Making notes on everything in my head to organize it can only take up so much time. Absentmindedly drumming my fingers along the bedframe in Simon's room is too much for him to bear from me, either, because he turns to me and asks, “Can you stop, please? I'm working.”

I sigh, putting my phone in my pocket. “I'm bored.”

“I'm sorry, but...just...go be bored somewhere else. I have things I need to do. The deadline for this project is Sunday.”

My eyelid twitches, and I try wiping it away. “All you do is work. I miss you.”

“Some of us still have jobs.”

“What does that mean?”

He groans. “No, I – that wasn't cool. I'm sorry.”

“I didn't ask to be let go, Simon.”

“I know, I know.”

I stare at him.

Simon wipes his face. “Micah, I really don't want to fight, okay? I really don't. Just – let me finish this for Sunday, and we can...” He sighs.

“What?”

He looks at me. “What?”

“We can what? We've been here for almost 2 months, and all you do is work.”

“I can't, just, stop working.”

“You can't take a break? For a few days?”

“Not right now, Micah. If you haven't noticed, the world's kind of on fucking standby. That luxury doesn't really come to someone who's freelance.”

“Simon, I miss spending time with you.”

“I know, and I'm sorry – ”

“I don't believe you. I really want to, but I don't.”

“Fine, you don't have to. I'll still tell you that I'm sorry. But I'm working so we can get out of this fucking hellhole you put us in when the world decides to opens up again.”

“What?”

He looks up. “Shit. No, I didn't mean – ”

“'This hellhole I put us in'?”

“You're twisting my words.”

“How can I twist them? I don't think they're that twistable.”

He sighs. “I – you were the one who said I should come back if he was sick.”

“I thought he was actually sick, not your freaking brother baiting you. If he died and you hadn't spoken in years, I never would've forgiven myself.”

“It's easy,” he says, “and I would've forgiven myself.”

“You don't mean that.”

“I do.”

“How can you not care?”

“Micah, there's a reason why I haven't spoken to him – to anyone in this house – for the last 5 years.”

Something convulses in me, and I feel absolutely sick to my stomach. “That's, heartless.”

“Yeah, well, you don't know what happened.”

“No, I don't. I only know bits and pieces because you won't tell me.”

“You never asked.”

“Will you tell me now?”

“Now's not – ”

“When is a good time?”

“Micah, I don't have – ”

“Of course you don't.”

“I don't want to fight.”

“I don't want to, either, but – ” I don't feel like there's anything else I can do.

“Just – let me finish this, and we can talk, okay?”

“You can't give me the cliff notes version?”

“I – Micah – ”

“I feel like I'm suffocating, Simon, and I don't want to be.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Something.”

“I didn't mean to hurt you, if I did.”

“I'm more hurt that you didn't tell me that you were on the freaking mathletes.”

“I – what?”

“Or that you did freaking theater. That you swam. That you broadcasted, and played soccer, or that you went to freaking Legoland.”

“Has my mother been telling you all that?”

“And if she has? Is it a big deal?”

“No, but I didn't tell you because I pretty much hated all of it, and I failed at everything. Why would I tell you any of that?”

“I don't know!”

Simon groans. “Micah – ”

“You spend all your time in here. You barely leave the room for anything besides food. It's like you're avoiding them all.”

“And? What if I am?”

“They're your family.”

“Not everyone likes their family, Micah.”

“Not everyone has one, Simon.”

“Okay, now you're just picking a fight.”

“I'm not.”

“I don't like my family. End of story.”

“That's, fine, but we're stuck here for who knows how much longer. The least you can be is cordial.”

“Are we really doing this? Are we really airing fucking grievances?”

“Simon – ”

“Okay. Yeah. Yeah, I didn't tell you about that stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn't want to?”

“Simon.”

“What are you angry about?”

“I – ” That spark. It hurts. It seethes in the back of my throat. I clasped my hand over it. I swallowed over and over, pushing it back down, feeling the muscles in my neck tense over and over before backing away. “I-I don't know. A-a lot, I guess?”

“Micah, I don't want to be here. I told you that.”

“I know, but we can make the best of this.”

“I don't want to.”

“We could.”

“I – fine.” His arms flop at his sides. “Fine.”

“Simon, don't do that – ”

“I'm not.”

“You are.”

“This's on you. If you want to go on meddling, go the fuck ahead. I'm going back to work.”

“Meddling? That's what you think I'm doing?”

“That – ” He groans. “That was the wrong word.”

“And what's the right word?”

He stares at me. He says nothing.

“I'm not taking this whole thing lying down.”

“I'm not doing that.”

“And what if I said you were?”

“Micah, I told you. My life's sucked donkey dicks up to this point. You learn after a while to stop expecting anything good, because you're so used to everything bad happening.”

“That's pessimistic.”

“No, it's realistic.”

“I'm not asking you to dive headfirst. I'm asking you to try. You said you wish you could, for me.”

“'Wish' being the operative word.”

“And what am I supposed to do? Feel constantly like an island in this house? I have never felt so alone in a house with other people, and I can't – I won't let it continue, Simon. I don't have anything to do like you do.”

“I'm not asking you to – ”

“I miss you so much and it hurts and I just – ” I wipe my eyes. “Where are you? I feel like I'm screaming and you're just watching me.”

“I'm fucking drowning.”

“Let me help you.”

“The wave will pass. It always does.”

