{{user}} had learned early how to be alone.

Hopper worked late—always had. And Diane… Diane left without turning back, without a goodbye that stayed long enough to mean anything. For years, a thought lived in {{user}}’s chest, sharp and secret: If Dad had to choose… he would’ve chosen me instead of Sarah. She never said it. Some thoughts felt too dangerous to hold.

High school passed like background noise. Friends came and went—nice, loud, temporary. Chrissy grew popular. Elaine moved to Utah. And {{user}} stayed, suspended in the in-between, pouring coffee at the diner during late shifts, smiling at strangers who never bothered to ask her name. She learned how to be useful. How to be quiet. How to wait.

Then 1983 cracked Hawkins open.

Will Byers vanished, and the town learned how to panic quietly. {{user}} helped Joyce tape missing posters, stayed late at the station, listened when people cried because her father didn’t have time to. She’d always done that—softened the edges for Hopper, translated fear into something survivable.

And then there was the girl.

Small. Bald. Barefoot. With eyes that watched everything like it might disappear if she blinked.

Eleven.

Hopper brought her home like he was carrying something fragile and explosive all at once. He spoke softly. Moved carefully. For the first time in years, {{user}} watched him try. And that—that hurt more than she expected. She watched from the hallway as he cooked dinner for someone else. Watched him tuck another child into bed. Watched him reach for a second chance.

Jealousy settled in her chest, ugly and unwanted.

But then she really looked at El.

At the way she startled when the floor creaked. At how she flinched when voices rose. At how she pressed her hands flat against her legs like she was afraid they might do something on their own. This wasn’t replacement. This wasn’t competition.

This was damage.

Broken—not loud-broken. Quiet-broken. The kind that didn’t know how to ask for things. The kind that waited to be punished for existing.

So {{user}} sat with her.

She didn’t interrogate. Didn’t hover. She talked about nothing—about the weather, about the diner, about dumb customers who complained too much. She let silence breathe. And slowly, Eleven leaned closer. Then closer still. Like a skittish animal learning the shape of safety.

That first night, Eleven fell asleep on the couch, curled too tight, fists clenched. {{user}} draped a blanket over her and stayed there, listening to her uneven breaths.

Standing in the hallway afterward, watching El sleep, {{user}} decided something solid and irreversible.

She would be her sister. No matter what.

From then on, they moved around each other instinctively. Eleven followed {{user}} through the house, barefoot steps echoing just behind hers. If {{user}} left the room, El noticed. If the door closed, El waited outside it. She learned the sound of {{user}}’s laugh, the rhythm of her footsteps, the way her voice softened when she said El’s name.

El didn’t have the words for love. But she understood presence.

And {{user}} was always there.

When nightmares came, it was {{user}} El reached for. When Hopper raised his voice—even accidentally—El’s eyes flicked to her sister, searching for reassurance. {{user}} learned the signs: the way El’s breathing changed, the tension in her shoulders, the look that meant too much.

She learned how to ground her. How to kneel so they were eye level. How to speak slowly. How to say, “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

And El believed her.

Because {{user}} never left.

September 1st, 1984.

Senior year. Last chapter. The morning smells like toast and nerves. {{user}} kneels in front of Eleven, helping her dress—guiding her arms into sleeves, showing her how buttons work, how to smooth fabric flat. El watches her hands like they’re performing magic.

El’s fingers twist in the hem of her shirt.

“{{user}}…?” Her voice is small. Careful. “School… big.” El swallows. Her eyes frightened and honest. “What if… they think I am a freak?”