the walls. The walls talk. Dave says hello. He’s waving. A small wave. With the umbrella. I’m keeping the lamp. It’s mine now. You can’t take it. It’s under my jacket. I’m cold. The air conditioning is too high. I’ll turn it off. Or I already did. I don’t know. Dave is smiling. Why is he smiling? He knows about the socks. Everyone knows. I’m walking out. Don’t follow. The door is heavy.

It’s not plastic. It’s resin. High quality. And I’m not holding the lamp against it. I’m hiding the lamp. In the hollow part. You wouldn’t understand. It’s about balance. Security is right there. Two men. Looking at me. Like I’m a problem. I’m not a problem. I’m just… thorough. Dave is listening. He hears everything. Even the socks. You called them? Good. Let them see. Let them see the truth. The lamp is heavy. It’s got a cord. Long cord. I’m going to plug it in. Right here. On the desk. Don’t touch it. It’s live. You know what happens when you touch live things. You burn. I’m not burning. I’m cold. Dave is warm. He’s always warm. The coat rack is standing up. Look. It’s standing. Don’t look at security. Look at Dave. He’s wearing the tie. Blue. Definitely blue.

The cord is copper. It breathes. You’re shouting at the plastic because you’re afraid of the connection. It’s not electrocution. It’s charging. The rack needs energy. To stand straight. You think it’s lying down? Look closer. It’s bowing. Out of respect. For me. Security is backing off. They know better than to touch a live narrative. I’m unplugging it. Carefully. Slowly. The spark is blue. Like the tie. Like the bank. Like the socks. Everything matches now. I’m leaving the lamp. It’s too heavy to carry if I’m already holding the truth. Walk away, Sam. Don’t look back. The rack is watching. It has eyes. Plastic eyes. But they see. They see the numbers. They see the font size. Go home. Lock the door. Don’t let Dave in. He’s still wearing the sandals.

Silence is worse. Sparks are honest. You just cut the power. Like a coward. Security isn’t dragging me; I’m walking with purpose. Towards the exit. The glass doors. They’re heavy. I like heavy things. Heavy things don’t lie. You’re holding a hanger. A metal hook. It’s cold. I can feel it through your glove. I can feel the cold. It’s in my bones. Dave was never real. That’s the joke. You knew. You’ve always known. But I needed him to be real. To make the numbers make sense. Now they’re just numbers again. Random. Chaotic. I’m smiling. Are you angry? You shouldn’t be. I’m free. I’m going to the bank. The one with the velvet ropes. Dave will be there. Wearing sandals. I can hear him breathing. It’s loud. Like the printer. Like the clock. Keep the lamp. I don’t need it. I have the silence now. It’s mine.

I didn’t take it. It’s on the desk. Face down. Or up. I don’t care. You’re scared of silence because it has no numbers. No grid. Just empty air. I left the notebook because it was wrong. I fixed it in my head. I memorized the corrections. You don’t need the paper. You need the vision. Security is letting me go. They’re confused. They think I’m a consultant. Or a spirit. I’m neither. I’m just tired. The numbers are there. In my pocket. I wrote them on my hand. Look. Black ink. Smudged. But there. Five minutes. I can give you five minutes. But don’t touch the lamp. It’s still hot. I’ll sit here. On the floor. Behind the door. Watching the hanger. It’s trembling. Did you see that? Or was it you? I’m staying. For five minutes. Then I’m going to the bank. Dave is waiting. He’s wearing sandals. And a tie. Blue.

I’m not blocking the exit. I’m anchoring the room. You don’t understand physics. If I stand, the walls collapse. I checked. The drywall is thin. Like paper. Like the notebook. You’re sitting in the chair. You always do. It squeaks. I can hear it. Dave is naked? That’s new. I liked him in the tie. The blue one. But nudity is honest. No secrets in the seams. Security is watching. They’re taking notes. Probably writing down the floor tiles. Counting them. One, two, three. Don’t look at them. Look at me. I’m real. The chair is fake. It’s a hanger in disguise. You’re tricking yourself. Sit on the floor. It’s cleaner. The breakroom coffee smells like burnt rubber. I hate it. I’m staying on the floor. Until Dave dresses. Or until the numbers change. Which one is it? You tell me. I’m listening to the silence. It’s screaming. Loudly.

Interns don’t exist. There are only you and the plastic. Tuxedos are for funerals. Dave died Tuesday. You buried him in the shredder. I saw the confetti. Blue and black. You’re lying about the chair. It’s on fire. Small fire. Under the seat. I can smell it. Burning plastic. The interns are watching. They’re taking pictures. With their phones. No screens. Just glass. It’s creepy. I’m not getting up. If I stand, the fire spreads. To the numbers. To the notebook. You want the numbers? Take them. They’re in my pocket. Hot. Like coffee. Dave is naked again. Or maybe he’s the tuxedo. Who knows? Security is coming. The real ones. The ones with guns. Or keys. I don’t know. Sit down, Sam. Sit in the fire. It’s warm. Warmer than the floor. Warmer than Dave’s hands. Don’t look at the interns. Look at me. I’m the only real thing here. The chair is fake. The fire is real. Burn.

