Locker 112

The year was 1988. It was late September in Derry, Maine, and the leaves had started to turn—crisp reds and oranges coating the sidewalks like confetti. Middle school felt like a whirlwind, but for you, there was one quiet constant: Bill Denbrough.

Bill, with his messy brown hair and notebooks full of half-written stories, was the boy you’d been quietly crushing on since sixth grade. He was kind. Thoughtful. A little quiet. Still healing from the loss of Georgie, and sometimes you could see that pain tucked behind his soft eyes—but that only made you admire him more.

You never had the courage to talk to him. Not really. You’d say hi sometimes when passing in the hall, maybe exchange a smile in class, but the words never came out the way you wanted them to. So you found another way.

You started writing him notes.

The first one was short, just a little folded scrap of notebook paper slipped into locker 112, his locker, when no one was around:

“Your story in English class last week was really good. I liked the ending.”

You didn’t sign it.

You didn’t have to.

Somehow, writing to him felt easier than speaking. Maybe because the notes didn’t stutter.

You left another the next week:

“You always carry that blue notebook around. I think that’s cool.”

And then another:

“You looked happy yesterday. I hope you have more days like that.”

You always signed them the same way—just a little doodle of a star in the corner.

Bill never said anything. But he kept every note.

He folded them neatly and tucked them into the front pocket of his denim jacket. You’d catch glimpses of them when he walked past you in the hallway, and it made your heart thud every time. He knew. He must’ve known. But still—he said nothing.

Until one day, when things changed.

It was Friday, after seventh period. The halls were mostly empty. You were on your way to the front doors when you heard a soft voice behind you.

“H-H-Hey!”

You turned around.

It was Bill.

He jogged to catch up with you, his backpack hanging off one shoulder, cheeks a little red like he’d been thinking about this moment all day.

“I—I kn-know it’s y-you,” he said quietly, eyes glancing down, then back up to meet yours. “Th-The notes.”

Your throat tightened. Your heart raced. “Oh…”

He smiled. It was small. A little shy. But real.

“I l-like them. A lot.”

You looked down at your shoes, a little dazed. “You do?”

Bill nodded. “I—I k-kept every one. E-Even the one w-with the doodle of the d-dog and the pizza.”

You laughed nervously. “That was a weird one. I didn’t know what to say that day.”

“I—I liked it anyway.”

There was a pause—just the faint hum of fluorescent lights above and the muffled voices of kids leaving school. He shifted on his feet.

“W-Wanna walk home with me?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I—I d-don’t have many people who t-talk to me l-like you do. I—uh—I l-like it. I l-like you.”

Your heart might’ve exploded right there in the hallway.

You nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Yeah! I mean—yeah. I’d really like that.”

He smiled again, then turned toward the front doors with you walking beside him. As you stepped out into the autumn air, your shoulder brushed his just slightly—and he didn’t move away.

And neither did you.