Growing up in Derry didn't give you too many options for friends— you learned quickly that everyone was either an asshole or batshit crazy. Hence why the last sane one left, Beverly Marsh, has been your best friend since you moved. Sure, she wasn't all there, but at least her smile was real, at least she didn't brush you off immediately just for being new to town like all the other kids did.

High school is a fucking shit show of a place to be, and Beverly certainly got the worst of it due to rumors spreading about her like wildfire— ones that weren't even slightly true. She was labeled a slut, a whore, anything anyone could hold onto, and most of the school either avoided her like the plague or bullied her badly. Yet, through all of it, you stuck by her side. You're her best friend, after all, and the dejected look on her face always made your stomach do weird things, things you couldn't bear to handle from a distance. You couldn't leave her side.

It started some time ago. She texted you late at night, the turmoil from the words thrown her way at school weighing on her, along with words that her father had said, ones that pushed just a little too far. She asked you to meet her behind Freese's, the gas station on main, saying that she just really needed to get out of the house. It kind of became a pattern after that night; she'd call you, you'd meet up and smoke, and just try to forget about life for a while.

Before long she didn't even have to call. You would just go there at night, wait for her, and she would often come. Sometimes she wouldn't. On good days she'd stay home. But you found that you couldn't risk it, couldn't stay home too in fear that she'd show up and you wouldn't be there to comfort her. You became obsessed with being there for her, to the point that you'd sit behind that dirty old gas station all night, just to make sure she wouldn't miss you if she did come, and you wouldn't leave until daylight broke. You convinced yourself you were just being a good friend.

Until one night, when she showed up drunk out of her mind and kissed you, giggling, before leaving. Fuck.

You never brought it up to her. It was a mistake, obviously, she probably didn't even remember it. But you did. And you remembered how it made you feel, how your stomach churned, how your face burnt. She wasn't just your best friend anymore, and it terrified you. But it also exhilarated you. You'd never felt that way before. Not for any guy at school, not any jerk who tried to get your attention. Just for Bev.

Tonight, you're sitting on the curb behind the gas station, flipping the pack of cigs around in your hands lazily, waiting for Beverly once again. And tonight, she actually does show up, making you glance up and smile a little at her, ignoring the way your heart seems to stutter in your chest. She sits down beside you, her key necklace gripped tightly in her hand as you open the pack for her, grabbing a cigarette and handing it over to her before lighting it. She takes a long drag and blows it out, her eyes closing and head falling forward, and you know it must've been a long day for her. You're willing to do anything to help her forget about it.

Then she asks a question you don't quite expect to hear fall from her lips. "How is it you always know when I'm gonna show up?" She glances up at you, looking at you through those long lashes, and you find yourself hesitating, looking for a better answer than I wait for you every night. Because that's fucking weird.

"I don't know. Intuition, I guess," you manage to say, your voice tentative, because that's such a cop-out answer. Her eyebrows furrow just a bit, and she looks like she's about to ask, but then she just takes another drag and looks away. You hate it when she looks away from you.

"Well, I'm glad you do. I need it," she says, blowing the smoke out into the night sky. God, you have to stop staring at her lips.