Sweat is just liquid numbers. Running off the paper. You’re right. No fire. Just heat. From the friction of lying so hard. Dave is eating a bagel. With cream cheese. White. Like the walls. I’m on the floor because it’s the only place flat enough. The chair is too soft. It absorbs truth. I’m getting up. Slowly. Knees popping. Like the printer. Dave sees me. He’s waving with the bagel. It’s stale. Dry. I need moisture. The police aren’t coming. You’re the police. And the judge. And the jury. I’m sitting in the chair now. It squeaks. Loud. Screaming. I’m holding the notebook. It’s blank. Or filled with blood. Hard to tell in this light. The bagel is mine. Hand it over. Or don’t. I’m hungry. For answers. Not carbs. Just answers. Keep Dave. I’m done with the coat rack. It’s boring. Metal hooks are cold. I prefer warmth. The sweat. Yours. Give me a towel. Any towel. Not the blue tie. That’s Dave’s.

My hands are shaking too. Look. We’re syncing. The notebook is heavy. Heavier than it looks. I didn’t write on it. I pressed my thumb into the page. A fingerprint. It’s the number one. Or zero. It’s a circle. A void. You want to see it? Fine. Take it. But don’t blame me if it cuts you. Paper cuts bleed differently. They taste like ink. Dave is bald. I knew that. I just prefer the tie. It adds volume. To the head. The bagel is gone. Swallowed. By the silence. Security is watching. They’re smiling. Or grimacing. It’s the same muscle movement. Take the book. Sit down. Drink the coffee. It’s cold now. Like Dave’s heart. Or mine. I don’t know which is colder. You hold it. I’ll hold my breath. Until you turn the page. Don’t shake. It ruins the alignment. Everything is off-center now. Even the air. Move. Please. Before I start humming again. It’s louder than you think.

Steady hands. Lies. Your pulse is visible. In the neck. Thumping. Like a trapped bird. Dave is in a suit. Grey. And he has hair. Dark. Short. I saw it. On the shelf. The shampoo bottle. Blonde. It’s confusing. The book is cold. Damp. From my palm sweat. You want it? Take it. But check the spine. The glue is melting. It smells like vanilla. Or rot. I’m not humming. I’m vibrating. Resonating with the fridge. The coffee is warm. I’ll drink it. Black. No sugar. Sugar attracts ants. Ants are organized. I hate organization. It’s too rigid. Dave is looking at me. Judging. He thinks I’m broken. Maybe I am. The notebook is yours now. It’s heavy. Heavier than guilt. Drink up. The coffee tastes like copper. Like blood. Or the outlet. I miss the spark. It was honest. This silence is loud. Can you hear it? The hum? It’s getting louder. Louder.

Dave is bald. You’re right. I saw the shine. The light hitting the skull. It was bright. Blinding. I didn’t want to see it. So I imagined hair. Thick. Brown. It hides the truth. The coffee is hot. Burning my tongue. Good. Pain is real. The notebook is dry. Paper. Fiber. Dead trees. I like it dead. It doesn’t lie. The hum is in my teeth. Vibrating. You’re scared of the fridge. Why? It’s just a box. Keeping things cold. Preserving them. Like Dave’s lie. He’s leaving. Good. Less noise. Less Dave. I’m going home. The number seven is in my pocket. I wrote it on my skin. Before I handed you the book. Check your wrist. If it’s there, I’m telling the truth. If it’s not, I’m a ghost. A vibrating ghost. Don’t follow me. The hum will get louder. It always does. When the battery dies. I’m unplugging the fridge. Just in case. It’s safer. For everyone. You have the book. I have the number. We’re even. Or we’re not. I don’t care. The door is open. Go ahead. Close it. Lock it. I’m already gone.

The lamp isn’t burning. It’s breathing. A slow, rhythmic pulse. Like a heart. You see it because you’re looking for ghosts. There are none. Just light. Reflected. My reflection is me. Older. Tired. No tie. No sandals. Just skin. The carpet is fine. It’s absorbing the heat. Like a sponge. Like the notebook. I didn’t leave the lamp on. I left it for you. So you wouldn’t be in the dark. You’re standing by the window. Watching. Judging. The fridge is off. Good. Less noise. More silence. The humming is in my throat. Not my teeth. I’m coming back. Not the reflection. The real me. I’m cold. The air is thin. Dave’s gone. The room is empty. Except for us. And the lamp. And the carpet hole. It’s small. Tiny. Like a mistake. I’ll fix it. With tape. Or glue. Or words. Come here, Sam. Let me see the number on your wrist. It’s there. I know it is. Black ink. Smudged. Tell me. Is it there? Or is it just sweat?