I STARE at the TV.

My mom (sort of) calls me on the phone. She is worried sick. She lectures me for about twenty minutes about hand sanitizer, gloves and hand touching.

"Don't worry, Marilla. It'll just be a few weeks"

Thing is I have just moved to Toronto. I had been working remotely until now, that I had been offered a position in a local office. By the way, working at an office had nothing to do with what I had expected from years and years rewatching The Office. Turns out, working at an office had nothing to do with falling for one of your coworkers, but rather typing all day and getting headaches from your annoying coworkers and their bullshit.

Just last week, I was thinking about how easy remote work was and how lucky I consider myself to be if I could go back to that.

Well.

I'm not a dreamer but I guess the universe heard me. Because a national lockdown has just been declared. Well, scratch the "national", because not only does this apply to Canada, but the rest of the world.

I've got to admit I'm scared as fuck. There's a virus going around that has decided that we should all stay home and quarantine for two weeks (for now).

Quarantine. What a word. Seems like the kind of word that no regular person would have at their own mental dictionary. Some word reserved for doctors and nurses; not me, average, regular, mundane Anne.

Marilla hangs up and I turn off the TV. Frankly, I can't cope with any sort of bad news at the moment.

I look around my new apartment and I decide to go out for the rest of the day. From tomorrow on, I'd be locked in the house for two weeks minimum. I just hope this doesn't last for too long. I had sworn I would make 2020 my bitch. This was going to be my year. I had gotten a promotion at age 25. Not everyone can say that.

As I make me way out of the apartment block, I notice how quiet everything is. I remember the words of my landlord, Jack, telling me how there are still a couple of apartment uninhabited. I don't know wether to feel lucky for all the silence or completely doomed.

___

THE WALK to the grocery store was takes me half an hour more than it actually took me the other day. I just wanted to elongate the way. Somehow, I thought about not doing this for a while. Walking, I mean.

There are loads of people around. Most of them wearing face masks, some others simply don't. I have managed to create some sort of face mask out of an old apron.

At the supermarket, there's a couple of strangers making out right in front of my salad. Literally speaking. There's this prepared salad that I love - a mix of shades of greens and other colours splattered that simply taste delicious and makes me feel better than everyone else for eating my greens. I intend to take at least five of them with me, so that I don't have to cook that much. I had mastered the skill of baking, but I still struggled at basic cooking. Nothing that my sort-of mom is proud of. I fake a cough, and suddenly the couple are out of my way. They must be around 20. They instantly remind me of a younger version of me and my ex boyfriend.

He was kind of a prick, my ex boyfriend.

Even my friends back in Avonlea agreed. He was one smug, arrogant, prick.

But I loved him. I really did.

We'd been together for four years. I'd met him at college. Both English students, i supossed we loved fiercely. He looked at me as if I was the only girl he'd ever laid eyes on (spoiler, I wasn't). I'd met his parents and he'd met mine (again, sort of). His sister was nice to me and my friends in Avonlea loved him (until they realized he was a prick).

After the breakup, I sought comfort in my job, and I even got a promotion. I believe I should be thanking my ex for that. I didn't jump into someone else's arms or start a new hobby like most people do. I just locked myself in my room and overworked myself. And here I am. Single and alone, in a poorly-decored apartment but with a good job, I guess.

I've moved on now. And I don't say in the petty way. I have truly moved on and I wish a train would run over him and destroy him.

Right. maybe I am petty.

As petty as one has to be for working for a teenager's digital magazine, I guess. Ha.

I hated my job.

It paid for the bills, though. But I still hated it.

But I don't want to think about my job until four p.m. or so, when a virtual meeting has been scheduled. I just wanted to leave my apartment for a couple of hours and enjoy my freedom while it lasts, and that's what I'm going to do.

I realize, once I'm out of the supermarket, that I've ended up buying more than I should've, and now I'm standing on the sidewalk with six heavy plastic bags, so I end up calling an Uber to drive me back to my apartment.

