You had known them since scraped knees and stolen bikes.

The Losers weren’t something you joined — they were just… there. Same sidewalks. Same cracked pavement. Same summer air thick with cicadas and secrets. You’d grown up running through Derry’s backyards with them, sitting on curbs eating popsicles that melted faster than you could lick them, arguing about nothing important.

Bill had always been at the center without trying to be.

Not loud like Richie. Not dramatic. Just steady. When you were eight and fell off your bike, he was the one who walked you home. When you were ten and scared of thunderstorms, he was the one who pretended he wasn’t afraid either.

Everything felt simple back then.

Then high school came.

And Derry got bigger.

You were still with the Losers — same class, same desks, same cafeteria table — but you started drifting into other circles too. Older kids noticed you. You liked the attention. It felt different. Grown-up.

When you started dating him — the senior — the shift was immediate.

Bill didn’t yell.

He just got quiet.

Richie absolutely yelled. Eddie panicked. Ben looked wounded. Even Stan tried to reason with you. Your parents were worse.

But you dug your heels in.

You were sixteen. You thought that meant something.

For a while, it felt like it did.

Then everything cracked.

You found out alone.

Two lines.

Your hands shook so badly you had to sit down on the bathroom floor. You stared at the test like it might change its mind.

You hadn’t even told your parents you were intimate with him.

And when you told him—

He left.

Not dramatic. Not explosive.

Just… disappeared. “I can’t do this.” That was it.

Your world didn’t end in one moment. It ended slowly. In whispers. In closed bedroom doors. In the look on your mother’s face when you finally told her.

Your father didn’t speak to you for two days.

You thought you’d ruined everything.

You told the Losers last.

You made them swear — especially Richie — not to tell anyone.

For once, Richie didn’t joke.

Bill didn’t say much at all.

He just stepped closer.

The months that followed were a blur of doctor appointments and exhaustion and shame you were still learning how to untangle from yourself.

Your parents were angry. Then hurt. Then protective.

The boys never left.

But Bill stayed closest.

He carried things without being asked. Walked you home even when you insisted you could manage. Sat beside you during quiet moments like he understood that silence wasn’t empty — it was heavy.

He asked if you were okay every single time he saw you.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just: “You good?”

And if you said yes, he’d nod — but he’d still watch you for a second longer.

That evening, you hadn’t felt right.

Nothing serious. Just that deep, bone-level tiredness that came out of nowhere now. The kind that made your limbs feel heavier than they should.

The others were joking in the Barrens, but you’d gone quiet.

Bill noticed immediately.

“Y-You w-wanna go h-home?” he asked softly, not making it a big thing.

You nodded.

He walked you without teasing, without commentary. Just matching your pace.

Now you were sitting in your room, cross-legged on your bed. The window was cracked open, letting in cool evening air. Bill sat on your desk chair, turned slightly toward you, elbows resting on his knees.

You hated that he looked worried.

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

“I-I k-know,” he said.

But he didn’t look convinced.

He’d brought you water. Made sure you’d eaten earlier. Asked your mom quietly if there was anything he should know.

You studied him in the dim light.

He looked older lately. Not physically — just… steadier. Like something had shifted in him too.

“I just—” He exhaled through his nose. “You sh-shouldn’t have to d-do this alone.”