I don't know what day it is anymore. All of it seems to flow together in this great homogeny of day and night. I read my 2 books back to front 3 times before I decide that I need a break from them. Reruns are on TV, and the Hopkins' DVR is filled with old golf tournaments, old episodes of Desperate Housewives, and House. All of which I can't get into, especially medical dramas, and I don't feel like I have the right to record anything without asking permission.

The news is depressing in its own right. Mr. Hopkins seems to have a vendetta to make sure the house is as depressing as it possibly can, so he watches the news constantly. The number of deaths keeps climbing, and I start donating money to medical services in the hopes it'll alleviate my nerves. It doesn't.

Moments stolen with Simon become fewer and farther between – we can't really be anywhere without wondering who's around. His dad doesn't like us even standing next to each other, and Finn is...Finn. Simon's bedroom door lock, of course, has been dismantled since it's haphazard transition into a home gym.

Simon is still able to get work, most of it on the pretense of eventually returning to some semblance of normalcy and the new precautions behind it, but he spends more time staring at the computer and lying in bed. He pumps out designs that all look corporate and the same, and I can see the desolation in his eyes grow more and more distressed.

I don't know what to do. The group chat is very dead, and Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds can only offer so much advice.

I feel like I'm starting to drown.

“Wow. Shocker,” Finn says, rolling his eyes as he stabs a thawed-out roll. The sun's setting, and the sky was this peachy orange color, bringing in this warm but off-colored light into the breakfast nook. The clouds on the horizon threatened a good storm tonight, though.

His mother slaps the back of his hand. “Not yet.” She goes back to the stovetop.

“I said it was time for dinner,” I sigh, putting down a set of silverware and getting a plate from the counter, “but he said he needed to finish work.” I look at Mrs. Hopkins. “I can get a plate to bring up for him, right?”

She puts down her wine glass. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

“No food upstairs,” Mr. Hopkins mutters.

“Colin, Micah can bring up a dish for Simon.”

“It's high school all over again.”

Finn rolls his eyes.

“If it's that much trouble, I'll go check on him.” I put the plate in a neat pile on the kitchen island.

Mr. Hopkins sighs. He doesn't say anything.

“Thank you, Micah. If he's joining us, that'd be wonderful.”

I take the stairs one at a time. I wiped my face, feeling the burn of frustration digs a little more into my gut. I inhale, trying to ignore it. “Simon?”

He doesn't answer. He's still working, his legs tucked under the desk still. It doesn't look like he's moved since I left him to go downstairs. The saddest look of hopelessness is on his face.

“Are you okay?” I ask, sitting down beside him. When he still doesn't answer, I tap his hand.

“Hi,” Simon says quickly, as if my touch brought him back into this reality. He buries his face in his hands. “What time is it?”

“It's dinnertime.”

“God, Micah, I'm so fucking tired.”

“Simon,” I whisper, my hand on his back.

He looks at me. His eyes are so dull and so unfocused, like everything in his head is somewhere else, like he's just on autopilot. He takes my hand and starts tracing the outline of it. “Yeah?”

“Simon, give yourself a break. You've been at it for days.” I don't know how long. “Please come downstairs. I don't like leaving you alone for so long.”

“Micah, we don't have enough money saved for when this lockdown's over – ”

“We'll figure it out. Jus – please come downstairs.”

He looks at me for a long while before leaning into me. His face was blank. His eyes stared down at the shadowed space under the desk.

My arms wrap around his shoulders, and I bring him close. I don't know what's wrong. I don't know what to do. I don't know what he needs me to do. And I can't breathe without realizing there's so much I can't do for him.

“Feels like I'm being such a burden on you. I'm so sorry.”

My heart falls through my chest. It sparks something in me, and it burns in my gut.

“Things would've been easier for you if you fell for a girl instead of me.” His words are a low rumble, and fall through the air with the same weight as a freaking building collapsing.

I could hear the air – deafening and wobbling and tense. A thousand things fly to the tip of my tongue, and I'm so scared for myself that I push away from him, slowly, unglueing myself before I whispered, “Why do you say that?”

“...it's true, isn't it?” he asks. “Micah, I'm sorry.”

“Y-you should stop saying that.”