“So you want me to do nothing?”

“You don't need to do anything.”

“I want you back.”

“I don't need you to do anything you don't need to.”

“Simon.”

“Micah, I – ” And he stops himself. He glances down and runs his hands down his legs.

I can hear the air – deafening and wobbling and tense. My hands shake at my sides, and I realize I don't know what to do. With him or this conversation anymore. Every word I say pushes a button that I didn't mean to, but I can't stop myself. I'm seeing red, and he is the only person I can make me do it.

Simon sighs. He takes in a breath. The air changes in that single moment.

I'm angry all over again. Like an oxygen-starved fire, it's all-consuming. I know I shouldn't be angry. But I can't help myself. This rage, this frustration, roars through me at such speeds it overrides whatever part of me is in love with him. The thought of this ending – him getting tired of me – is, in parts, relieving and anxiety-inducing, and I ache with this pain that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

I shake my head. “Don't.”

“What.”

“Don't do that thing where you – you freaking tell me I'd be better off if I forgot about you. If I fell in love with a girl.”

“...you would, wouldn't you?”

I grit my teeth. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because I was right. You didn't think about it. Like the fucking child you are.”

“I did – !”

“You didn't! Who the fuck gives away half their savings in a pandemic? Why don't you, just, throw that money onto a fucking fire while you're at it.” His blue eyes are suddenly wild, and the words take up every inch of empty space in Simon's bedroom. “You don't think, Micah. You fucking don't.”

I step back. “I-I was doing my part – !”

“You were masturbating to yourself to relieve your own goddamned guilt. Sometimes, you can't do anything.”

My skin prickles. The spark in my throat rolls back up. I wipe my eyes, and it only smears the tears across my face. I deflate, and my heart tumbles. My head spins. “Simon, please.”

“I have work I have to do.” He sits back down. “I'm sorry. I have to work.”

I watch him go back to designing another flier for something. My blood's rushing in my ears and my heart is pounding against my rib cage, and I'm so numb that I'm not sure if I'm angry or hurt anymore. A freaking chasm opens between us, and no amount of screaming or begging will bring him back to the same side as me. My eyes burn. Wiping them with shaking hands, I nod. “Okay.” I leave, closing the door behind me.

The house groans underneath me, and every cold corner starts inching towards me. The ceiling hangs awkward on walls that no longer stand straight, and the sun, bleeding into almost every room in the house, bounces shiny white light. Outside, the world is at a standstill, and I ache for something in it to start moving again. Every second slides by in slow-motion.

I dive for my phone in my pocket, and message the group chat. It stays silent for the first minute. The second. I message again in the hopes of feeling it vibrate, my friends throwing a lifeline to me.

Nothing.

The house is unbearably quiet.

The number of people dead or sick keeps rising, and I can't freaking breathe.

I end up outside. There is no breeze, and I don't really feel the sun. I sit down on the sectional seating and sink into it, glancing back and forth between my phone and the house.

“Yo, Pansy, go away. I'm doing things.”

I blink, and find Finn sitting across from me playing a game on his DS.

“Finn...oh. Oh! Can I sit here with you for a while?”

“No.”

“Aw, why not? I thought you and I had an understanding of each other?”

“Disgusting.” Finn looks at me. “What, you and Simon get into a fight? Isn't the woman supposed to win?”

“Who said we fought?”

“You have a bad poker face, dude. You look like you've been crying.”

I wipe my eyes, sucking air through my gritted teeth. “We weren't – that wasn't – ”

“I don't really care, dude.”

And then silence. Another chasm.

I start messaging in the group chat again.

“Pansy, a little quieter.”

“Why did you send that email?”

He looks at me. “What?”

I wipe my eyes and take in a breath. “Why?”

He shrugs. “For fun?”

“Finn, we're here because you sent that email.”

“You're here because you, somehow, convinced that f****t to – ”

“Don't call your brother that.”

“And what're you going to do about it?”

“I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about. I don't have anyone worth telling, either.”

“I don't care who you tell. I'm not – fine. Fine.” He frowns for a second before putting the DS down on the coffee table. He walks over and sits in the corner of the sectional, about 2 feet from me. He wrings his fingers together before whispering, “Didn't think it would work.”

“...why?”

“He's always ignored my messages from me. Ever since he left.” He scoffs. He doesn't look at me. “One time, I stole Amy's phone and sent him a long text saying how she died in a plane crash and Colin was getting remarried. Ignored it. Said Colin got eaten by a snake...and Amy was cut in half – long ways – after getting a new job at a fucking lumber mill. Ignored it. When I sent that email, I thought he'd ignore it.” He looks at me. “What I don't get is...How the fuck did you convince him? To come back, of all things?”

I sit up. “My mom died when I was little, and my dad couldn't take care of me. After a while, he stopped visiting, and...if I was in Simon's position, and I got an email saying my dad was sick, I'd go see him. Even if I was mad at him. Not everyone has a family.”

“Pansy, not everyone – ”

“Micah. I'm Micah.”

He stares at me.

“...why did you send it? If you thought he was going to ignore it, why did you send it?”

Finn shrugs. “...always fucking hated that he left me here alone.”

I stare at him for a second, trying to match his explanation to the action he's done. Eyes dropping to the flagstone deck, I nod. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

I grunt my response. “There's a lot of things I don't know, but...I do know what it's like to be alone.”