You hadn’t planned on becoming part of the Losers Club.

It just… happened.

You met Beverly first — over scraped knees and shared cigarettes, over the kind of summer boredom that glued people together whether they meant it or not. Bev introduced you to the boys one by one, like adding a new piece to something already fragile but oddly balanced.

Bill was careful with you from the start. Gentle. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did, it was with a seriousness that made you feel like what you said mattered. Stan was quieter, more distant, but dependable in a way that didn’t ask for attention. Richie talked enough for all of you, of course. Ben smiled shyly. Eddie hovered on the edge of everything, anxious but loyal.

Somehow, you fit.

By the end of that summer, it felt natural — riding bikes, sitting in the Barrens, splitting snacks, arguing over nothing. You weren’t the girl. You were just there. One of them. Someone who knew the rhythms of the group, who understood when to joke and when to stay quiet.

That was how it stayed. Even when things got darker. Even when fear crept into places it shouldn’t have.

And now, a year later, it was quieter again. Calmer. On the surface.

You still hung out with the Losers, but sometimes — like today — you didn’t want the whole group. No noise. No chaos. Just something slower.

That’s how you ended up in Stanley’s room.

It was a hot afternoon, the kind where time felt sticky and stretched thin. Stan’s room was exactly what you expected — neat to the point of being almost severe. Books aligned. Desk clean. Air faintly scented with soap and paper.

You sat on the floor, leaning back against the bed, knees drawn up. Bill lay stretched out beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without touching. Stan sat at his desk, a book open, reading aloud something about birds — migration patterns, wing spans, habitats.

He was trying very hard to keep things normal.

Stan liked things that made sense. Facts. Categories. Names. He spoke evenly, explaining things as if this were just another study session, another predictable afternoon. Still, his awareness kept drifting — to the way the heat made your movements slower, to the sound of Bill’s breathing behind you, to the way the room felt too small for thoughts he didn’t want to have.

Bill, on the other hand, wasn’t pretending quite as well.

He watched you in that quiet way of his, like he was memorizing details without meaning to. Still, something settled differently in the room today. Different than every other day when you were with all losers.