Biscuits, Bees & a Stapler Called Colin.

The rumours have started again. They don’t arrive gently, or with any sense of proportion. They never do. They seep — under doors, through vents, between teeth — a slow, creeping infection, until the whole place carries the faint, sour trace of something rotten and no one can quite remember where it came from. And, as always, Charlotte is at the centre of it. Not by choice. Never by choice. But there she is — pinned to the corkboard of collective boredom, a thumbtack through her name, and nowhere left to go. As if the rumour about her having an affair with both Kevs — tandem Kevs, like some kind of deeply unfortunate relay team — wasn’t bad enough. Bearing in mind, Charlotte is all of twenty-two, while the Kevs are comfortably retirement age, with matching flat caps and equally dodgy knee joints. But this new one… This one doesn’t just take the biscuit. It takes the whole damn packet — family-sized — dunks it in something unspeakable, and swallows it in one gluttonous gulp. Apparently — and I say this with a straight face, somehow — Charlotte has been secretly running a covert emotional support operation out of the stationery cupboard. Not for people. God no. That would be reasonable. For office equipment. Printers with abandonment issues. Laminators teetering on the edge of burnout. A stapler named Colin who, I’m told, “hasn’t felt whole since the incident.” No one will clarify what said incident is. Which, of course, only makes it worse. She’s charging them in compliments and whispered affirmations. “Good job, Colin… you held it all together.” By the time it reaches me, she’s not just running it — she’s completely immersed in it. By mid-morning, she's in a committed relationship with the printer. By lunch, they're expecting. Twins. Gloss finish. Someone claims she’s been seen gently rocking a hole punch. Another swears blind she heard Charlotte whisper “You are enough,” to a shredder that hasn’t worked since 2008. By the time I reach the frame, she’s already gone. Not physically. Worse — she’s still here. Folded in on herself, like a crumpled tissue in a coat pocket. Head down. Shoulders caved. Trying — and failing — to occupy less space than a human body reasonably should. Teardrops touch down on the sorting space, soft and rhythmic, doing their very best not to make a scene. Each one lands with a soft, humiliating tap. Measured. Exposed. Unavoidably public, despite her best efforts. I hover. Uselessly. Naturally, I try to make light of it. It’s what I do. My one consistent flaw. “On the plus side,” I say, leaning in slightly, “if you’re marrying the printer, at least there’s closure. Mine died in 2010 and still occasionally spits out blank pages out of spite.” I give out a hopeful little chuckle. Nothing. “Oh God,” I add, scrambling, “and think of the honeymoon. Somewhere exotic — bottomless toner spritzers on arrival — and plenty of jamming.” The joke lands between us like a misprinted page — awkward, incomplete, and neither of us quite knows what to do with it. There’s no laughter. Not even a curtesy heh. Her shoulders begin to shake now, a full-bodied sob. The rumour doesn’t spread. It accelerates. It mutates. Sheds its original skin and grows something far uglier in its place. By mid-morning, she’s not just engaged — she’s entangled with multiple devices. By lunchtime, there’s talk of a ceremony. Someone’s cousin knows a registrar who’ll throw in a complimentary toner refill. By early afternoon, people are speaking about it in past tense — as if it already happened, and we all missed it. The office divides into factions: Believers. Skeptics. Active contributors — the worst kind. Every rumour gains confidence. Every glance lingers too long. Every whisper grows teeth. And Charlotte — poor, beleaguered Charlotte — stops speaking altogether and resorts to blinking: once for yes, twice for no, three times for fuck off and leave me alone. When I get home, I’m still carrying it — the whole ridiculous, swollen weight of the day. And there’s Phoebe. Spread across the sofa like she’s been poured there, melting into the upholstery until it’s hard to tell where she ends and the furniture begins. “Oh…” I say, pausing in the doorway, keys still in hand. “Wasn’t expecting you to be