As I get into the cab, I’m excited at the prospect of coming back to my new home here in the city. For one thing, my roommates were no longer strangers, but friends. Old friends. And like that old Dolly Parton song goes, “you can’t make old friends.” Unlike my first semester here, this time around, no introductions are needed. We’re going to start off right where we had left off. Laughing. Talking. Reminiscing. I can’t wait.

From what I heard, Dylan Waterhouse, my roommate who grew up in Connecticut and whose father owns a posh apartment overlooking Central Park, is back with Peyton, his high school girlfriend. Dylan and Peyton, who goes to Yale, had broken up and got back together numerous times last semester. According to Juliet, my roommate from Staten Island whose father owns a string of dry cleaners, they had got back together and broke up twice over Christmas break. But I guess they’re going through an on period. All this drama gives Juliet an insane amount of delight despite the fact that she and Dylan had a thing for close to a month last semester and I was expecting her to be a little bitter over the whole thing.

And the thing that’s even better than old friends is an old love. My old love, to be precise. I hadn’t seen Tristan since we had gone skiing on New Year’s.

“Alice!” Tristan yells as I get out of the cab in front of our building. He wraps his arms around me as I try to fish out a $10 bill to tip the cab driver.

He has recently shaved. His skin feels smooth and smells of coconut oil, his DIY aftershave. I wrap my arms around him and hug him as tightly as I can. And then…my heart jumps into my throat. I take a breath. My chest hurts and no air comes in. My heart starts to beat faster and faster. One more second and it’ll pop out of my chest.

“What’s wrong? You okay?” Tristan asks.

He pulls away from me.

“I’m sorry. I’m just…” I mumble. “I can’t breathe.”

“Oh my God, Alice. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I just need a minute.”

I double over and put my head in between my knees. I’ve never had a panic attack, but that’s what I heard Dr. Drew say to do in situations like these. Tristan patiently pats my back and waits.

I take one deep breath. And then another. Slowly, my heartbeat returns to normal. It hits me. It’s love. I’m actually overwhelmed by love.

“Okay, I’m good.” I stand up straight. I’m no longer sweating, but I’m suddenly keenly aware of how sweaty I am. My shirt is soaked and I’m getting colder with every second. Tristan stares at me with his brows furrowed and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. He’s concerned.

“Sorry about that,” I say. “I just got a little too excited about seeing you, I guess.”

He takes me into his arms again.

“Are you okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I think that was a mini-panic attack or something. No worries. It’s over.”

I look up at Tristan’s face. At the end of last semester, his tan had started to wear off. But now, it’s back again. It’s almost certainly from surfing and skiing over Christmas break. I take a moment to admire how nice his body feels next to mine. Even through all the layers of clothes, his arms feel strong and powerful. His piercing eyes sparkle under the lights of the city and alternate between hazel and green depending on the angle.

Tristan’s light brown hair is longer than it was last semester, falling into his face. I move a few strands out of his face. My fingers brush over his lips, which are glittering and soft despite the cold weather and lack of Chapstick. He purses them and kisses my fingers lightly. Then he pulls me closer. Tilting my head upward, he kisses me. His tongue brushes across my upper lip and my knees grow weak. We start to move in unison, as if we’re dancing to the same melody. My breaths match his breaths. His shoulders drop at the same time as mine rise. It’s a game of give and take with neither of us giving or taking too much.

A sudden gust of wind assaults us, bringing us back to reality for a moment. It’s almost 10:30 pm and 23 degrees on Broadway in January.

“Let’s go inside,” Tristan whispers without pulling away from my lips.

“Okay,” I mumble back. This is our special game – talking through our kisses. It’s something we have done forever and it’s one of the things that I love most about us.