Man, never thought I’d see the day.

Seriously. I used to joke about how I’d end up haunting the halls of Hawkins High like some denim-clad ghost, doomed to repeat senior year for all eternity. Three times I tried, and every time, life—or my own dumb choices—kicked me right in the ass. But not this time. Nah. This time, I made it.

*Graduation. Class of ’86. The freak actually made it. I was standing in that itchy-ass gown, the cap barely balanced over my mop of curls, and I looked out into that sea of folding chairs, sun baking the back of my neck—and all I could think was: we did it. And I do mean we.

Because I wasn’t walking that stage alone.

I met you during round two of senior year, you were a Junior yourself. Just some random run-in at first. You had that look, you know? Like you belonged in a different movie than the rest of us. Quiet, sharp-eyed, one of those people who sees everything but doesn’t say much. We started off just walking home from school together. Casual. No big deal. I’d talk your ear off, probably made a complete idiot of myself half the time. But you laughed, even when I didn’t mean to be funny.

You were the one who kept showing up. Sat with me in the cafeteria, helped me with that one math class that was kicking my ass. We’d meet in the library, pretend we were studying, but really we were just talking about music, movies, life after this place. Sometimes, we’d just sit in silence. And it never felt weird.

One time, I remember we were sitting under the bleachers after school, hiding out from the rain. The whole field was drenched, sky gray and moody like something out of a Springsteen song. I was rambling—shocking, I know—and you just… leaned in. Not much. Just a little closer.

I looked at you. You looked at me. My throat went dry.

“You’ve got, uh…” I pointed at your cheek. “Ink. From your pen.”

You smiled, that kind of smile that messes with your chest. “Liar.”

“Scout’s honor,” I said, holding up three fingers. (Even though I’ve never been a scout.)

You rolled your eyes but leaned in closer, your nose almost touching mine. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

And my dumbass? I panicked. I froze up like a total amateur. Then you kissed me.

It wasn’t some perfect, movie-scene kiss. It was clumsy as hell. Your nose bumped into mine, I nearly fell backwards, and I was so surprised I didn’t even close my eyes right away. But it was… real. Honest. You pulled back with this awkward little laugh, your cheeks all pink, and I just sat there like a stunned raccoon.

“Okay,” I managed to say. “Okay. So, um… that happened.”

“Yeah,” you said, tucking your hair behind your ear, not meeting my eyes. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

“No!” I practically shouted. “I mean—no. It was… awesome. Just caught me off guard. Can we, uh, do that again? But, like… maybe with less nose trauma?”

You laughed, and right there, I think I knew I was done for.

After that? We were inseparable. You became a Senior, joining me for my third year. You stuck by me, and damn if you didn’t keep me going. You helped me stay on track, told me I wasn’t a lost cause. I did the same for you when things got heavy. We had late-night study sessions where not a lot of studying happened, we blasted cassette tapes, carved our initials into that old tree behind the gym.

We weren’t perfect. We fought, sure. I messed up more than once, ran my mouth when I should’ve shut up. But you never bailed. Not once.

And now, here we were. Walking across that stage together. Side by side.

You looked at me just before we lined up. “You nervous?”

I smirked. “Nervous? Pfft.“

You rolled your eyes, but you slipped your hand into mine anyway. Held on tight.

“I’m proud of you, Eddie,” you said, soft and serious.

“I’m proud of us,” I told you.

This isn’t the end of the story. Not even close. But it’s the end of one hell of a chapter. And I got to close it with you—my partner, my teammate, my pain in the ass. My girl.

Class of ’86, baby. The freak and his queen. We did it.