Allen wakes with the feeling of dread on his tongue.

It’s not a familiar feeling, nor is it particularly worrying for him, which is a conflicting paradox invading his chest at the bright hour of six in the morning. He sits up, his bed sheets pooling in his lap, and he clutches a limp hand in his shirt. His ribs feel heavy, his ankles feel shackled, and he feels powerless.

There is nothing that could’ve brought this on. Last night was normal: he did his English reading plus notes and finished his science homework due on Friday. He bemoaned the lack of air conditioning in the college dorms, went to sleep sweat-slicked and told himself to hold on until graduation. A typical night. Nothing went wrong and nothing will go wrong.

Doesn’t explain what seems like the world pressing down on his back, though.

He’s thankful he doesn’t have any classes today. The upside of college, he muses, is not having period based classes. He could lay in bed, he could study for finals, he could finish his thesis paper, he could go out and eat. He could do anything today.

But first, Allen decides he should get a cup of coffee.

He extracts himself from his bed, untangling his feet from the blankets and padding out of his room to the kitchen. No one else is up yet, and his roommates’ soft snores drift through the thin walls. The clock on the wall ticks steadily.

It’s six thirty-six. It’s May twenty-eighth. It’s a Monday. It’s a day where he has no classes, and it was prefaced with a normal May twenty-seventh. 

Allen yawns, puts the coffee jug under the machine, and leans against the counter as the sound of bubbling water fills the small room; the sun peeks through the window, golden sunlight slipping through the blinds and casting barred strips of shadow on Allen’s arms. 

The coffee is poured into his favorite mug, which is a blue ceramic with a chipped rim, gifted to him by his mother who had made it in her ceramic class. His other mom had attended the same class, but was much worse at making pottery than Allen’s blue-mug-mom. 

The steam drifts up towards the ceiling light, which is dim and flickering— they need to change the bulb soon. Allen blows the vapor away, and takes a sip.

The sour taste of dread is washed down with the bitter flavor of the coffee.

---

Darren wakes up a little while later.

Allen is already dressed to head out, planning to get a new bulb, when Darren walks into the living room. Darren’s binder is on, and a loose tank top is over the black fabric around his chest. Allen dips his head in acknowledgement, watching as Darren makes a beeline for the kitchen.

“I already made coffee.”

“Yo, really?” Darren is always excited at the prospect of caffeine.

“I’m not sure if we have any more almond milk left though. You may have to use cashew milk today.”

There is a moment of silence and Allen knows that Darren has sighed dramatically, crossed his arms, and that he is currently pouting at the fridge. They’ve known each other for a while; Allen was there to help Darren with his first testosterone boosters, and had helped him with the shots in the early days. Darren used to be afraid of needles.

“You’re going out, right?”

Allen grabs the keys from the counter. “Yup. Do you need anything aside from almond milk?”

“I think I might need vodka to get through finals.”

“That seems counterintuitive.”

“Nah, nah,” Darren says, and Allen glances over to see him pouring an unholy amount of sugar into his mug. “You don’t understand. Vodka’s great.”

“I’m not going to get you vodka. It’s too early anyways. The only place that’s open is Rite Aid.”

“Fine.” Darren starts to stir his coffee. “I’ll go later.”

“I know you have a stash of alcohol in your room, Darren. You don’t need to get more.”

“Who told you about that?” Darren exclaims, and then says, “Haha, I mean… no I don’t.”

Allen chuckles softly. 

The world doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

---

Darren soon leaves for his classes, Allen’s other roommate eventually gets up and also departs. Allen got almond milk and lightbulbs, and then he took a nap, waking up to the sun beating against his curtains.

His phone tells him that it’s two in the afternoon. His brain tells him that he should start his work. His body, which is still waking up, tells him to sleep.

The dread is still in his mouth.

He decides that he should keep studying, which is probably the cause of his dread. Something tells him that’s not it, but Allen doesn’t have the energy to consider anything else.

He gets up, and flicks the desk light on, illuminating an open textbook. The graphics blur together, and Allen rubs at his eyes, trying to focus. The days where nothing happens are the ones that Allen dreads the most. They are tiring and boring, they make him want to sleep which makes him feel lazy, and yet throughout the week he will find himself craving them. Repetition is never a good thing, Allen thinks: it’s where people tend to mess up the most.

After a while he abandons his physics textbook to scan over his English notes, then after an hour or so of scattered studying he takes out review packets for math, but Allen finds himself watching the dimming sunlight reach tendrils onto his plaster ceiling, then telling himself to focus and go back to doing math.

He stands up, gets himself a snack, considers more coffee— his other roommate Freddie wanders into the kitchen and waves at him. Allen decides against coffee and heads back to his room.

By the time Allen is done with the packet and the rest of his studying, his alarm clock is showing 6:01 PM in bright neon letters.

It burns into his eyes. He scrubs at his pupils, blinking hard.

