He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in Hawkins, not in school, not breathing the same stale hallway air that still carried whispers of his name. “The Freak.” “The victim.” “The one who got away.” He hated all of it. Hated the staring even more. Surviving felt like a crime nobody had decided how to punish yet.

And she—Chrissy’s best friend—was the only one who didn’t look at him like he was a headline. She didn’t look through him either. No, she watched him with this quiet, aching curiosity, like there were a thousand questions trapped behind her teeth. He felt them every time her eyes brushed his way. Felt Chrissy’s bracelet in his pocket like a burning secret.

He kept telling himself he’d give it back. That he owed her that much. That it didn’t make him guilty.

But every time he got close, he froze.

So he hid. Behind the bleachers, during math class, where the whole school forgot the world existed for forty minutes.

Except when he slipped around the corner, she was already there—knees drawn up, staring at nothing. Grief wrapped around her like a shadow.

He stopped dead.

“Shit—sorry,” He muttered, hands raised as if caught trespassing. “I didn’t know anyone else came here. I can… go.”

He shifts awkwardly, boot scraping gravel. He should leave.