It's almost 11.30 PM when we get to the apartment. A few fireworks have already started crackling in the sky—faint, distant, like the world is warming up its lungs. From the hallway window, I catch glimpses of red flares blooming briefly above rooftops before disappearing into the black.
People are probably counting down somewhere already. Maybe out in the main plaza. Maybe crammed into apartment balconies just like us. I can almost hear the low static murmur of thousands of voices across the city, holding their breath.
Inside, Noah kicks off his shoes with a soft thud and flicks on the TV in the living room. The screen lights up the dim apartment in flashes of blue and gold—live coverage of the biggest countdown spots in the country. The camera pans across packed streets, people shoulder to shoulder, their faces glowing from neon signs and flashing lights. Someone waves a sparkler. Someone wears a ridiculous blinking hat.