He should probably get dinner. He didn’t even eat anything other than the small snack. He’s hungry and bored, and the feeling that something is wrong still hasn’t gone away.

Darren’s classes should be ending now— on Mondays he’s back around five thirty in the evening. Usually, Allen will help Darren prepare a meal for the dorm.

Darren is a good cook. Allen has learned as such over the past four years of college; it’s a hobby that Darren had gotten into at a young age, and he stuck with it because it reminds him of his father’s home cooked meals. He can make anything, and he can make it well. To starving college students all shoved in a tiny apartment, Darren’s culinary skills might as well be a godsend.

However, when Allen gets to the kitchen, there is a distinct lack of Darren.

The light – with the brand new bulb that Allen bought earlier today – isn’t even on.

Allen wanders around the apartment. Darren isn’t in the living room, or the bathroom, and the door to Darren’s room is left open, the interior devoid of life.

The front door clicks, and Allen rushes over just as Freddie slips through the door.

The first thing that Allen notices is the rush of disappointment in his stomach.

The second thing that he notices is that Freddie’s eyes are puffy and red.

“Freddie… are you alright?”

Freddie doesn’t speak for a while. But then he blinks rapidly, and tears trail over the swollen rim of his eyes, sliding down his cheek, and he opens his mouth to say, “Darren’s gone.”

“Well yes, I’ve noticed,” Allen says, already having an idea of what Freddie might say next, but he remains purposefully ignorant. “He’s not home yet.”

“He won’t be back.” Freddie closes the front door behind him. “Did you get the email from the school?”

Email? Allen hasn’t had the time to check it yet. He’s been… studying. “No. I haven’t even checked my email at all today.”

Freddie sucks in a deep breath. “Look, Allen— I know you were close to Darren. This will make you real upset, and I’m sorry I’m telling you this when school’s bouta end, but…” 

Allen watches as Freddie lifts a hand up to wipe tears that are falling again. He notices that the white of Freddie’s cuff is ripped and stained in red.

“Darren was walking back from the library. He uh… well, when I saw him, he looked pretty drunk. You know how he copes with stress… a lot of vodka. He’s got a stash of it in his room, for fuck’s sake. And he was walking ‘cross the road, wasn’t really looking, a-and Allen, I tried to push him outta the way but I- I couldn’t get to him in time-”

Allen feels his body go stone cold. The sun is setting through the blinds. Freddie is shaking and sobbing and the light bulb is reflecting off of Freddie’s tears, the glare on the water glinting and glittering in Allen’s vision, and there is still coffee left in the pot behind him— the clock is ticking. Somehow Allen knows that it is exactly six thirty-six, and the sour feeling on his tongue that has been there the whole day is burning so hot it feels cold. His chest is caving in and he wonders if this is what death feels like, if this is what Darren felt like when he was dying on the street with blood under his neck and alcohol in his breath-

Freddie is sniffing, and his tears continue to fall. The clock is ticking, the clock is ticking. 

They will have to order takeout tonight.

---

The news tells Allen this:

The time of death was five twenty-two in the evening of May twenty-eighth, a typical Monday prefaced by a typical Sunday, the victim a man by the name Darren Wong. There was a lot of blood and Mr. Wong had alcohol in his breath, the autopsy says, and he died because of suffocation after he choked while lying belly up to the sun. 

Allen goes to bed early that night.

---

Allen wakes with the feeling of dread on his tongue.

It’s now a familiar feeling, and so it doesn’t worry him that much. It’s Tuesday and he doesn’t have class until noon. He has woken later than usual: it’s six forty and if Darren were alive he would be up soon—

Allen shakes his head wildly.

He should get a cup of coffee.

When he gets out of his room, the clock is ticking loudly. He flicks on the kitchen lights and the bulb is dim and flickering. 

Hm. He thought he’d changed them.

As he’s pouring his coffee, he hears the footsteps of someone approaching.

Freddie’s name is on his lips until he looks up.

“Allen!” Darren says, tank top over his binder, breathing and healthy and alive. “I see you’ve made coffee! Pass me some.”

Allen squints at Darren, looking around the room. This can’t be real.

“Ah, still not fully awake, I see.” Darren snatches the coffee jug from Allen’s limp hands, and he pours himself a cup. Allen watches hazily as Darren opens the fridge.

When he looks into the fridge, Darren sighs loudly, crosses his arms, and pouts. “Darn, we’re out of almond milk.” There is a ringing in Allen’s ear, and the lightbulb flickers three times above him. The clock is ticking loudly. “The light’s also weird, Allen. We should get new ones.”

Darren is pouring cashew milk into his coffee. He dumps twenty spoonfuls of sugar into the cup. Allen wants to scream.

They stand in silence. Darren drinks his coffee, sneaking glances at Allen, who is trying not to collapse. But eventually, Darren says, “Welp! Gotta get to the library. I got Monday classes soon.”

…Monday?

Allen dimly notices the front door clicking shut.

The clock continues to tick.