It was a Strange Friday

It was a Strange Friday, the kind that starts ordinary and then tilts, just a few degrees, into something else.

At work we ended up on that familiar couch, the one that feels like it’s been waiting for you since the eighties. Above us, the alphabet climbs the wall in dark, uneven strokes, and the colored lights hang there like tiny warnings or tiny invitations. It’s kitsch, sure, but it’s also oddly convincing—like a room that remembers more than it should.

We sat close, smiling the way you do when you’re trying to prove you’re not nervous. On the table: a Rubik’s Cube, a microphone, mugs and small clutter that makes the scene feel lived-in, like someone stepped out for a second and might come back at any moment. There’s even a little sign that just says “HELP!”—half joke, half mood.

I like spaces like that. They’re staged, but they still manage to press on something real: the hum of childhood TV glow, the comfort of an old living room, the quiet thrill of a mystery you can’t quite name. Among the faded and familiar, curiosity grows.

By the time we stood up, it felt like we’d visited a place that doesn’t exist anymore—except, somehow, it does. For a strange Friday, that was enough.