Early Morning - General POV
The alarm rang, its shrill sound cutting through the early morning quiet. Alex Dunphy smiled at the buzzing clock, knowing she should have gone to bed earlier but proud of herself for finishing her reading. She closed the book with a sigh, muttering, "Should've slept last night." As she sat up, her gaze fell on her sister, Haley, who was sprawled out across her bed, sheets tangled on the floor, one leg dangling off the edge in an almost comical way.
Shaking her head, Alex slid out of bed, already mentally preparing for the day. She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, and made her way downstairs where her mom, Claire, was preparing breakfast.
"I'm ready," Alex announced, standing tall, clearly enjoying the sense of responsibility. "I have to go give the homework to that weird kid around the block and drop off a letter from the school."
Claire glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "Why didn't you go yesterday?" she asked, already sensing something more was going on.
Alex smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Because," she said matter-of-factly, "if I gave it to him yesterday, he'd have time to prepare. Now, it'll be more... inconvenient for him."
The camera zoomed in on Claire, her expression shifting to one of disapproval. She sighed, swaying her head with a knowing look that said, This is so Alex.
"Okay, fine," Claire said, shaking her head. "Let's go. You should really join me on my jog down the block. It's a good way to start the day."
Together, they headed out into the bright morning, jogging lightly through the neighborhood. Claire slowed as they reached the Jones house—a worn-down, unkempt place that stuck out against the otherwise well-maintained suburban street. The house had become an eyesore, a stark contrast to the pristine lawns around it. Alex marched up to the front door, knocking firmly.
The door creaked open, revealing a disheveled boy with dark, unkempt hair hanging over his red, tired eyes. His slouched posture and rumpled clothes made it screamed he'd just woken up.
Switch to Jack's POV
The knock startled me, sharp and jarring, yanking me out of my spiraling thoughts. I flinched, lost my footing, and slipped, landing hard on the floor. I groaned, rubbing my elbow, my eyes scanning the mess around me.
Papers were scattered across the room, dishes piled high in the sink, and garbage bags sat forgotten in corners. This place—once clean, once orderly—now felt like a reflection of my mind: chaotic, fractured, and weighed down by memories that didn't belong to me.
The knock came again, louder, more insistent. I pushed myself up, heart racing. Who would be here now?
I moved to the door and opened it a crack. Standing there was Alex Dunphy, my class president, her expression stern and disapproving.
"Here," she said, thrusting some papers at me. "This is the homework you missed. And this—" she held up another paper—"needs to be signed by your parents and brought back to school. Also, you've been absent for three weeks, so they need to come in for a meeting."
I stared at her, my jaw tightening. "My dad's not here," I snapped. "And what do you want from my mom? She's not here either."
Alex frowned, undeterred by my tone. "Then when will they be back? Someone has to sign this."
I felt my temper flare. "I said no one's here!" My voice was louder than I intended, but I didn't care. Before she could say another word, I slammed the door in her face.
From behind it, I heard her shout, "Jerk!" followed by the sound of her stomping away.
I leaned against the door, trying to steady my breathing. My gaze drifted back to the room—papers, garbage, and a lingering sense of despair. For a brief moment, I thought of how it used to be: clean, orderly, a home filled with warmth and care. Now, it was just... this.
Realization dawned on me as I stared at the mess. Alex Dunphy. Vought International. These names—they weren't just familiar, they were famous. I'd seen them somewhere before, not in real life, but on TV. Characters and organizations from shows I used to binge-watch back when everything was normal. The absurdity of it hit me like a punch to the gut. Was I losing my grip on reality? Was I trapped in some twisted game where fiction and reality bled together?
"Get a grip," I muttered, slapping my cheeks with both hands to force myself into focus. Fiction or not, this was my reality now.
The weight in my chest wouldn't lift, but I couldn't let it consume me. I rolled up my sleeves and moved toward the mess, my hands itching to restore some semblance of order. It was time to clean up. Time to face what I'd become.