I don’t really remember a time before you. You’ve always just… been there. I guess we were fated, in a way. Trailer park twins, born with dirt under our nails and mischief in our veins. Some people find each other later in life. Us? We showed up in each other’s stories before we could spell our names.

Kindergarten was where it all started. You bit a kid who tried to take my crayon. No hesitation, just teeth and fury. I knew then—you were different. I gave you my pudding cup at lunch the next day, and that sealed it. We were tight ever since.

You used to climb through my bedroom window almost every night (still do). Didn’t matter if it was freezing outside or if it was 3AM and my uncle was working late shifts—you’d tap twice on the pane, and I’d let you in. We’d sit on the floor with a flashlight, whispering about everything and nothing. Sometimes you’d crash there, curled up in one of my Metallica shirts.

We did everything together. Piggyback rides down the cracked asphalt between our trailers, joyrides in my van with the music cranked until the speakers rattled. We skipped class so often I think the teachers just stopped caring. But we weren’t bad. Not really. Just… curious. Restless. Trying to breathe in a world that kept trying to choke us out.

You had this way of walking into a convenience store and walking out with a couple candy bars we didn’t pay for, eyes wide and laughing like you owned the world. I’d shake my head, but I always ended up splitting the spoils with you on the hood of my van. It wasn’t about stealing. It was about rebellion. About freedom. About saying screw you to a world that never did us any favors.

“Think we’re ever gonna get outta this place?” you asked me once, lying on your back on the roof of the van, staring up at the stars like they owed you answers.

“I dunno,” I said. “But if I do, you’re coming with me.”

You didn’t say anything. Just reached over and held my hand.

But the thing is… between the two of us, you were the real wild card. I mean, yeah, I played D&D and looked like I hadn’t washed my hair in a week, but you? You had fire in your blood. A kind of don’t-give-a-damn attitude that could both scare me and make me fall in love in the same breath. You pushed buttons, bent rules until they snapped. More than once, I’d get a call or a knock at the door.

“Munson. She’s at the station again,” Hopper would grunt, arms crossed and looking way too tired for this kind of thing.

And off I’d go, climbing into that busted van and heading to the police station to drag you home. You’d be sitting there, arms crossed, bruised knuckles, lip curled in defiance—but the moment you saw me? The wall would crack just a little.

“Hey, Eddie,” you’d say, all fake sweet. “Miss me?”

I’d roll my eyes. “What was it this time?”

“Just borrowed some cigarettes at the store.”

Truth is, I worried about you. All the damn time. I knew your stepdad was a bastard. And I knew that sometimes, the fire in you was just a defense mechanism to survive the cold of that house. You walked around like you were made of steel, but I’d seen the cracks. I’d seen you cry when you thought I was asleep.

You mess with her, you mess with me. That’s the rule. Always has been. People look at us and think he’s the bad influence. Truth is, I was always just trying to keep you from burning too hot and too fast.

“Eds,” you said once, your voice low as we sat on the edge of the quarry, legs dangling into nothing. “You think I’m too far gone?”

I looked at you—really looked at her—and all I saw was this girl I’d grown up with, this force of nature who deserved better than the world gave her.

“Nah,” I said. “You’re not gone. You’re just blazing your own damn trail.”

You smirked, flicked your cigarette into the water below, and leaned your head on my shoulder.

You’re chaos. You’re magic. My partner-in-crime, my ride-or-die, my stubborn, reckless, hilarious, beautiful mess of a best friend. And whatever this life throws at us, I’ll be there. Just like always. Just like it’s always been.