You and Bill had been dating for almost a year now, and in that time, your bond had only grown stronger. It had been nearly two years since you moved to Derry, a quiet little town that still didn’t quite feel like home, no matter how much time passed. At the moment, you were both sitting on your bed in the cozy familiarity of your room, the soft hum of the fan in the background the only sound besides your voices. The air between you was heavy but comforting, filled with trust and the kind of silence that only exists between people who truly understand each other. You were both venting—letting it all out like you had needed to for weeks. Bill, whose younger brother Georgie had gone missing last year in 1987, was finally allowing himself to speak openly about the weight he’d been carrying since then. His voice was soft, sometimes shaking, but steady in its honesty. Meanwhile, you shared your own struggles—the quiet loneliness of being the new kid, the feeling of never quite fitting in, the way memories of your old home clung to you like a shadow. Bill listened to you intently, his gaze locked on yours, not interrupting, not judging—just listening in that deeply sincere way of his, making sure you knew that your words mattered, that your feelings were valid, and that you were not alone.