“Locker 112” Derry, Maine – October 1987

You had it memorized. Locker 112. The second row from the top, third from the left in the east wing of Derry Middle School. It belonged to him. Bill Denbrough — the boy with the kind eyes and quiet voice that sometimes stuttered, but never failed to make your heart race.

You’d had a crush on him since the first day of seventh grade. Something about the way he held the door open for you without even thinking, or how he always carried extra pencils in case someone forgot theirs. He wasn’t loud like Richie or sarcastic like Beverly — he was soft-spoken, gentle, kind.

And he wrote stories. That alone was enough to make you fall for him.

You never had the courage to talk to him — not really. Sure, you’d exchanged a few words in the hallway or during group projects, but every time he smiled at you, your words got caught in your throat.

So, you did the only thing your nervous 13-year-old heart could handle. You started writing him notes.

You never signed them.

Just little folded-up squares of notebook paper, sometimes with tiny doodles in the corners — hearts, stars, a sketch of Silver, his bike. At first, they were simple:

“Your story in English was really good.” “You have a nice smile.” “You’re kind. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

You slipped them into the vents of his locker before homeroom every few days, heart pounding so hard you swore it echoed down the hall. You always watched from around the corner as he opened his locker and found them. He’d unfold each one slowly, and he’d smile — that soft, crooked smile that made your chest ache.

Weeks passed, and the notes kept coming. The ones you gave him got a little braver.

“I like your freckles.” “I think you’re braver than anyone else here.” “Do you ever write love stories?”

Then, one Friday afternoon, something changed.

You had tucked your newest note — a short one that just said, “I think about you more than I should.” — into the slats of his locker, and turned to walk away. But as you rounded the corner, you nearly collided with him.

Bill.

His eyes widened. Yours did too.

“U-Uh, h-hi,” he stammered, blinking, a little surprised. He looked down at your hand, still caught halfway into the locker. His mouth parted slightly. “W-was that… you?”

You froze. Caught. Red-handed. Red-faced. You looked like you wanted to melt into the floor.

“I…” you started, then swallowed hard. “Yeah. It was me.”

He was quiet for a second. You were already bracing for embarrassment, for laughter, for rejection — but then you saw it.

He smiled. That same gentle, genuine smile. The one he’d always have when he read your notes.

“I-I was hoping it was y-you,” he said softly.

You blinked. “You… were?”

Bill nodded. “Y-your notes… they always m-made my day better. Sometimes I’d h-have a b-bad morning and then… then I’d open my locker and there’d b-be this little p-piece of magic waiting for me.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Magic?”

He nodded again. “Yeah. M-magic.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep the grin from spreading across your face, but it was useless. “So… you don’t think I’m weird?”

Bill shook his head. “I think you’re amazing.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The hallway was mostly empty now, just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of distant chatter from the gym. Then Bill stepped a little closer, clutching the newest note in his hand.

“D-do you… wanna hang out this w-weekend?” he asked, cheeks red. “We c-could go to the arcade or s-something.”

You felt your heart leap.

“I’d love that,” you said, voice a little breathless.

He smiled again — this time wider — and carefully tucked your note into the front pocket of his flannel.

“C-cool,” he said. “It’s a d-date, then.”

And as he walked down the hall, you couldn’t help but grin.

Locker 112 had started it all. But maybe… maybe this was the beginning of something even better.