“Wouldn't you be happier?”

Everything in me ached. My hands were numb. “I fell in love with you, Simon.”

He doesn't say anything.

The fire alarm starts screaming downstairs.

“Simon, what's gotten into you?”

“Sorry, sorry. I'm just tired.” He shuffles back in front of the computer and goes back to work.

“Simon,” I start, but a sharp rise of voices cut off any further investigation. I reluctantly leave him alone and head back to the stairs to find a gentle plume of gray-white smoke inching up towards the chandelier. Panic strikes through me, and I get downstairs in 4 seconds flat and swing myself into the kitchen.

Windows are thrown open. The door to the backyard thrown open. The food on the stovetop is burning in bright flashes of yellow and orange. Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins are fighting. Finn's waving a broom against the smoke, throwing open more windows in the process. The stove's extractor fan is running full blast, though I can't hear anyone anyways over the blood roaring in my ears.

I start going through the cabinets, trying to find something I can use to help. Right under the sink in the kitchen island is a fire extinguisher (which, why they have a fire extinguisher, I don't know). I grab it, fumble with the pin, and go straight for the stove.

The stove's still on.

I turn it off and squeeze the handle. A rush of white exploded out the nozzle, and the fire goes out with a puff. I cover my mouth to not breathe in the smoke and glance around. Tossing the fire extinguisher to the side, I go to open more windows. Slowly things grow quieter.

“ – if you were just watching – ”

“ – why you can't just accept – ”

“ – kinds of disappointments – ”

“ – he's still your son, just like – ”

“ – not a child anymore, Amy, – ”

“ – it was 5 years ago, Colin – ”

Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins break from each other. She goes for the stairs, her face red and eyes glimmering, but doesn't slam the door. He stays put, staring at the white-scarred stovetop with the same vacant look as his son.

“Yo, Colin.” Finn tosses Mr. Hopkins a rag. “Get to cleaning. The house isn't going to clean itself.”

“Phineas, we talked about this.”

“Was that before you and Amy burned our food tonight?”

“Phineas.”

“Bite me, Colin.”

Mr. Hopkins watches his youngest move around the room. He abandons the rag on the counter and shoves his hands into his pockets, strolling out of the kitchen for the study.

I turn back to Finn.

“Bastard,” he hisses. He looks at me and asks, “Yo, Pansy. Are you planning on helping or thinking about raping me?”

“Finn.”

“What?”

“Do you need some help?”

“What the fuck did I just ask?”

I shake my head. “No, that's not – it's one thing to want help, it's another to need it.”

Finn's eyes narrow.

“Do you need some help?”

He frowns and turns away. “Of course I don't need help. What kind of fucking stupid question is that?” He scoffs at me. “You know, Pansy, forget I asked. Go fuck my brother and I'll clean it up myself. Just like always.”

I glance back towards the living room before asking, “Is it always like that?”

“Why do you care? You'll be gone when this fucking lockdown's over.”

I watch him clean. I run my hand along the edge of the counter.

Finn, at first, ignores me, wiping the foam from the stovetop and pulling off the grates and putting them to the side. He slaps down the rag and leans forward.

“It's always like that?”

“...sometimes.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't,” he warns. “I don't want some homo's pity.”

I don't say anything.

He looks at me. Finn tries scowling at me before he sighs, shoulders deflating like a balloon.

“...what's the plan for dinner, then?”

“Who cares.”

I grab the rag discarded by Mr. Hopkins. “Let's clean this up, then I'll cook something.”

“I said I didn't want your pity.”

“Yeah, but I'm still hungry. I'll make something for us.”

He doesn't say anything.

“That okay?”

“Fine,” he says. It's a quiet, definitive word.

We eat the food quietly. I bring some up for Simon, but he's already curled up in bed. “Simon, I have food. Taking a break?”

“Thanks, Micah. Uh...yeah, I am. I'm not hungry right now, though.”

“Not even a little? This is the best box mac and cheese I've ever made.” I laugh, and it does nothing.

“No. I'm okay.”

I put it next to his computer. “I'm going downstairs to read, okay? Eat a little when you can.” I take my book and go.

I come back a couple hours later. Simon still works at his computer, and a third is missing from the meal.