The Uber drivers kindly asked me to wash my hands with some hand sanitizer he himself hands me.

"The world is about to change", he tells me, and I just nod and agree.

We talk about the recent news and what was going to become of our lives. He tells me he was a father of three young girls, two twins and the older one, Rebekah, who had just entered high school. I feel bad for him and I let him know, giving him a sympathetic (not pitiful) look and wishing him luck for these two weeks in which he probably won't have much work.

I tip the Uber driver. My pay check wasn't enough for me to be spending it tipping around, but he needed it more than I did. Who knows. At least my job's safe and maybe my five dollar tip could be a significant change in his weekly grocery shopping.

___

I THANK the gods for whoever has fixed the elevator. When I got here three weeks ago, I found out I lived in the third floor and the elevator wasn't working.

I'm about to press the button when the elevator's door open, revealing a boy, or a man (sometimes I forget I'm in my mid-twenties) about my age.

He looks at me curiously. I instantly recognize him before he pulls his face mask up.

"Afternoon," he says, very polite as he walks out. Then, he turns around to take a second look at my face. I feel his gaze focused on my eyes and then my hair. I guess that's what gives him the clue. "Wait, I think I know you. Do you happen to be from Avonlea?"

I smile. I hope he can tell from the way my eyes crinkle, because he can't really see my nose of my mouth with this face mask.

"I'm Anne," I say. "Gilbert?"

"Gilbert Blythe, yes," he says. I notice how he's about to offer his hand for me to shake, but, you know — no hand touching allowed. "Shirley-Cuthbert, was it, right?"

"You remembered the Cuthbert. Impressive"

"Yeah, I'm good with names"

"Um, I didn't know you lived here!" I say, perhaps a bit too excited. "It's good to see a familiar face"

"I didn't know you lived here either. Good to see someone from Avonlea"

The thing is Gilbert and I have never been friends, or classmates. He was just an inevitable familiar face from my small hometown. Still, it was good to have someone I knew living in the same building as I did.

"Well, um- I have to go now," I excuse myself, remembering a virtual meeting I have in ten minutes. "But I'll be around, you know, in case you need some flour one day"

"I'm not really into baking, but thanks"

I smile before getting into the elevator. "Bye".

___

FIRST DAY OF QUARANTINE and it already sucks. My boss, Emma, asked me get three articles edited before 12 p.m. and I can't seem to find the will to get up my bed.

I get some coffee and sit on the kitchen table, right next to the window. It's my favorite spot from the apartment. There's so much light coming in and I feel-

"Good morning, neighbor"

I almost have a heart attack. I look up, and I see Gilbert Blythe in the same exact spot as I am, but in his apartment, which seems to be a parallel universe to mine. He's casually sitting there, looking at me with curious eyes.

"Holy shit," I say. "Hi, good morning. Shouldn't you be wearing a mask?"

"We're like eight feet apart. Not necessary"

"What'd you know?"

He raises his eyebrows, then pulling a pile of books and papers and showing them to me.

"Virology transmission and pathogenesis researcher at UoT"

"Oh"

"Yeah, I get that reaction a lot," he says, tapping his fingers on his pile of notes. "Drives the girls crazy"

I keep typing, hoping he doesn't notice the discreet smile playing on my lips that I can't seem to wipe off.

"So," he says. "What do you do?"

"Write. Proofread. Edit"

"Multitalented, I see"

"More like exploited at a POPS!CLE, Teen's magazine"

"Sorry about that"

"It's fine. It's a good job. I just don't like the content I write, proofread and/or edit"

He snorts a laugh. "What do you even write about? Which Riverdale character would be your boyfriend?"

I have to laugh then. It's a sexist joke entirely based on gender roles, but that was the title of one of our latest quizzes. "Close, but no. I'm not in charge for quizzes and shit. I write news about music, movies, TV shows and celebrities, in general. Sometimes I'm asked to fill in the advice section"

"Oh, really? That's cool"

"Nah. I'm the worst at giving advice"

We remain silent for a couple of seconds. I focus on my editing for at least ten minutes straight, correcting a few spelling  and grammar mistakes that make me want to lose hope in humanity.

