You know what’s weird?

Like, bone-deep weird?

I’m going to college.

Me. Eddie freaking Munson. Walking guitar solo, D&D king of Hawkins High, two-time senior, certified freak. And now—college student.

I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around it.

I keep staring at the acceptance letter like it’s some kind of prank. Like, any second now, a camera crew’s gonna pop out of my closet and be like, “Haha! Got you, Munson! Now back to the trailer, loser!”

But it’s real. It’s happening. Boxes are getting packed. Guitar is being tuned for open mic nights that I hope exist. I even bought a notebook. Like, an actual spiral one. It smells like paper and anxiety.

And the only reason—only reason—I’m not losing my damn mind completely?

You.

My best friend. My ride-or-die. The girl who saw through the long hair and sarcasm and band shirts with skulls on ’em, and went, “Hey. You’ve got something in you. Let’s not waste it.”

I still remember the day you said it. We were in my room, surrounded by crumpled Doritos bags and graph paper covered in campaign notes. You leaned over one of my maps, tracing the path to the Shadow King’s lair with your finger, and said, “You know, this world you built? It’s better than half the books in the school library.”

I snorted, ’cause that’s what I do when someone says something that hits too close to home. “You been sniffing glue again, sweetheart? Those books got, like, editors.”

But you just gave me that look. That quiet, stubborn, I-believe-in-you-whether-you-like-it-or-not kind of look. And then you hit me with it.

“You ever thought about writing this stuff for real?”

I remember just… blinking at you. Like, real slow. ’Cause no, I hadn’t thought about it. Not in any serious way. Writing was something I did between gigs and getting detention. It wasn’t for people like me. It was for… people who wore cardigans and drank coffee that costs more than a tank of gas.

But you didn’t let it go.

You found the program. Creative Writing. You helped me fill out the application, and when I said something stupid like, “Why waste the stamp?”, you slapped the back of my head and mailed it anyway.

Next thing I knew, we were both getting acceptance letters. Me, for writing about dragons and broken heroes. You, for figuring out how the hell people’s minds work. Psychology. Which, let’s be real, makes sense—you’ve always been good at reading people, especially me.

We’re moving into the dorms in three days.

Three. Days.

I’m staring at this duffel bag on my floor, trying to figure out if I can bring my Hellfire Club banner, or if that’s gonna scare my roommate. And every now and then I catch myself smiling like an idiot. Not just because I’m excited—though I am, even if I won’t admit it out loud—but because I get to do this with you. You’re not just the reason I’m going; you’re the reason I want to go.

Last night we sat on the hood of your car, watching the stars, and I told you, “If this ends with me becoming some brooding writer with a goatee and an espresso addiction, I’m blaming you.”

You laughed. God, that laugh. “Deal,” you said. “But only if you let me psychoanalyze all your characters.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

So yeah. Eddie Munson. College kid. Still feels like some alternate reality.

But if it is, I’m glad I get to live it with you.

And if it turns out I don’t belong there? If I crash and burn?

Well… at least I’ll have you in the wreckage with me. And somehow, that makes it all okay.