Page 158 of Going Viral for Christmas
Outside, the sky is bruised with dusk but clearing, one star shimmering through the retreating clouds. Inside, it’s warm. Dim. The scent of pine trees drifts through the air.
We lie back on the living room rug, wrapped in blankets and entangled limbs. My cheek presses against the soft cotton of his tee, his heartbeat a grounding thrum beneath it. My whole world is syncing to his rhythm.
Above us, the ceiling glows faintly. Soren propped his phone flashlight beneath an overturned whiskey tumbler, the glass scattering light like a prism. It’s not much—just a constellation of crooked shapes on plaster—but he swears it’s the stars. And somehow, with his arm curled tight around me, I almost believe him.
Soren speaks so quietly, it sounds like a wish. “Okay. Favorite firsts?”
I shift a little, eyes trained on the twinkling pattern above us. “You mean…first kiss?”
Soren nods. “That. And other things. First concert. First lie. First heartbreak. First book that ruined you. Whatever comes to mind.”
“Treacherous waters.”
His arm moves behind my shoulders, slow and sure. “It’s not a game. It’s a trust fall in verbal form.”
The way he says it, like he’s inviting me to lean in and catch fire at the same time, makes my skin feel too tight.
Still, I play.
“My first concert was Alanis Morissette. My mom snuck me in when I was eleven and we sang every word as gospel.”
“Jagged Little Pill. Iconic. You peaked early.”
“Debatable.” I chuckle. “What was the first book that made you stay up all night reading?”
No hesitation. “Sabriel. I was obsessed with necromancers for the next three years.”
“That explains your fixation with morally gray magic users.”
He nudges me with his elbow. “Shut up. Your turn.”
I think for a moment. “First book I lost sleep over wasThe Name of the Wind.”
He nods, accepting the answer.
“What was your first lie?” I ask.
“First lie I ever told…” Soren breathes in, deep and uneven. “Was telling my teacher I didn’t care that my dad missed my eighth grade poetry reading.”
My chest pulls tight. My fingers drift across his knuckles.
“That night,” his voice lowers, “I came home, went out back, and read the whole damn poem to the trees. I knew it by heart. Still do.”
The images come so easily—a gangly boy with too-long limbs and a heart too big for his ribcage, whispering truth to the dark because no one else would listen.
I don’t have words for what that does to me.
I crane my neck to peer up at him. “Recite it for me.”
Soren’s smile tilts, half-awkward, half-boyish, and he rubs the back of his neck. “You really want to hear the tragic eighth-grade emo ramblings of a kid with bad hair and worse posture?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my heart already tripping over itself.
For a beat, he stares at me—long, quiet, searching. He’s tracking tiny circles on my arm, but then the teasing fades, every trace of humor replaced with something weightier that pins me in place. And with a breath that trembles at the edges, he begins. His gaze never wavers from me, not once, as though every word has waited sixteen years to land exactly here, with me.
“Someday, I’ll find her.
The one who sees past the shadows I drag behind,
