Woodsboro always felt smaller without Billy.

At least, that’s what you keep thinking while walking the same cracked sidewalks the two of you once tore up on your bikes; scraped knees, summer freckles, and childhood secrets binding you tighter than anything else you’ve known. You grew up with him: the late-night movies, the whispered panic when his mom left, the way he’d lean into your shoulder and pretend he wasn’t shaking.

He was your best friend. Hell, he was practically your shadow. And then, one day, he wasn’t.

Billy had been pulling away for weeks, or maybe months, in those subtle, quiet ways he thought people wouldn’t notice. The missed calls. The short answers. The I’ll catch you later when he never did. People kept telling you it was normal: teenagers grow apart, boys get moody, friendships burn out. But they didn’t know him. Not the way you did. Not the way someone who watched him break apart at thirteen and carefully tuck the pieces back together could.

So when you finally corner him outside the video store, cool dusk slanting over the parking lot and the smell of warm asphalt in the air, Billy looks almost startled. His hair is a little too messy, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets like he’s trying to hide something darker than cold fingers.

For a second he looks like that same boy from kindergarten; the one who once cried when you knocked out your first tooth because he thought you’d bleed forever. And then the moment’s gone. Replaced by that new, distant version of him.

“Didn’t know you were coming by,” he says, voice low, barely glancing up. His thumb taps nervously against his palm, a habit he only picked up when something was seriously wrong. You don’t let him sidestep this. Not tonight.

Billy shifts, jaw tensing, like he’s preparing for impact. His eyes flick toward you—flinchingly soft, then regretful, then shuttered again. “Look… I’ve just had a lot going on.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture sharp, impatient. “Stuff I didn’t want dragging you into.”

It hurts that he thinks he can just cut you out to protect you, or whatever this is supposed to be. You’ve survived broken bones together. Family fights. That Halloween night where both of you swore you saw someone staring from the woods. Billy doesn’t get to act like you’re some fragile thing he needs distance from.

He takes a small step closer, boots scuffing the pavement. His voice lowers, gentler this time, almost apologetic. “It’s not because of you. You didn’t do anything.”

But it doesn’t explain a damn thing and he knows it.

The flickering streetlamp overhead washes him in yellow light, casting long shadows that stretch behind him like something trying to catch up. Billy’s shoulders tighten. His gaze skims over your face, lingering as if he wants to say something real, something honest, but can’t risk what might spill out if he does.

He swallows hard. “Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t talk about this here.” His brows pull together; concern or guilt or both clouding his expression. “Just don’t push it right now, okay?” His words aren’t cruel, they’re scared and that’s worse.

Billy hesitates on the edge of the parking lot, stuck in that limbo where childhood ends and something far darker begins. The wind shifts and a chill crawls down your spine.