I finish the first article. Then I look up to check if he's still there, and there he is. I figure he must really like that spot of the apartment.

"So, how come I've never seen you around here? I've been living here for three weeks and this is the first time I've seen you"

"I moved in a month ago, but I had to go back home to help some friend with his business. Just got back last Sunday"

"I see," I nod. "The Apple Pie bakery, I assume"

His lips curve up into a lopsided smile.

"Damn, you sure know a lot about me"

I shake my head. "Just the superficial, I guess. Your friend shares the business with my best friend's father"

"Oh, yeah, the Barry's," he says. "They've been so much help. They know about numbers and Bash knows about apple and pies. Have you ever been there, though? To the Apple Pie bakery?"

"No. I hate apple pie"

And it's true. Apples are perfect as they are – no need to bake them into a terrible culinary monstrosity.

"What? That's impossible. I though you liked baking"

"I do," I say as I open the next article in a different tan. This one's about The Strokes' upcoming album. "I love carrot cake"

He laughs. "That's so self-centered"

"No comments about my hair," I warn him.

My relationship with my hair (and my physical appearance overall) is complicated. As a teen, I hated every single thing about me. I guess growing up with two talking beauties such as my best friends, Diana and Ruby, caused these insecurities in me. I was jealous of everything they had: Ruby's golden locks and Diana's gracious face. Now I don't care at all. I feel comfortable in my own skin. I just don't want some random man bringing up my hair.

"Or what? You'll hit me with a textbook again?"

My face instantly drops with surprise. I can't believe he remembers that. It's been, what? 15 years? Even for me, the memory seems blurry. I only remember hitting him right across his face with a textbook because he called me...

"Carrots," he says. "In case you were struggling to remember"

Carrots. That's exactly what he called me. In which universe does one insult the new kid in school who happens to be a recent orphan? Besides, he was two years older than me. He could've showed more maturity. He simply spotted me in the playground and started calling me names. Not cool.

It didn't matter that much to me then, though. I simply whacked him with my History textbook. Problem solved. And it doesn't make me mad now, anyway. It comes to me as a cute childhood memory, I guess.

"You're lucky we're social distancing, you know," I say. "You'd be dead as we speak if we weren't"

"I'll take that as a duel dare after lockdown is over"

"Deal"

He smiles at me before going back to his huge binder. I study him for a minute. I notice how he uses different highlighter colors; maybe he has some kind of color-assigned hierarchy or something. Every once in a while, he types some stuff on his iPad.

"Stop staring at me"

Shit.

"Sorry," I say. "It's just that proofreading is exhausting and I have nothing else to do"

He laughs. "Let's talk, then. Let's get to know each other. Textbooks off"

___

THREE DAYS into quarantine and I already know a lot of stuff about Gilbert Blythe.

I'm actually glad he's here. He's such a good company: talkative but not annoyingly chatty; curious but not invasive; smart but not arrogant.

Gilbert's an orphan too, which I didn't know about. I knew his mom wasn't around, but I've just heard his father passed away last year. I told him I was sorry about that, and he said it was alright, but I still feel sorry.

He's good friends with Ruby's boyfriend, Moody. They went to school together and even though they don't get to hang out much, they keep in touch. He doesn't have many friends here, in Toronto, and I guess we have that in common (apart from the orphan thing).

He's about to turn 27 and he never really left medical school. When he graduated, he started a PhD research program and stayed in UoT. He said he's curious about viral transmission. Ha.

I told him a bit about myself too. I told him about my promotion, about how much I miss Avonlea and about my college years. I don't mention my ex, though. Funny as it sounds, Royal Gardner doesn't deserve those royalties. He can jump off a bridge and die.

The thing is I wake up on the fourth day of quarantine, but I can't get out of bed.

My body is in pain. I'm about to lose it. You see, I'm an hypochondriac and my first thought is the virus. That's it. I got it at the supermarket and now I'm going to die.

