Six months.

That was how long it had been since everything between him and you ended. Half a year since the words “we should stop” had been said out loud, even though neither of you had really meant stop. More like pause and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Bill told himself he should be over it by now.

Normal people moved on. Normal people didn’t still feel their chest tighten when an old laugh floated across the room, or when a familiar voice said their name like it used to — easy, natural, like it still belonged to them.

But Bill wasn’t over you. Not even close.

He tried to explain it away logically. You were still in the same friend group. You still showed up everywhere — bikes rides, movie nights, after-school wandering that didn’t really have a destination. Of course it was hard to move on when you were still there. Still laughing with Richie, still arguing with Eddie, still sitting cross-legged on the floor like you always had.

That had to be it.

It had to be proximity. Not feelings.

Because if it was feelings, then that meant the breakup hadn’t fixed anything at all.

You and Bill had known each other for years before you ever dated. You’d been friends first — the kind that understood each other without trying. Same humor. Same quiet moments. Same way of looking at the world like it was scary but fascinating and worth paying attention to.

Soulmates. That was the word everyone used back then. Even Richie, who never took anything seriously, had said it once without joking.

And then it got complicated.

You started flirting. With everyone. Or at least, that’s how it looked to Bill. Smiles that lingered too long. Jokes that weren’t meant for him anymore. Attention that used to be his, suddenly spread everywhere.

Maybe it wasn’t betrayal. Maybe it was insecurity. Maybe it was miscommunication piled on top of teenage fear.

But it still ended.

And endings stuck with Bill in a way beginnings never did.

Tonight, everyone was at Stan’s house. It was supposed to be simple — board games, snacks, killing time until someone’s parents yelled at them to quiet down. Normal. Safe.

Except somehow — somehow — Bill and you kept ending up together.

Every game. Every round. Partners. Teammates. Sitting too close on the carpet, knees almost touching, shoulders brushing when neither of you meant to move.