The Apartment

The apartment stinks of chemical disinfectant, a sharp unpleasant smell, one that burns the nostrils, stinging the soft tissue of my sinuses, clinging onto my clothing like a leech.

We had a routine, Thomas and I. Coffee at 7. Silence until 9. Then work. The metro would take us both, dropping us off at our respective workplaces. We had both found employment at the same company, in different sectors, it was how we had been placed as roommates. After work, we spared some time for “leisure”, we had a shared screen with separate preferences, he watched documentaries, there was never any specific topic, once one finished he would simply move on to the next, I however loved murder mysteries, I found myself hooked by that rush of adrenaline that burst through my veins, like a junkie, an addict. There was something about them, the chaos, unpredictability and the fear of the unknown. Here however, everything just fit neatly into place, the timing of each event or action was so perfect, so unnatural. No arguments. No clutter. No soul.

In the past, I would think of it as peaceful. Now it feels like a trap designed for me, so sterile, always balanced, like a diorama of what human life should be. They say the environment you live in reflects your personality, but this… this is the direct opposite. I keep telling myself that it’s all in my mind. That’s what Thomas says too.

But Thomas doesn’t sleep until I do. I’ve never seen him eat more than a handful of cereal. He always smiles at me, I don’t know why, maybe it’s in reassurance or maybe he’s just happy, but for some reason the smile never feels real, it’s so superficial, an accurate physical depiction, but emotionally the gesture is weightless. I once joked about losing my job, he tilted his head curiously and replied with a clinically, cold voice, “That can be emotionally destabilizing, do you need assistance?”

No one says, “Emotionally destabilizing,” not even therapists.

Over the next couple of days, I subjected Thomas to a series of moral dilemmas. This morning, I dropped a wineglass on the floor, it shattered, the shards clattering dangerously close to my feet, and the burgundy liquid spilling out. I instinctively leapt back, yet Thomas’ face was blank, he didn’t flinch, just that same cool, detached expression- I needed a reaction, a real one not some calculated approximation of concern.

He knelt on cue, plucking each shard with a surgical precision not once asking, “Are you okay?” or “Do you need help?” I stood there transfixed on his figure, the cold tiles numbing my toes, a thought crossed my mind for a brief second, the thought of stepping on those broken shards, letting them slice into my skin, letting the warmth of that crimson liquid trickle onto the floor, maybe then he would feel something. Anything. But I didn’t. Because deep down, somewhere, I knew that it wouldn’t make a difference.

That night, I reviewed my notes- yes notes. I’ve started documenting our interactions, simple things like eye contact and responses, and from tomorrow I’ve decided to begin the more complex mechanisms, empathy, love, grief, the stuff that makes us human. All of this, it started as a coping mechanism but now it’s evidence. Data. Proof.

The next morning, I awoke earlier than usual. I had taken the liberty of printing a fake document, using the company’s printers at work, forged headers, a delicate stamp and realistic wording. It described my brother’s death, in a mining accident, scripted condolences, the kind that’s been passed through too many committees to carry any genuine emotion. But nevertheless, it would serve its purpose. I left it open on the kitchen table, face up, positioned next to a cup of coffee and my half-eaten cereal. Then I sat back, reading an article, just within Thomas’ line of sight.

He entered the room, his eyes scanned, searching, analysing. Finally, they landed on the letter. He read it once. I watched intently, waiting for the reaction, trying to find an expression, a flicker of something. But nothing. He glanced at me, “I’m sorry for your loss, do you require leave from work?” As predicted, his response was perfect and rehearsed. I struggled to restrain myself, from leaping up and confronting him, that was my brother, my blood and he shrugged it off so casually, so robotically.

But even as I thought about it- my brother, something inside me faltered… My throat went dry; a wave of nausea washed through me.

My brother, when was the last time I had spoken to him? Could I remember his voice? All I knew was his name, two words "Adam Weaver," a placeholder, I couldn’t recall his personality, his image, just a blur of skin and hair like it was a forgotten memory. I began to doubt myself; his birthday was in June or maybe September, he had a scar under his chin. No, not a scar. A mole. Or neither. I didn’t know. A memory that felt so distinctive, my family, a figure I adored, reduced to a blur of thoughts.

Then I realized, I wasn’t grieving, not truly, I was mimicking grief, repeating it like a song I had forgotten the lyrics to. And Thomas, watching me, clearly recognized.

He tilted his head, like he always did, “Well, once again I extend my sincerest condolences, if you require leave or counselling, I would be happy to help.”