My phone beeps. I assume it must be Diana or Ruby, sharing some unnecessary yet juicy gossip.

To my surprise, it's neither of my best friends.

Gilbert Blythe
Get up already!
My coffee's getting cold

Oh yeah. We have developed a habit during these past few days of window talk. We always have our coffee together. He asked for my number; "just to remind you to get out of bed so that we can have our coffee together," he told me. I'm not sure that's the real reason, but I've got to admit he's smooth as hell.

He wrote his number on his notebook and showed me from his window. I brought up the Taylor-Swift-music-video nature of his actions, and he just laughed, saying how much he liked Taylor Swift. That, I didn't see it coming, and I guess it made me like him more.

It's not like I'm keeping a list of the things that make me like him or anything. He's just a genuinely likable person, and a great neighbor.

Anne Shirley
can't
my stomach hurts so bad
i'm gonna die

It takes him about two minutes to reply. He must be drinking his coffee. I go to the bathroom and I realize that I don't have the virus – my period just came three days earlier.

Gilbert Blythe
Are you hungry?

Anne Shirley
yes but
i'm really tired for coffee+talk so have it without me

Gilbert Blythe
What's wrong?

Anne Shirley
first day of period
i wanna die

He doesn't reply. I really hope he's not one of those guys who gets scared at the mere mention of the word 'period'. He's a doctor, for god's sake.

After ten minutes of me struggling to leave my room, I get another text.

It's him.

Gilbert Blythe
Check your front door

My eyes widened as I read his text for the third time. When I do check my front door, I find a wooden tray with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and a cup of black coffee.

___

TWO MORE WEEKS of quarantine! Yay!

At least I can work from home, and so can Gilbert. We're still getting paid by the end of the month and our families are healthy, so I guess that's what matters right now. We also have each other. I don't think I would've survived a month of lockdown without him.

I check my email to find today's work. Just four articles. I could get this done in a matter or two hours.

It's lunchtime and I'm eating a BLT sandwich whilst I prepare to proofread a new article.

Gilbert's sitting where he always is, highlighting his notes like a maniac.

I keep my eyes on my laptop, but I have to laugh out loud at what I'm reading.

"What is it?" He asks.

"This article," I say. "It's the funniest, lamest shit I've ever read"

"What?! I thought POPS!CLE was a serious, mature magazine"

"Ha, ha," I roll my eyes. "I love it when you make fun of my job. Go back to your binder"

"Nah," he says, putting his stuff away. "Tell me about it. What's so lame about it?"

"It's about how two people can fall in love by answering a list of thirty six questions"

After that, I crack a laugh again. He doesn't.

"What's so lame about that?"

"You can't force love," I say. "Love's not a science, you can't guarantee two people will fall in love by answering some questions"

"Maybe not instantly fall in love, but I'm sure it will trigger some attraction and intimacy, and that eventually leads to love"

He's such a science kid. Anyone could tell. He talks about love as if it was some sort of mathematical equation:

attraction + intimacy = love

I roll my eyes at him. "You're such a science kid"

"And you're such an English literature kid," he says. "I bet you're sat there, waiting for Mr Darcy to come along and sweep you off your feet"

"I will not tolerate this Pride and Prejudice slander"

"Why don't we do it?"

"Do what?"

"Answer the thirty six questions," he says.

"Why?"

"Because if you don't fall in love with me, you'll get to prove me wrong," he explains. I take a couple of second to reply, so he keeps talking. "Come on, Anne. I know you're dying to prove this science kid wrong"

"Challenge accepted"

It's not a bad idea. I know I'm going to win this and this is a way more entretaining idea to proofread an article. I open the article draft and read the first question:

"Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?"

"Ladies first"

"Easy," I say ."Franz Kafka"

"Why?"

"I just really want to know why is main character turned into a bug. It's annoying not to know the real purpose of that metaphor or whatever that is"

"Wow. That's a great answer"

"You?"

