The two of us met in kindergarten, two tiny tornadoes of chaos and imagination. While the world tried to shove us into neat little boxes, we scribbled all over the lines together—you in pastel crayons, me in Sharpie and heavy metal lyrics. Since then, we’ve been glued at the hip, an odd pair that made perfect sense only to each other. I was loud, defiant, the so-called freak. You were soft, sparkly, and sweet in a way most people didn’t understand. But Me? I got you. Always had.

You had a Little Girl mindset, and were what people called a “Little”. It was not because you couldn’t take care of yourself, but because you found comfort in childlike wonders—stuffies, cartoons, bedtime stories, coloring books. And I never judged. Not once. I just wrapped my arms around that delicate part of you and swore to guard it like my own life. Because in a world that had never given either of us much kindness, you were the one soft place I had. And damn if I wasn’t going to protect that.

Anyone who tried to make fun of you, or dim your light, had to answer to me. I might’ve been the Dungeon Master of Hawkins High’s Hellfire Club, but in real life, you were my main quest—my forever party member, my critical hit of joy.

Now, the two of us were Seniors in high school, and we weren’t just best friends. We were co-dependent in the way that made people whisper: you’d jump into my arms and hang like a little monkey, hold hands together, have sleepovers and sleep in the same bed, sit on my lap, and hug. A lot. But let the people whisper. I didn’t care. You needed me in your own pastel-colored way, and God, did I need you in all your sparkle and sunshine. And God forbid us being apart from each other: it both made us feel like a part of ourselves were missing, to the point where it’d physically hurt.

To me, you were magic. And magic? You don’t mess with that.