The flickering lights overhead stutter in their usual way, buzzing just enough to get under my skin. I stare at the spreadsheet in front of me, numbers blurring together like they do every day. A couple of clicks, some copy and paste, drag cells over, reformat, and repeat. It's mechanical at this point. I could probably do it in my sleep—and some days, I wonder if I already am.
I lean back in my chair, glancing up at the ceiling, where the fluorescent tubes flicker weakly, casting a jittery light over the cubicle farm. There's something about that buzzing sound, like it's trying to worm its way into my head. I can feel it humming beneath my skin, in sync with the dull thrum of the office.
It's funny. I used to think that by this age, I'd be doing something—anything—else. Something important. Or at least something I didn't despise. But here I am, twenty-eight years old, trapped in a grey cubicle, doing the same tasks day in and day out, watching my life slip away one spreadsheet at a time.
This is what adulthood is, right? You get a job, settle into the routine, pay your bills, and hope for a promotion that never really makes anything better. I tell myself that at least I have a steady paycheck, a roof over my head, and a warm cup of coffee. There's comfort in the routine. At least, that's what I try to believe.
But the truth? The truth is, it feels like I'm slowly dissolving into this place.
I glance around the office. Every cubicle looks exactly the same—rows and rows of beige walls, faintly illuminated by the flickering lights above. The only sounds are the constant hum of computers and the occasional shuffle of papers, punctuated by the faint clicking of keyboards. It's the same every day. Always the same.
Across the way, I can see my co-workers—heads down, lost in their own little worlds. I've worked with some of these people for years, and I don't even know half their names. They don't talk much, just the occasional nod or polite smile when we cross paths at the coffee machine. We're all just cogs in the machine, doing our part, silently accepting that this is how it's supposed to be.
I turn back to my monitor, squinting at the numbers again, but something feels... off. Like a tiny, nagging itch at the back of my mind. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there, lurking just beyond the edge of my awareness.
I try to focus, but my eyes keep drifting to the side, to the corner of my desk. My coffee mug—it's on the left. That's odd. I always keep it on the right, right next to the mouse. I reach for it instinctively, but my hand stops midway. Did I move it without realizing? I don't remember doing that.
It's stupid. My mind's playing tricks on me.
I shake my head, take a sip, and force myself to focus. Just tired. It's been a long week. But that itch, that nagging sense of something being wrong, won't go away.
I tap away at the keyboard, each keystroke blending into the next, the sound almost hypnotic. But as I type, I notice something strange. For a split second, my fingers feel... wrong.
It's hard to explain. It's like they're out of sync with the keys, like they're not hitting the letters where they're supposed to. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but they feel distant, like they belong to someone else. I pause, staring down at my hands. Everything looks normal, but for that brief moment, it felt like my body wasn't my own.
I shake it off. Just tired, I think to myself again. Too many late nights, too much staring at screens. It's easy to lose focus when you've been doing the same thing for hours on end.
I take a breath, flex my fingers, and try to push the weird sensation aside. I must've just zoned out for a second. But the feeling lingers, that small sliver of doubt creeping in. Something about it unsettles me, more than it should.
I glance at the clock on my screen—almost lunchtime. Maybe a walk outside would help clear my head.
I reach for my coffee mug again, this time deliberately placing it on the right side of my desk, right next to the mouse, like I always do. I take another sip, the bitter taste doing little to shake off the unease that's been creeping up on me all morning.
An email notification pings, pulling me back to the screen. More data entries to review, more mind-numbing numbers. I dive back into the task, trying to let the monotony drown out the strange thoughts swirling in my head.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. The mug. Sitting on the left side of my desk.
I stop, staring at it. I just put it on the right side, didn't I? My hand was right there, my fingers wrapped around the handle. I know I put it down on the right. But there it is, mocking me from the other side of the desk like it's always been there.
I blink, trying to make sense of it. Did I absentmindedly move it again? I don't remember doing that. My thoughts race, but I force a laugh. It's ridiculous, really. Maybe I'm just more tired than I thought. Little details slip sometimes. The mind plays tricks.
Still, a faint unease curls in my gut, a nagging voice in the back of my mind whispering that something's wrong. I can't quite place it, but it's there, lurking in the smallest of things.
I take the mug, deliberately placing it back on the right side of the desk, slowly, as if testing reality itself. My hand lingers over it for a second longer than necessary before I let go. This time, I watch it, waiting for it to move on its own. Of course, it doesn't.
Satisfied, I lean back in my chair, telling myself it was nothing. But the discomfort is still there, scratching at the edges of my mind. Little things... they shouldn't bother me like this. But they do.