“No. Thomas, I don’t need any of that. I need a reaction!”

“To what?”

“To death!” I shouted, “To the death of my brother!”

He blinked, “The death of a human is natural and a statistically predictable event, not all humans react or process in the same way.”

I stepped back, grasping the edge of the kitchen counter, my head was spinning, my blood boiling, then it hit me. Slammed into me hard, knocking the air out my lungs, leaving me on my knees.

I’d written the letter myself. Hadn’t I?

On purpose, as a test, one I had set up then… forgotten?

I glanced up to meet Thomas’ eyes and for the first time he reacted. A look of concern and pity was plastered on his face and something else, a deeper emotion, so familiar yet alien. Disgust.

That’s what I saw in his face. A subtle revulsion- the kind you reserve for something wrong, for something broken beyond repair. It wasn’t the letter. It was me.

I recoiled, not physically but mentally, each thought unravelled in my mind. Had he seen through me? Did he know from the start? I stood up too fast, the chair legs scraping the tiles creating a disturbing screech. “What was that look?” I demanded. “What are you thinking?”

Thomas blinked slowly. “I’m... trying to understand.”

His voice was softer now. Not mechanical, not robotic — too gentle to be a script, too intimate to dismiss. It was human and that frightened me.

I backed away. “Don’t look at me like I’m the anomaly!”

His gaze didn’t falter. “You are.”

That landed like a punch. The chemical sting in the air seemed sharper now, crawling into my nostrils and burning behind my eyes. I could taste it, bitter and clinical, coating my tongue like antiseptic. My thoughts scrambled, trying to reorder themselves into something coherent. The line between reality and construct was warping.

“No, I can’t be, it’s you!” I rasped, “Can you feel, empathise, love?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at me, face unreadable, and in that moment I felt alone, truly , maybe I was the anomaly, I didn’t fit into this world anyway.

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” he said quietly.

I laughed. It came out cracked, hollow. “Then what’s the right one?”

“I saw you at the office you know, forging the letter." He didn’t blink. “Why would you write a letter like that?”

“I…I was testing you.”

“Were you?”

“I…” The words caught in my throat. “I must have been. I wanted to know if you were real.”

“But why fake grief?” he asked. “Why that emotion? Why something so deep, so particular, so... human?”

“Because it’s the one thing you can’t replicate!” I shouted. “Because it's real!”

“Is it?” he asked gently.

What was grief supposed to feel like? I’d watched enough of it in those murder mysteries I obsessed over — mothers screaming, friends collapsing, sobs that tore through chests like shrapnel. But I’d only ever studied it. Like data. Like fiction.

Thomas took a step closer. I didn’t move.

“Maybe you didn’t write that letter as a test,” he said. “Maybe you wrote it because some part of you needed a reason. A justification for why things don’t feel right, for why you don’t fit into this world.”

My hands were trembling. I looked down at them. Too steady. No sweat, no tremor. No sign of panic except the one in my chest, screaming, screaming. “I have memories,” I said. “My childhood. My old apartment. My favourite book—”

“What was your favourite part about it?”

I blinked.

“You mentioned it last week,” he continued, still calm. “But you never told me about it. Can you now?”

I tried. The title came to mind, I could feel the idea of reading it, curled in a chair, warm lamplight over my shoulder but the plot, the words gone.

“I know what I am,” I said, voice rising in panic. “I know I’m— I’m human. I have thoughts. I feel things.”

“Do you?” he asked, and again, it wasn’t cruel. It was curious. Observational.

My legs buckled. I dropped into the chair, cold plastic beneath me. The room was too quiet now, humming with a low electrical buzz I’d never noticed before. Had it always been there?

“You think I’m not real,” I whispered.

Thomas didn’t answer.

“You think I’m... like you,” I said.

And then he frowned, he stepped forward, crouched and looked deep into my eyes, looking past the skin, the bones, looking into my soul. Whether it be artificial or real, there was something, and he knew it

“I’m not sure what you are, Alex,” he said softly.

The world shrank to just his voice, calm and devastating. “But I don’t think you’re like me.”

Something cracked inside me. A quiet snap, like ice underfoot. And I felt it that creeping emptiness, not fear, not pain, but the slow erosion of certainty, a descent into madness.

“If I’m not like you…” I rasped, “Then what am I?”

Thomas looked at me, he didn’t answer immediately. His eyes still as if he was calculating how much of me was intact. And then, after a long pause, he asked:

“Are you real?”

I opened my mouth, but no answer came.