here.” Nothing — not a word — just those eyes, following me, tracking me, unblinking, like she’s mentally itemising everything I’ve ever done wrong. “It’s rude to stare,” I snap eventually, tossing my bag down with more force than necessary. She looks… wounded. Which feels unfair, considering I’m still trying to work out what I’m being punished for. So we hug it out. A long, slightly awkward hug, where neither of us quite knows what our arms are meant to do and our bodies don’t quite fit together anymore. It should feel natural. It doesn’t. It feels like we’re both standing inside something that used to be easy, waiting for the other to explain why it stopped being so. Then I see them. The bags. A dozen bin bags, sagging with implication — her life reduced to rustling plastic and unfinished business. “You’re staying then?” I ask, carefully. “For awhile,” she says. Of course she is. Phoebe — in, out, in, out… shake it all about, a revolving door of hokey cokey I never quite learn the steps to. But I always leave it open. Not fully — God no. Just a slither. A cautious invitation. Enough to say I’m here, but also please don’t prove me right again. And here she is. Queen of the screen. Remote in hand, already mid-episode — some reality show where everyone is screaming, crying, and calling it love. Just as I begin to accept this new arrangement — this unexpected expansion of my already fragile setup — the doorbell rings. My heart sinks. No one rings the bell. Ever. Aside from the occasional Joho and those wretched window vultures trying to sell me the PVC double-glazed dream. “Only £14,000 for two windows.” I nearly spat out my jasmine tea. But this is worse. So much worse. Because standing in my doorway is Kylie. Kylie, who has given me the silent treatment for three and a half years. And today — She breaks it. And my arms. “Holy crap—” I gasp as she thrusts a suitcase into me. Heavy. Obscenely so — like she’s packed bricks. Or grudges. “I’m here to stay.” Kylie doesn’t pack light. Never has. Even sleepovers required the logistical planning of a minor expedition. Clothes. Hair products. Lotions. Potions. An inhaler. Several, actually — enough puffs to keep the nation briefly air-conditioned. And those slippers. Dear God. Worn within an inch of their structural integrity, smelling faintly of an old man’s ear and fermenting friendships. They are already on her feet. She is already home. A declaration in footwear form. “Oh shit,” I whisper. Two extra people. No space. No warning. No plan. “It’s alright, I’ll sleep on the sofa,” Kylie announces, already throwing down a duvet like she’s called dibs. I should say no. I should. Instead— “I’ve got us some proseccy,” she adds, handing me bottles. Proseccy. Never Prosecco. “Put them in the fridge, will ya.” And I do. Of course I do. My backbone has officially left the building — took a taxi and didn’t even say goodbye. I’m placing the last bottle of “Proseccy” into the fridge when I see it. A bumblebee. Trapped under an upturned glass. Wings flicking against invisible walls. Soft. Frantic. Futile. “That’s Bumblesquat,” a voice says behind me. Alex. Of course. “He’s my pet.” Oh. Great. Another mouth. Another personality. Another… responsibility. “Perhaps Bumble—” I begin. “Squat,” Alex corrects. “Might be better off living in his natural habitat,” I suggest, gently. “Nah,” he shrugs. “He likes it in the fridge.” Of course he does. I reach out. Pause. Because something about it feels… familiar. Charlotte. The rumours. Phoebe. Kylie. The bags. The noise. The expectations. All of it pressing in — naming things that aren’t true until they start to harden into something you’re forced live inside. I left the glass slowly, cautiously, as if the moment might break if I’m not gentle enough. For a second, Bubblesquat doesn't move. As if freedom is just another trick. Then — He rises. A small, uncertain hover. Testing it, not quite trusting it. And then he goes. Straight out of the window. Gone. Just like that. I stand there, hand still hovering where the glass used to be. And it hits me. It’s not the being trapped that breaks you. It’s everyone insisting it’s where you belong. I close the window gently. And for the first time all day — I’m not entirely sure which one of us has slipped free.