"My parents" he says.

Wow. I didn't even think of that. Now I feel like an insensitive asshole.

"No need to explain, I suppose," he says. "Next question"

"Would you like to be famous? In what way?"

"Not at all. You?"

"Maybe a famous author," I admit. It's sort of a frustrated ambition of mine. "I'd like to be famous but I wouldn't like to be recognized whenever I go out"

"Makes sense. Next?"

"Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say?"

"What? No, of course not," he says. "I keep it casual. You?"

"Of course I do," my social anxiety speaking for itself.

We keep answering questions for a while. I learn that Gilbert's perfect day would consist in apple picking and a long shower afterwards, whilst mine would be reading an entire book in one day near the fireplace and having chinese food for dinner. I also learn that he would like do die at age 99 because 100 seems scary (whilst I would like to live until at least 105 years old) and that he never sings to himself. Not even humming. He says as if it was the most normal thing on Earth, and I'm starting to believe he's secretly a psychopath.

"Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common"

"Intelligence," is the first thing he says, and I lov- like, I like the fact that he think I'm intelligent. "Stubbornness and hometown"

"Can't complain. I think exactly the same," I say before moving on to the next question. "For what in your life do you feel most grateful?"

"Education," he says. "I'm really proud of what I've achieved in almost 27 years of life. I couldn't have done it without my father and Bash, though"

"It's family for me," I admit, and I fear that we're getting into personal-trauma territory. "I though I would never feel at home again until I met the Cuthberts"

He smiles softly at me. I guess, somehow, he knows what I mean. Apparently Bash and him are inseparable.

We go through the following set of questions very quickly. One of them is about story telling, and he tells me all about the time he fell of an apple tree when he was seven. I have to laugh at that. Then I tell him about the day Matthew came to pick me up from the train station, the day I was adopted. He seems to enjoy the story. Then we talk about our personal qualities and abilities, and he admits he would like to have the ability to relax more and forget about work sometimes. I tell him that I wish I was less tempered.

"If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future or anything else, what would you want to know?"

"I'd like to know about the future of medicine, like, two hundred years from now"

"Interesting," I mumble. I guess mine is not as interesting or altruistic as his. "I'd like to know if I'll be a published author someday"

He nods, as if he was trying to tell me that I'll get there someday. That would be a dream, writing my own stuff. I guess I'd have to write something decent before, though.

"Is there something that you've dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven't you done it?"

He keeps his eyes on me, and I think it's the first time we've stared at each other for so long. I notice how he swallows a lump in his throat.

"No, not really," he says. "You?"

"No, me neither"

We both shared our most terrible memory: the day our respective parents died. His most treasured memory, however, involves his father, and the day they went to the water park when he was twelve. My most treasured memory has to be the day I met Diana and Ruby at school. We then talk about what we value the most in a relationship, and we both say the same: loyalty. Too bad Roy Gardner didn't know the meaning of that word.

"What roles do love and affection play in your life?"

"The only thing I love right now is my job," he says. "I can't believe I'm getting paid for reading and writing articles"

I laugh. "Well, love and affection plays no role in my life at all. My ex cheated on me, so"

"What?" he says, and he seems concerned.

"Yup"

"He's an idiot for that"

"An idiot? That's an understatement. He had cheated on me for two years straight. I hope he rots in hell for that"

"Anne, I'm so sorry. You don't deserve that"

"It's fine," I tell him. I really don't want to relive the memory of Roy in bed with someone else. I really, really don't. "Anyway, next question: Share something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner, one physical and one non-physical"

He blinks twice. I bet he's still thinking about the Roy-thing, and for a moment I regret telling him. I don't want him to think that I'm not over my ex, because I am totally over him. I'm still bitter, though and that doesn't mean I haven't moved on. I just don't feel you have to forgive and forget to move on; you can easily be over someone and still hate them.

"You're very eloquent," he says. "I like the way you talk and speak your mind. And you have the most beautiful, intimidating eyes I've ever seen"

I break eye contact with him at the mention of my eyes, keeping them lock on my laptop. Shit. That's the nicest thing someone's ever said to me.

