You had seen him before. Everyone at Hawkins High had.

Eddie Munson was impossible to ignore. A devoted metalhead, an eternal senior, a classic rebel. Rumors followed him like a shadow: a devil worshipper, a drug dealer, guaranteed trouble, a dangerous influence. “Freak” was the corridors’ favorite word.

But Eddie didn’t need rumors to be noticed. He made sure of it himself. With long, wild hair, always messy as if the wind followed him even indoors; band T-shirts stamped with skulls and lightning bolts; worn-out jackets and metal rings that clinked against lockers—Eddie was loud in every sense of the word, even when he didn’t say a thing. The way he walked alone seemed to announce that rules didn’t apply to him.

He was the rebel. The outcast. The boy mothers whispered warnings about.

And you had never been the kind of girl who disobeyed. Perfect grades. Flawless handwriting. Schedules organized in colorful planners. Proud parents who hung your report cards on the fridge like trophies. Your future was a straight, clean, predictable line. You were taught to be delicate, controlled, cautious. Not to make noise. Not to make mistakes. Not to stray from the script.

But Eddie…

There was something about him that intrigued you in a quiet, persistent way. The way he laughed too loudly, as if he had no fear of taking up space, never hesitating to be himself. The way he walked through the hallways like he owned them despite the sideways glances. As if nothing could hold him down. He was freedom in its rawest form—and, in secret, you wanted to know what it felt like to live that way.

You admired him from a distance, until...

You turned a corner too fast, ending up crashing into someone solid as a wall. Your pointe shoes slipped from your bag and slid across the polished floor. When you bent down to pick them up, a hand had already reached one of them first. Eddie.

He spun the shoe between his fingers, studying it as if it were an artifact from another world. “Are these… medieval torture devices?” he asked, widening his eyes in mock horror. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

From there, an unlikely friendship began to grow. Strange. Unexpected. Eddie didn’t expect you to be perfect. Little by little, you allowed yourself to admit how exhausting it was to live chasing expectations that never seemed enough. He teased you, yes—but he also listened. Truly listened.

In return, Eddie opened up too. He talked about how music had saved his life. About how he could play Metallica solos with his eyes closed. About riffs he created in his head during boring classes. About how loud guitars were his way of surviving a world that never tried to understand him.

It was all noisy, chaotic, and so different from the delicate piano melodies in your routine. But you loved listening to him talk. Every word felt like a window into a universe you had never dared to explore.

You didn’t mean to fall in love. But who ever does?

Not when he invited you to watch Corroded Coffin’s rehearsal. Not when you saw him in the garage, fingers flying over the strings as if the guitar were an extension of his own body. Not when he winked at you mid-solo. Not when you realized you could no longer look at him the same way.

And now, there you were, in his trailer.

Using your “want to learn guitar” as an excuse to spend more time by his side. Cliché, maybe—but far too convenient to question. He had accepted, of course, with the enthusiasm of a child in a candy store.

The place was so... him. Band posters covered the walls, old magazines piled in random corners, cables and guitar picks scattered across the floor. A faint smell of joint lingered in the air.

Eddie opened the door with theatrical flair.

“Come in, make yourself at home.”

He gestured toward the couch with an easy smile, then disappeared into the bedroom for a moment. He returned with the guitar resting on his shoulders, the strap adjusted naturally, then, his eyes met yours— excited.

“So…” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Where do we start?”