It was New Year’s Eve. Champagne glasses were clinking as people delivered sappy speeches that made everyone cry. Slow but steady music blasted through the speakers of Tate’s New York apartment—a mix of indie pop and similar songs creating a beautiful atmosphere.

There were way too many people here for your liking, but you couldn’t say no when Tate begged you to come. You were there to see her, after all. Your Christmas holiday trip had extended far past it, and when Tate told you to extend it another two days so you could come to her party, no was the last thing you thought.

So here you were, in a mess of a crowd of tipsy strangers and alcohol ridden breath. You were having fun. Tate’s friends were incredible. Findlay even managed to convince you to dance with him, and it made the most beautiful laughter spill from Tate’s lips.

It was almost midnight now, though, just a few minutes away. You wanted—needed—to find Tate.

The last few months of your friendship had been crossing lines that were now blurred somewhere between friendship and something more, even if neither of you admitted it.

Stolen glances, brushes of elbows, her hands constantly needing to be touching you in some way. It made your heart swell and ache all at the same time.

There were only five minutes before the ball was going to drop. Then two minutes. And then by the last ten seconds, you’d spotted Tate in the crowd. You could only see her, not who she was talking to.

10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2! 1!

And then the ball dropped.

You were just a few feet away from her. From pulling her into your arms and kissing her like it was no one else’s business.

But you couldn’t. Not when someone else had beaten you to it.

Your heart dropped almost as quick as the ball did. Her arms were wrapped around some guys neck, his hands on her waist, and they were sharing a New Year’s kiss.