"Eh, it's my turn to get compliments," he reminds me, joking around. God, I don't even want to look at him right now. I look like a mess. He must think I'm such a child, a flustered child.

"Um, you're very organized," I say, trying to forget about his comment on my eyes and the way I talk. "I watch you take notes and highlight and I can tell you have everything under control. I like that," I say, then scan his face. He seems pretty amused at this whole compliment-exchange thing. He holds eye contact with me. "I love your hair," I don't notice the 'love' slipping out of my tongue at first, and when I realize, I feel like hiding under the kitchen table. "It looks messy and I think it's a nice contrast to your organized personality"

He looks down, scratching the back of his neck. "Okay. Next question"

Ha! He's as flustered as I am! That's a good thing. It means I'm not the only child around here.

We talk about our families and our relationship with our parental figures and our parents as well. We also exchange embarrasing memories and talk about death, love and friendships. We're on question twenty five now. Only nine questions to go.

"Complete this sentence: I wish I had someone with whom I could share..."

"My passion," he says. "Doesn't have to be passion for medicine, though, but I will like to find someone who is as passionate about something as I am for medicine. You?"

Passion. Ha. Well, I don't really feel passionate about anything. It's not like writing news articles for girls 10 years younger than me makes me feel passionate.

"Food," she says. "I hate eating on my own"

He nods, inviting me to read the next question.

"If you were going to become a close friend with your partner, please share what would be important for him or her to know"

"I snore," he says. "Just a bit, but it can be annoying, I guess. You?"

"I'm lactose intolerant. Dairy-free shit for me if we ever go out for lunch"

"Right," he says as if he was keeping a mental note about my lactose intolerance. "Next question, please"

"Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you've just met"

"I think you look particularly pretty in the morning," he blurts out. "Especially when you wake up in a good mood and feel like chatting about mundane things such as the weather"

I feel my cheeks redden again. "Well, thanks," I say. "I... I envy your passion, sometimes. You're a very goal-oriented person and that's the one quality that so many people seem to lack. I think you'll go far in life and, honestly, you deserve it because you put so much passion in everything you do"

I only notice now how he is resting his face on his palm, and he is looking at me as if I was telling him a marvelus story. I decide to ignore the fact that he looks adorable and jump into the next question.

"When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?"

"My father's funeral," he says. "I cried in front of everyone else"

"Makes sense," I say. "I don't usually cry in front of other people so I really can't remember"

And it's true. I cry a lot, just not in front of other people.

"If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven't you told them yet?"

He looks at me and I wonder if he would like to say anything to me. "I... I guess I would tell Bash my bank account number"

"Yeah, yeah. That's smart," I nod eagerly. I just want this to be over. "Oh, that was the last question!"

"So," he says. "How do you feel?"

"Um," I say. "I'm tired. It's been almost two hours of talking. I really should get my work done"

I lock myself in my room. Fuck. Fuck. He was right. I'm attracted to him. I mean, I was before we started this stupid question game, but now I just want to jump through the window and tell him that he was right. That I like him. That I didn't even need the questions in the first place.

___

I SPEND the rest of the day in my room, only leaving for a shower and a snack. I don't even have dinner. I can't even have dinner. My handsome neighbor is the only thing in my mind.

I leave my room past 11 p.m., just to get some snack again. I take a look out of the window, but Gilbert's not there. It's weird. He said he was a night owl, yet the light are off in his apartment. I assume he's asleep.

Then, a knock on my door startles me. My brain instantly tells me it's Gilbert, and we'll, it's him. It couldn't be anyone else; he's the only one I know here and the only one who might come at my door at almost midnight.

"Gilbert," I say. "It's almost midnight"

He's standing there in the hall, in one of his basic T-shirts and some joggers. I realize now that this is the first time I've seen him standing up since the day we met at the elevator.

