You hadn’t meant to fall into Derry.

It just… happened.

Your parents said it was “temporary.” A job thing. A year, maybe less. You nodded, packed your life into boxes, and told yourself you could survive anywhere for twelve months.

Richie Tozier was the first crack in the concrete.

Neighbor. Loud mouth. Knocked on your door like he owned the place, grinning, already mid-joke. You clocked him immediately — same sarcastic rhythm, same quick comebacks, same way of coping by never shutting up. He was ridiculous. Annoying. Weirdly stupid.

And somehow… familiar.

So you let him stick around.

Through Richie, you noticed the others. Boys on bikes, cutting through the street like they belonged to it. Bill Denbrough. Stanley Uris. Eddie Kaspbrak. You didn’t know their names at first — just shapes and impressions. The tall one with the steady eyes. The stiff one. The anxious one.

You made other friends too. Girls, a few guys. You stitched together a life out of necessity, told yourself this city wouldn’t swallow you whole.

Then, a few weeks before the end of the school year — May, maybe — Richie knocked again.

This time, he wasn’t alone.

You opened the door and there he was, blocking the frame, with the others behind him. Not joking. Not smiling. Nervous in a way that made your stomach tighten. Something was wrong.

They didn’t say everything. Not at first. Just enough. Something bad. Something weird. Something that had followed them for a long time. Richie said your name like it was a last resort.

“You’re smart,” he said. “And you’re… I don’t know. You don’t freak out easy.”

They needed help. You should’ve said no.

Instead, something clicked into place — like a puzzle piece you didn’t know you’d been missing. And just like that, you were in it. Pennywise. The Barrens. Fear with a face.

At first, they didn’t know what to do with you. A girl. New. Probably boring. Probably emotional. Probably going to get in the way.

Then you spoke.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch. You made a joke — dry, sharp — and watched surprise flicker across their faces. You stayed. You fit.

And then there was Bill.

From the moment your eyes locked with his, it felt like a string pulled tight between you. Not loud. Not obvious. Something low and steady, humming under everything else.

You caught him looking sometimes. Just a second too long. Richie teased him for it — cruely. He flushed, looked away, smiled like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

It was slow. Careful. Friendship first.

He started walking you home after class. Always an excuse — asking if you’d come hang out, if you were busy, if your parents were home. Knocking on your door like it mattered that he did things right.

It was your first crush.

And you were his.

You felt it in the way he stood — solid, protective. Taller than you, shoulders already broad, voice deep and steady even with the stutter. The watch on his wrist caught the light when he gestured, ticking quietly like a secret you shared.

He was so different from the girls you’d known. From the boys, too.

Summer wrapped itself around Derry, and somehow, around the two of you.

Today, you’re supposed to meet the Losers at the Barrens. Bill comes early — earlier than planned — and knocks on your door with that soft, hopeful look that always makes your chest do something stupid.

“T-Thought w-w-we could w-walk t-together,” he says.

You do. But not straight there.

He takes you into town instead, buys ice cream without making a big deal out of it. Chocolate for you. Vanilla for him. You sit close but not touching, shoulders almost brushing, both of you pretending your hands aren’t shaking a little.

It’s friendly. Totally friendly.

There was time. An hour before the others had showed. So you wandered down to the edge of the Barrens and sat in the grass, cicadas buzzing, the sun warm on your skin.

Bill stretched his legs out, leaned back on his hands. You laid beside him, staring at the sky.

It was quiet in that good way.