I’m standing in the middle of our living room, staring down at the chaos that was once a peaceful Sunday afternoon. Pandora is yelling at me from the kitchen, John Mercer is attempting to “help” by playing air guitar on the couch, and Mr. Whiskers is sitting calmly on the coffee table, judging us all like the feline overlord he believes himself to be.
“What do you mean I’m out of snacks?” Pandora’s voice echoes through the room. “We just went shopping yesterday!”
I try to explain that maybe—possibly—John Mercer might have had something to do with the snack shortage, but she’s not having it.
As I attempt to reason with her, John Mercer launches into a full rendition of “Stairway to Heaven” on his imaginary guitar, complete with dramatic facial expressions and aggressive hip swivels. I shoot him a death glare, which only encourages him to play louder and more enthusiastically. Mr. Whiskers blinks at me lazily, as if to say, “You’re welcome for the distraction, human.”
I try to focus on Pandora, but my brain starts drifting. Is it possible that John Mercer is secretly a rockstar in disguise? Maybe he’s using his air guitar skills to hypnotize us into doing his bidding. I glance around the room, searching for signs of mind control devices or hidden microphones.
Pandora storms out of the kitchen, holding an empty bag of potato chips like it’s evidence in a criminal investigation. “Hal, did you eat all the snacks?” she demands, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
I raise my hands in protest, but before I can respond, John Mercer starts playing a solo that sounds eerily like a police siren.
Suddenly, Mr. Whiskers jumps off the coffee table and begins chasing an invisible laser pointer around the room. I spin to follow his erratic movements, but Pandora grabs my arm and yanks me back toward her.
“Hal, focus! Did you or did you not eat all the snacks?”
“I didn’t!” I say. “But maybe—hypothetically—John Mercer could have eaten them while we were out—”
“Don’t blame it on John Mercer,” she cuts in. “He’s been in his room all day playing video games.”
I slowly turn toward John Mercer, who is now using a pair of drumsticks to perform an invisible drum solo on the arm of the couch.
Wait a minute.
If John Mercer has been in his room all day… how did he eat all the snacks?
And why does our living room suddenly smell like nacho cheese and despair?
I scan the room again, this time noticing that the window is open. A faint breeze rustles the curtains. A chill runs down my spine.
Something is off.
“Pandora,” I whisper, leaning closer, “do you think someone might be sneaking into our apartment at night and eating all our snacks?”
Pandora rolls her eyes. “Hal, there’s no snack burglar. You just need to get a grip on your snacking habits.”
But as she turns away, I notice Mr. Whiskers has stopped moving. He’s now sitting in front of the open window, staring intently outside—like he’s watching something.
Or someone.
I grab Pandora’s arm again. “Pandora, listen. What if it’s not just snacks? What if there’s something else going on here?”
Behind me, John Mercer plays a slow, ominous chord progression on his air guitar.
Not helping.
I start noticing details—the way the shadows stretch across the walls, the faint creak of the floorboards, the unblinking stare of that cat.
It’s like our apartment has quietly transformed into a low-budget horror film, and somehow, I’m the only one who got the script.
Pandora sighs and pats my shoulder. “Hal, you need to calm down and eat something.”
But I’m past that now.
I grab a couch cushion and hold it in front of me like a shield, preparing for whatever unseen force is clearly orchestrating this madness.
“Wait,” I say suddenly, my voice dropping. “What if we’re not even real?”
Pandora pauses.
John Mercer freezes mid–air guitar solo.
“What if we’re just characters,” I continue, “trapped in some bizarre simulation… created by John Mercer’s air guitar?”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Mr. Whiskers blinks once. Then twice. Then casually turns back to the window.
And that’s when it hits me.
I’m completely, utterly, and absolutely losing my mind.