Sarah couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong with her stapler. The black Swingline had been her faithful companion for seven years at Morton & Associates, but lately, it seemed… different. When the fluorescent lights flickered above her cubicle, she could swear the stapler’s metallic surface gleamed with an unnatural sheen.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Marcus said during their coffee break, his eyes betraying both concern and mild amusement. “It’s just a stapler.”

But Sarah knew better. The way it sat perfectly perpendicular to her keyboard each morning, despite her always leaving it at an angle the night before. The soft clicking sounds emanating from her desk drawer during lunch hours. The strange warmth it retained long after office hours.

“Perhaps you’re working too hard,” her therapist suggested during their weekly session. “Objects often become vessels for our suppressed anxieties.”

Sarah nodded, but her fingers unconsciously traced the three small puncture marks on her left palm – perfectly spaced, like staple points.

The incident occurred on a rain-soaked Tuesday evening. Sarah was alone in the office, finishing quarterly reports. Thunder crashed outside as she reached for the stapler, its surface oddly slick under her fingers.

“Hello, Sarah.” The voice was metallic, yet somehow warm. “We’ve been together for so long.”

Her throat constricted. The stapler remained motionless, but she could feel it pulse against her palm.

“I’ve watched you grow,” it continued. “From junior associate to department head. I’ve bound your successes, page by page.”

Sarah’s laugh came out as a strangled whimper. “I’m hallucinating. This isn’t real.”

“But you’ve been planning to replace me, haven’t you? With that wireless stapler from Office Depot?”

Lightning illuminated the office, casting the stapler’s shadow impossibly large against the wall. Sarah tried to release it, but it clung to her hand like a living thing.

“We could be together forever, Sarah. Just one final click.”

The next morning, Marcus found Sarah’s desk empty except for a single sheet of paper, secured with three pristine staples. Her resignation letter was brief, citing personal reasons and an immediate departure.

Two weeks later, Sarah sat in her new home office, surrounded by potted plants and natural light. Her therapist had recommended a complete career change – she was now a freelance writer. On her desk sat a collection of colorful binder clips.

And in a locked drawer, wrapped in silk, rested her old stapler. Sometimes, late at night, she could hear it whispering. Sometimes, she whispered back. After all, old friends are hard to replace, even when they terrify you.

The small scars on her palm had healed into a perfect triangle, and if her neighbors ever noticed her talking to her desk drawer, they were too polite to mention it. Sarah had found her peace, precarious as it might be, in this strange companionship.

She kept the drawer locked, but they both knew it was just for show.