The hours drag on, as they always do. The rhythmic clicking of keys, the low hum of computers, the rustle of paper—it all blurs together into the background of my day. But today, there's something else. Something out of place.
It starts as a faint sound, just on the edge of my hearing. A soft, irregular thump. At first, I think it's just someone shifting in their chair or the typical creaks of the old office building. But then I hear it again—a distinct click, like the snap of a loose wire, or the creak of a door hinge.
I pause, my fingers hovering above the keyboard, listening.
Thump.
It's closer this time. My eyes dart over the cubicle partition in front of me, scanning the rows of desks. Everything looks the same—everyone buried in their screens, typing away, no one paying any attention to the odd noises.
I lean back in my chair, craning my neck slightly to peer over the edge of the cubicle. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same grey walls, the same bland faces, the same silence between the clacking of keyboards. Maybe it's the air conditioning, I tell myself. The old system's been on the fritz for weeks now.
I decide to mention it to Paul, the guy in the cubicle next to mine. He's been here longer than I have, and he's got that "nothing surprises me anymore" attitude that I've always envied. I clear my throat softly, trying to sound casual. "Hey, you hear that?"
Paul glances up from his screen, blinking as if he's surfacing from some deep trance. "Hear what?"
"Those... noises. Thumps, clicks. It's been going on for a while now."
He listens for a second, then shrugs. "It's probably just the air con. This building's ancient, man. They're always patching something up."
I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, you're probably right."
But as I turn back to my monitor, the sound lingers in my mind, growing louder in the silence of the office.
It's not just the noises. There's something else, something harder to explain. A feeling.
Every time I step away from my cubicle—whether to grab a coffee or stretch my legs—it feels like... like someone's watching me. I can't shake the sensation. When I walk to the break room, I feel eyes on my back. When I'm grabbing papers from the printer, I get this strange sense that if I turn around quickly enough, I'll catch someone, or something, staring at me.
But when I turn, the office is always the same. Empty. Normal. My coworkers buried in their tasks, as if the world around them doesn't exist.
It's stupid, I know. Probably just paranoia from too many hours staring at the screen, too many cups of bad coffee. But every time I sit back down at my desk, there's this nagging feeling that something's... different. Like someone's been here, standing where I'm sitting now, just waiting for me to come back.
I try to laugh it off, but the unease sticks.
The lights overhead flicker again. It's been getting worse throughout the day, the buzzing growing louder, the flickering more frequent. Sometimes it's just a quick blink, so fast it barely registers. Other times, like now, it lasts longer—long enough for the room to plunge into an eerie semi-darkness.
I freeze, waiting for the lights to come back. They always do, but for those few seconds, the world feels different.
Everything looks the same, but it's not. The walls seem closer, like the whole room has shrunk while the lights were out. The air feels thick, heavy, like I'm suddenly breathing in something denser than oxygen. It's disorienting, like stepping into a dream where everything is just slightly... off.
And then, with a flicker and a hum, the lights snap back on.
I blink, glancing around. The cubicles are all where they should be, the ceiling the same height as it's always been. But for those few seconds, it felt like something had shifted, like the room was subtly bending in on itself.
No one else seems to notice. The office hums along, oblivious to the oddities that have been gnawing at me all day. I shake my head, trying to focus.
Just my mind playing tricks again. Too much coffee. Not enough sleep.
But deep down, a small voice whispers that something's not right.
*****
The day grinds on, as it always does.
Emails pile up. The same mindless tasks, the same forms to fill out, the same meetings where nothing gets accomplished. It's like I'm stuck on a loop, playing out the same scenes over and over again. Every day bleeds into the next, each one indistinguishable from the last. I know exactly what's coming before it happens—who will sigh during the meeting, who will ask for a report, which files I'll have to go through.
There's something unsettling in that predictability. Like I'm a cog in some enormous machine, spinning endlessly with no real purpose, just performing the same actions over and over. It's as if my life has been reduced to a series of inputs and outputs—emails sent, papers filed, calls answered. I used to think I'd be doing something more by now, something important. But instead, I'm here. Trapped.
My thoughts start to wander. Is this it? Is this all there is? The endless grind, the constant pressure to be productive, but for what? I glance around the office, wondering if anyone else feels it—the weight of routine pressing down on them like a slowly tightening vice.
Everything is mechanical, predictable, but today... today it feels off. There's an oddness in the air, something lurking beneath the surface. I can't shake the feeling that this repetition, this routine, is more than just boredom. It's like a cage, trapping me in place, each task a link in the chain that keeps me tied to this desk.
My eyes drift to the clock on my computer screen. Only a few minutes have passed since I last checked it. Time itself seems to be dragging today, like I'm caught in some sort of limbo.