"I know," he clears his throat after that. I notice how he takes a quick look into my tiny apartment. "I was wondering if... I... could borrow some flour?"

"You said you didn't bake"

"And you said I could always ask for flour, so that's what I'm doing"

"Right, um, come in"

He comes inside, and then I think about the pandemic and everything. I guess it's alright. None of us has left the house in over two weeks.

"Here you are," I tell him, handing him my tiny flour sack. "Enjoy your midnight baking"

He looks at it before nodding, slowly. "Yes, baking. Thank you"

I smile softly as I watch him walk to the door. It's weird. It's the first time we've been this close. The first time we saw each other we kept our distances because, well 1) we're in the middle of a pandemic and 2) we didn't even know each other that much back then. I wonder if we could say we know each other now, after a few weeks of talking and the questions, of course.

I watch him as I lean on the kitchen counter. His left hand is on the door knob and I guess he's about to leave, but then he drops it and turns around.

"Screw this," he says, walking to the kitchen island and leaving the flour sack there. "It's true, I don't even bake"

"Then what are you doing here? I ask cautiously.

"I was thinking about the questions. I googled them, turns out there's a webpage and all, quite interactive"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and I noticed you skipped this one question"

Oh. So he noticed. I was really hoping he didn't, but at the same time I've spent all day wondering if he did notice.

"Did I?"

"If you were to die tonight with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone and why haven't you told them yet?" he repeats the question, the same question I avoided replying. "You didn't answer"

"Oh," I whispers. "Well, what was your answer?"

"I said I'd give Bash my bank account number. That's a lie, of course, because he already knows it"

"So? You came here to tell me you lied?"

"No," he says, hand shoved in his pockets. "I came here to answer it honestly"

I hold eye contact with him. The kitchen island is separating us, and I wish it didn't.

"Go on," I say, almost daring him.

"If I were to die tonight with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, I would regret not telling you that I like you," he simply says. "I liked you when I first saw you in the elevator after all these years without knowing from you and I liked you when we first talked through the window. I didn't need the questions, Anne. They only made me like you more, if possible. That's my answer, my honest answer"

I release a breath I didn't even know I was holding. "It's my turn, then"

He nods.

"If I were to die tonight withouth the opportunity to communicate with anyone, I would really regret not telling you that I like you, too. I liked you when I first saw you and I liked you when we first talked, and I even liked you more when you made breakfast for me that one day. I have liked you more and more every day. The questions made me like you even more, so I guess, after all, you were right. The questions worked. You win"

"No, you win," he says. "I would like you eitherway, with or without questions"

"I guess we could call it even"

"Good"

He walks towards me and before I realize, he's standing in front of me, very close. He's taller than I am, and I have to look up to meet his eyes.

"Is this okay?" he whispers. I assume he means his sudden close proximity. I want to tell him that there's no need to whisper, no one can hear us. Instead, I just say:

"More than okay"

One of his hands creep up the side of my neck, and he leaves it there as he pulls me closer, leaning in the dim light of my kitchen. First, he kisses my cheek, and his lips remain there for a few seconds. Then my jaw, and lastly, my lips.

For the first two seconds I'm as solid as a rock. It's been almost nine months since the last time I was kissed by someone, but... but this has nothing to do with the last time I was kissed.

My hands move to cup his face, and we keep kissing like this, as if the question we left unanswered was literal, as if we were going to die tonight and there would be no other change to be kissing each other anymore.

As his arms wrap around my figure, I know that I'm going to lie awake every night this week, replaying this kiss in my mind.

"That's what I wanted to say," he says after one last kiss. "I really like you and I really like our window talk"

He beams at me. He looks really handsome under the dim light of my kitchen, he looks almost younger.

I don't know what we'll do next. I don't know if we had just started something special out of four weeks of getting to know each other, talking every single day; I don't know if this means we're dating or if we will get to go on a first date once this madness is over. Only thing I know is quarantine with Gilbert Blythe as a neighbor and window talk pal doesn't sound that bad at all.

"I really like you and our window talk, too"

___