If I had dated Scott when he first asked me out in high school, things would probably have turned out differently. Maybe Pentatonix would never have come into being. Maybe I wouldn't be acting and he wouldn't be singing. Well, he'd still be singing, but not at this level. If I could go back, though, even if it meant giving up everything and starting from scratch, I would. I didn't feel this way about him then, but maybe the seed was already there. We could have been kissing each other for over ten years by now! Ten years, maybe with occasional breaks to sleep, eat, etc.

He's not half bad at this.

It feels like he's listening, completely engaged, taking it all in. I wish I had more to say so I'd have an excuse to stay a little longer, but we agreed to take it slow. This is a one-time thing for now, a promise of what's to come.

That's what I was planing on, anyway. It's only been a couple seconds, though, and I'm already finding it difficult to pull away. Come on, Mitch. Be strong. On thr—oh. Hold on. Scott's taking over. I'm everything, he's telling me. Everything.

It's been a while since anyone's said anything to me in a kiss but "More," but this is the opposite of greedy. The way he cherishes my lips feels intimidatingly, unmatchably generous. He's not lustful, but he's walking the line like it's a tightrope... It would be so easy to nudge him off balance. Just a touch more pressure, the tiniest hint of teeth—that's all it would take. He's so focused, though, so concentrated on maintaining his precarious restraint, that I can't bring myself to topple it, notwithstanding that I can't for the life of me remember why we decided taking it slow was a good idea. What were we thinking?

He starts to pull away, and I lean forward for more before I realize what I'm doing. No. I don't want to be the greedy one. I don't want him to think I didn't mean it. I force myself to hold still, but he lingers a moment longer before breaking away.

Wow.

"You're blushing," he whispers. He's right.

"It feels warm." I feel like I'm thawing.

"Mitch, would you, um, would you like to go out with me? On a date?"

Forget thawing. I'm melting. He's too cute. "What did you have in mind?" I ask coyly. I can feel even my ears blushing now.

"Tuesday, ten A.M."

"Where?"

"I'll pick you up. Casual attire."

I need to get out of here before my whole face catches fire. I know exactly where he's taking me.

I don't get much sleep. The day loops over and over in my head, and I struggle to understand how everything went so differently from what I had planned. I wanted to listen to his album, hear what he had to say, and maybe move in, just as a friend for starters. What happened?

We talked. We've talked before, but it always ended in fighting. Something was different this time. Maybe it was that I finally figured out where I was coming from.

When I do drift off, I dream about him. We're making out, and I know we should stop—we should have stopped a long time ago—but that's just not happening anytime soon. It's escalating rapidly, and I'm trying to resist. I really am trying, but my mind can't seem to control me anymore, so much so that I'm starting to panic.

I catch a glimpse of Scott's face and freeze. He's a child, nine, ten years old. He tries to keep kissing me, but I shove him away. He crashes against the ground, blood pools around him, and he shrieks. I clamp a hand over his mouth. No one can find us like this.

Screw sleeping. Sleeping sucks. I don't think I ever want to sleep again. How do I persuade my subconscious that Scott is not, in fact, off-limits? It's convinced that he's actually my sister or something, and that wanting to be more than friends is seriously messed up.

How did I get so swept away all at once? Was it a moment of clarity or a moment of sheer stupidity? I guess I'll find out. I promised him I'd try, after all.

There's too much to process. To start, I'm in love with Scott Hoying. What exactly does that mean? Nothing, really. Nothing has changed but what I call it. No, that's not quite right. I didn't just rename it. I looked at it head-on for the first time. I've never really been ignorant of it, and it's been influencing the way I feel and act, but it was always best not to think about it too hard. Even now, maybe it would be more convenient if I could neglect it a little longer. I've just got to take this one step at a time.

Esther texts me at 9:00 sharp and arrives at 9:25, which leaves me 25 minutes to pace nervously and tidy up the little odds and ends I wouldn't even notice are out of place if she weren't visiting. I wish Scott were here. I don't know how he stood up to her. If she were wrong, it would be easy, and if she didn't care, I could ignore her, but it's not that straightforward.

She has breakfast from The Line. It's literally impossible not to love her. She sets our food out on the table and makes herself at home, pulling juice from the fridge and asking if I want a glass. She brought me a maple cinnamon apple crisp with "vegan" and "gf" written on the bag. "How are you holding up?" she asks. "What happened?"

"He told me," I begin cautiously.

"How much?"

"Everything?"

"You'd still be talking if he'd told you everything. Did he tell you he's in love with you?" I nod affirmatively. She's taking this more calmly than I expected. "That he's never really stopped loving you since high school?"

"I kinda figured."

"That he's sick?"

"Yeah."

"That he only has four more months?"

"Huh?" Scott didn't mention that. What's she talking about?

"That's Dr. Fletcher's best estimate, and the others all say around the same thing. Maybe it's why Scott's finally willing to be reconciled. Four months isn't really that long. I guess he's thinking—"

"He—I—Four?" Todrick's words burn through my mind. You don't get to know how long you've got. What if Scott did know? Just how long has he known? Since the beginning?

How long has he been doing this alone?

"Are you okay, Mitch?"

"He didn't tell me." My breathing is too shallow and my words come out weak. I don't believe it. There has to be a mistake. It would explain, though, why he pushed me away. He pushed everyone away.

"Tell you what?"

"That he only has four more months."

"It's just an estimate. It could be a lot longer." Is that why he didn't tell me? He didn't want me to worry? "It could go on indefinitely, or they could decide to pull the meds tomorrow. Mitch, what's wrong? You didn't think he was healthy, did you?"

"No, I knew about the depression and alcoholism. Esther, I need an appointment at City Hall." Taking it slow isn't an option anymore. Every second of the next four months needs to count. Scott and I will spend the rest of our lives together, the way we always planned.