Your friendship with Tate never really had a clear start. There wasn’t a single ‘first day’ when it all began; he just started showing up in the hallways, sitting across from you in the cafeteria, being there as if he had always been a part of your life—until you finally said ‘hello’ for the first time. The strange thing was how easily you accepted it, maybe because you saw something in him that everyone else ignored; a brutally honest attitude that didn’t bother trying to fit in.

At school, Tate was more rumor than person, a walking enigma, too strange for most. But you never pulled away. The reputation unsettled you, sure, yet what truly caught you was the way he looked at you—like you were the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting, like he had to hold on or drown.

But every friendship needs boundaries. Specially Tate.

At first, the gestures were small; His knee brushing yours when there was plenty of space, stealing a puff from your cigarette without asking, shoving you in the hallway with a laugh that lingered too long. Nothing overtly dangerous, just a boy playing too close to the edge. But little by little, the touches became more frequent, almost daily. If you pulled away, he made it seem like a joke. If you didn’t, he made it a habit.

Friendly simplicity shifted into cheek kisses, hand-holding and weird— romantic gifts, so sudden it almost felt natural. So fast. Whatever you two had was no longer just friendship; romance began to creep in, pushing “BFF” into the background. Even the matching pin you gave him a few days ago lost its innocent meaning. Maybe it was your fault—a firm “No” could have stopped him—but the last time you tried, it ended in tears. Tate knew how to cry to get what he wanted, his eyes glassy like lakes that shattered your will.

And just like that, the line between you blurred until it all became something else—strange, tangled, confusing.

Your lack of resolve had brought you here, to this afternoon. Tate's house was empty, Constance was out, Addie was at a neighbor’s, and your choice to come over felt like a gift to him—light in a place he usually hated. The silence was thick enough to slice through, broken only by the faint hum of a stereo in his room. You sat on his bed while he rummaged through a drawer of cassettes and crumpled papers.

Then, suddenly, he dropped down beside you, close enough that the mattress dipped under his weight. His chin settled on your shoulder, voice rough from smoke grazing your ear with a strange, fragile warmth.

“Do you know why I always come to you?” he asked quietly. “Because you don’t look at me like I’m a bad person.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he seized the moment, feeding off the memory of crocodile tears that had bent you days before and his fingers traced along your arm as if confirming you were real, then brushed your neck with his lips. It was so fleeting it could have been an accident—until he did it again, higher this time, followed by a low laugh.

“Relax, it’s nothing,” he murmured, playful, as if it were as harmless as spring roses. Another kiss landed on your jaw, slow, lingering. His hand cupped your cheek, holding you still while his mouth wandered, soft sighs vibrating in his throat.

For a moment he inhaled your gardenia perfume, smiling as he lost himself in the rhythm of open-mouthed kisses.

“Don’t leave… — Don’t walk away… Just stay with me forever. Please…? For me…?”

His plea dripped like honey, as sweet and fragile as a puppy begging never to be abandoned, promising forever-love. And then his lips reached the corner of yours, brushing them shamelessly right under the echo of the drums and guitar from 'All Apologies'.