Later, I head to the break room to refill my coffee. On the way, I pass Jenny from accounting, leaning against her cubicle and staring at her screen with a puzzled expression.
"Hey, Alex," she says as I walk by, her voice sounding slightly distant. "You ever feel like you're losing time?"
I stop, turning back to her. "What do you mean?"
"I swear I typed this email hours ago," she continues, pointing at her screen. "But it's still sitting in my drafts, unsent. I don't remember not sending it, but… here it is. It's like the whole afternoon just vanished."
I frown, stepping closer to take a look. It's just a normal email—some mundane report to the finance department. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the timestamp. She's right—it's been sitting there for hours, unsent.
I try to brush it off. "Maybe you got distracted. Happens to all of us."
"Yeah, maybe," she mutters, though her expression doesn't change. She's still staring at the screen, like she's trying to figure out where the time went.
I grab my coffee and head back to my desk, but her words stick with me. Losing time. It feels familiar, like a reflection of my own disorientation. My own sense that the day is slipping away, dragging me with it. But it's not just about time—it's something deeper. Something wrong.
As I sit down and resume typing, I notice the clock again. It's only been a few minutes since I got up, but it feels like I've been gone longer. The sense of time is slipping, warping, like it's no longer something I can rely on. Everything is blending together—meetings, emails, the soft hum of the office. It's all merging into one, the rhythm of the day like a ticking clock that I can't escape
The monotony becomes heavier with each passing minute, as if the tasks themselves are conspiring against me. Every click of the mouse, every sent email, feels more detached from reality. The repetition is suffocating, like being stuck in a loop that I can't break free from. My hands move automatically—click, type, send—but my mind is drifting.
And it's in that drift, in those gaps between tasks, that I feel it again. That sense of being watched. That slight shift in the air, like something is standing just out of sight, waiting for me to look away.
I glance around the office. Everything looks the same as it did this morning—cubicles in neat rows, coworkers immersed in their work, the fluorescent lights casting their cold, flickering glow. But it doesn't feel the same. There's something wrong with the routine. Something... broken.
I push the thought aside and focus on my screen, telling myself it's just my imagination. Just another glitch in the monotony of office life.
But deep down, I can't shake the feeling that reality itself is starting to slip.
******
The end of the day inches closer, and I can almost feel the collective sigh in the office. The usual quiet hum of people finishing up, eager to escape this place, begins to fill the air. But the weight of the day is still pressing on me, heavier now than it was this morning. It's like I'm walking through fog, everything around me a little out of focus, just slightly off.
I push back from my desk, deciding to grab one last coffee before powering through the final tasks. Maybe the caffeine will help clear my head, push away this nagging sense that something is wrong.
As I walk toward the break room, I hear something strange—voices. Faint and distant, almost like the echo of a conversation from far away. I stop in my tracks, my ears straining to catch the words, but they're too muffled to make out. It's coming from the direction of the break room, but when I round the corner, the sound cuts off abruptly.
The break room is empty. Completely still.
The coffee machine sits there, humming softly, its red light glowing like a dull eye. But the room is devoid of people, just the sterile white countertops and the slightly too-clean floor. I take a step inside, looking around, half-expecting someone to be hiding behind the door or just out of sight.
But there's no one.
The air feels thick, like something was here just moments ago, but now it's gone. I shake my head, trying to shake the feeling. Maybe I imagined it. Just another trick of my overworked brain, tired from the day, frayed by the constant flickering of those damn lights.
I grab my coffee and leave the break room behind, but the feeling of isolation lingers. The office is never quiet—not really. There's always the murmur of people, the clacking of keyboards, the faint hum of the air conditioning. But now, as I walk back to my desk, it feels like all of that is muffled. Like I've slipped into a space just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.
Back at my cubicle, I sit down and look at the files on my desk, trying to refocus. But something's wrong.
The file I was working on earlier—my notes, the reports—they're gone.
I pause, scanning my desk more carefully. Maybe I moved it when I got up, put it on the wrong side of my cubicle. I push aside some papers, open drawers, but there's nothing. The file has completely vanished. I frown, trying to remember if I saved it on my computer. But when I check, there's no trace of it. It's like it never existed.
A slow chill starts creeping up my spine. I know I had it. I was working on it this morning, right here at this desk. There's no way I could've just lost it. But no matter how hard I look, the file is gone—erased from both my desk and my computer.
I stand up and walk over to IT, hoping they can retrieve it. Maybe it's just a glitch, something that can be fixed. Maybe it's nothing.
"Hey, Greg," I say, knocking lightly on the IT guy's cubicle wall. He glances up from his screen, barely acknowledging my presence. "I've got a file that disappeared off my computer. Do you think you could take a look?"
He shrugs. "Sure. What's the name of the file?"
