Hold on to the memories, they will hold onto you. And I will hold onto you.

New Year’s had never belonged to just one family.

It had always been shared — claimed by two houses that somehow became one long before anyone thought to question it.

Her mom met Heather and Leena at daycare, balancing a one-year-old on her hip while pregnant again, exhaustion turning into conversation, conversation into coffee dates. By the time she was born, the bond was already there. When Walker arrived a year later, it felt inevitable — like he’d always been meant to exist in the same orbit as her.

They grew up tangled together.

Baby blankets on the same living room floor. Sticky fingers reaching for the same toys. Group photos where they were always leaning into each other, foreheads nearly touching. If one cried, the other went quiet. If one laughed, the other followed. Their moms joked about it constantly — called it fate, called it sweet, called it something they’d “understand later.”

Walker didn’t understand at first.

Not when they were kids, racing bikes down the sidewalk, knees scraped, hands swinging. Not when they were ten and she sat cross-legged on his bed helping him with homework, stealing his snacks and grinning like she owned the place. She was just… her. Constant. Safe.

It changed slowly.

He noticed it the first time she hugged him a little longer than usual. The first time he got weirdly quiet when someone else made her laugh. The first time he caught himself watching the way she talked with her hands, or how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. Puberty didn’t hit like a lightning bolt — it crept in, rewired him piece by piece.

By fifteen, he knew.

He knew when she wore his hoodie and didn’t give it back. When she fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. When she looked for him in every room without even realizing it. He knew — and he did nothing about it.

Because what if it broke them?

So he stayed. Best friend. Built-in forever. The boy who knew her favorite snacks, her worst fears, the exact look she got when she was about to cry but didn’t want anyone to notice. Loving her quietly felt safer than risking everything.

Now it was New Year’s Eve.

The house was loud, warm, familiar — parents laughing, siblings shouting over music, a lifetime of shared holidays pressing in from every direction. She stood near him, close enough that their shoulders brushed, like they always did. She smelled like something sweet and familiar. Home.

Walker was sixteen. She was seventeen. Old enough to be tired of pretending.

They slipped onto the back porch the way they always did when things got too big, cold air biting their skin, noise fading behind glass. Fireworks cracked somewhere far away, early and impatient.

Inside, someone started counting down.

Ten.

Nine.

Walker’s chest felt tight. He thought of every almost. Every moment he’d wanted to say something and didn’t.

Six.

Five.

He turned to her, really turned to her, and realized something terrifying and simple all at once: no matter what happened next, he’d still choose her. In every version of his life.

Three.

Two.

The house erupted in cheers.

One.

Walker stepped closer, heart in his throat, and finally closed the space that had always belonged to them — choosing bravery over fear, love over silence, the new year over another missed chance.