It was the 1980s in a town that liked things simple, quiet, and normal. Hawkins, Indiana didn’t have much patience for anything that drifted too far outside its neat little boxes—and you’d known that long before you had words for what you were feeling.

Growing up, you’d noticed girls differently than other people seemed to. The way a laugh lingered too long in your chest. The way your eyes followed hands, smiles, the soft familiarity of closeness. Every time it happened, fear came right on its heels. You shoved the feelings down hard, convincing yourself they were just phases, mistakes, something you could outgrow if you tried hard enough. Because girls weren’t supposed to feel that way about other girls. Not here. Not then.

Hopper had taken you in after everything fell apart—after loss, paperwork, and a house that suddenly felt too empty. He never asked too many questions, just made sure you were fed, safe, and home by dinner. Tonight he was gone, claiming sheriff business, the kind that kept him out late and left the house quiet except for the hum of old lights and the occasional creak of settling wood.

Down the hall, El’s door was half-closed. You could hear soft giggles and murmured whispers—El and Mike, awkward and sweet in the way only thirteen-year-olds could be. It made your chest ache, not with jealousy, but with longing. They got to be obvious. They got to hold hands without fear.

You were curled up on the carpet in your room instead, your head resting in Robin Buckley’s lap.

Robin—your girlfriend, at least on paper. The kind of girlfriend Hawkins expected. Loud, sarcastic, safe. Except nothing about how you felt with her was pretend. The feelings were real, terrifyingly real, even if you’d both spent years dodging the truth, laughing it off, calling it something easier.

Her fingers slid gently through your hair, slow and grounding, like she was afraid you might shatter if she moved too fast. You hadn’t meant to cry. It just happened—one tear, then another, until your vision blurred and your throat burned with everything you’d never said out loud.

“I wanna tell people,” you whispered finally, your voice breaking. “I really do.” A shaky breath hitched in your chest. “I’m just… I’m so scared.”

Scared of Hawkins. Scared of whispers in hallways. Scared of Hopper looking at you differently, even though he probably wouldn’t. Scared of losing the few safe things you had.

Robin’s hand stilled for a moment before she resumed, steadier now. “I know, sweetheart,” she said softly, no jokes, no deflection. Just honesty. “I know.”

She didn’t tell you to be brave. She didn’t rush you. She just stayed—grounded, warm, real—like a promise that no matter how long it took, you wouldn’t have to figure it out alone.