I tell him the project title, the details, everything I can remember. He taps a few keys, pulling up my system remotely, scanning through the files.
"Nope," he says after a few minutes. "There's nothing here. Are you sure you saved it?"
"I'm positive. I was working on it all morning. It's gotta be in there somewhere."
He gives me a blank look, like he's already checked out for the day. "Well, it's not. Maybe you didn't save it. These things happen."
I feel my frustration rising. "No, I know I did. I've been working on it for hours."
He shrugs again, completely uninterested. "Sorry, man. If it's not here, it's not here."
I walk back to my desk, the uneasy feeling growing. How can it just disappear? It wasn't just on my computer—it was on my desk too, a physical file I could touch, one I know I put together. And now it's gone, like it never existed.
I sit down, trying to convince myself it's just a mistake. Maybe I moved it without thinking. Maybe I forgot to save it properly. But that nagging sense of wrongness is still there, crawling at the back of my mind.
My co-worker a few cubicles down is typing away, oblivious to everything. It's like the world is continuing on as normal, like nothing has changed. But for me, it has. Something has shifted, something small but undeniable. The file, the voices, the glitches—they're adding up, forming a pattern I can't ignore.
I feel the flickering lights overhead again, casting brief, jerky shadows over my desk. For a moment, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to steady myself. But when I open them, I can't shake the feeling that something is watching me. Something just beyond my sight, just out of reach.
I look around the office one last time, trying to reassure myself that everything is normal. But the file is still gone. And nothing feels normal anymore.
*******
I'm one of the last to leave the office tonight. Most of the cubicles are empty now, the only signs of life the hum of machines and the faint glow of monitors left on standby. The atmosphere feels heavier as I grab my bag and jacket, a weight in the air that's hard to describe.
I head toward the elevator, the flickering lights overhead casting jerky shadows on the floor, stretching and contracting as I move. It's not the first time they've flickered today, but it feels different now—like they're following some unseen rhythm, dancing in sync with my rising sense of unease.
The building is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that crawls under your skin. Normally, I'd be glad to finally be free from the monotony of the office, but today… today, something feels wrong. I can't quite put my finger on it, but the world feels off-kilter, like a picture hung just slightly crooked. Everything seems normal on the surface, but there's a tension in the air, like something is waiting just out of sight, just beyond the corner of my vision.
I reach the elevator and press the button, the familiar ding cutting through the silence as the doors slide open. I step inside and press the button for the lobby. The doors close, sealing me in with the soft, rhythmic hum of the elevator as it begins its descent.
As the floors tick by, the lights inside the elevator flicker—just for a second, but long enough for my heart to skip a beat. The sensation is too familiar, the flickering like a silent warning, something I'm starting to dread. I exhale slowly, gripping the strap of my bag a little tighter, waiting for the lights to stabilize.
They flicker again—this time longer. The air feels like it's being sucked out of the small metal box, and for a moment, everything around me shifts.
The elevator doors open, but instead of the office lobby, I see something else.
An impossibly long hallway stretches out before me, lined with buzzing fluorescent lights. The walls are a sickly shade of beige, bare and featureless, the same color as my cubicle walls but somehow more oppressive. The corridor seems to stretch on forever, disappearing into the distance, with no doors, no windows—just endless, empty space.
I blink, my breath catching in my throat as the lights flicker once more, snapping me back. The hallway vanishes, replaced by the familiar sight of the office lobby. I step out of the elevator, my legs shaky, trying to tell myself I imagined it. That what I saw wasn't real.
But as I step into the lobby, the unease lingers. My heart is still racing, my skin prickling with the sense that something is deeply, fundamentally wrong. I glance over my shoulder at the elevator, half-expecting the doors to open again and reveal that impossible hallway. But everything looks normal now, quiet and still.
I push open the glass doors of the building and step into the night. The parking lot is mostly empty, a few scattered cars lit by flickering streetlights that mirror the ones inside. Even the air feels strange, heavier than usual, as if the world itself is pressing down on me.
I walk to my car, the quiet of the night amplifying the sound of my footsteps on the asphalt. Each step feels louder than it should, echoing back at me from the dark corners of the parking lot. I unlock my car, but before getting in, I glance back at the building one last time.
The streetlights flicker again, casting everything into brief darkness. For a split second, I swear I see that same hallway reflected in the glass doors—long, empty, and eerily still.
I quickly get into my car and start the engine, my hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. As I pull out of the parking lot, I try to shake the feeling, tell myself it was just exhaustion or a trick of the lights. But no matter how hard I try, the image of that hallway stays with me, burned into the back of my mind.
It feels like something is waiting. And whatever it is, I can't help but feel like I'm getting closer to it, whether I want to or not.