I turn my head to look at Caleb. He’s got one hand on his desk, the other on the back of the chair I’m sitting in. He’s surrounding me and it makes me feel safe and warm. A grin is blooming on his face, growing with each rhythmic nod of his head as he gets into the groove of the music. I can’t help but smile at him in return. Caleb’s joy is always infectious, like an airborne disease with symptoms that appear in its victims right away. I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing—a virus that makes you smile as soon as it enters your system—but maybe I should ask my parents.

“I like this.” Caleb keeps nodding and smiling and my internal organs might start melting from the warmth in my chest.

We end up listening to the whole album while sitting on his floor, like we always do, leaning against his bed. Our arms are pressed together from shoulder to elbow, our hands lying on our outstretched legs. It would be so easy to reach over and take his hand in mine. I glance sideways at Caleb to see him looking at me and smiling softly. My stomach drops and my heart rises to my throat, creating an empty, echoing chamber in my torso.

“You look happy,” he whispers over the thunderous chorus of “House of Memories.” I wouldn’t have even heard him if we weren’t sitting so close. The gaping space inside of me tightens impossibly before being filled with a rush of nervous fluttering.

“I am happy,” I whisper back. We’ve somehow gotten closer to each other and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears.

“That’s good,” Caleb exhales.

My whole field of vision is filled with his face. There’s an electric current between us, so strong I can almost see the sparks in the air. I fear if I move too quickly, I’ll get shocked. I’m frozen in place, paralyzed by the voltage, as “House of Memories” ends, highlighting the silent space between us. The opening piano chords of “Impossible Year” drift into my ears, giving definition to the ache of longing inside of me. It feels impossible—being this close to Caleb, him looking at me this way. It’s impossible that I think he might be about to kiss me.

I hear myself say his name—a question, an answer, a hope—and regret it instantly, want to grab it and shove it back into my mouth, to keep it from smothering the sparks. Because something in Caleb snaps and shutters and before I’m done breathing out his name, he’s leaning back and away from me.