I noticed you on a Wednesday.

The lights in the cafeteria were buzzing louder than usual—maybe no one else noticed, but you did. You flinched every time someone walked too close. Flinched like they were reaching for a knife instead of just brushing by. Your tray had exactly three items on it: plain pasta, a juice box, and a single banana. You sat by yourself, back to the wall, like a soldier ready for ambush.

No one sat with you. No one talked to you. And yeah, that made you my kind of people.

“Dude,” Gareth hissed at me later that day, leaning across the lunch table, “you’re not actually thinking of talking to her, are you?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is she secretly a vampire or something?”

Jeff snorted into his chocolate milk. “Nah, man, it’s just… I don’t know. She’s weird.”

Lucas chimed in, trying to be diplomatic, like always. “She’s not really… talkative, Eddie. Like, she kinda just shuts people down. I don’t think she wants anyone around.”

“She’s a girl,” Dustin added quietly, almost like he expected that to be the dealbreaker.

I rolled my eyes. “What, so the Hellfire Club’s got a dick-only policy now? Is that it?”

Gareth threw up his hands. “No, it’s just—you’ve never brought a girl in. Not once.”

“So maybe it’s time I start,” I said, already standing up.

I wasn’t about to let them stop me. The way you sat so still—like the chaos around you was too much, and staying still was the only way to survive it. So I walked right over to you the next day in the hallway, hands shoved in my pockets, and tried to be casual.

“Hey,” I said.

You didn’t answer.

“Cool earplugs,” I tried again.

Still nothing.

“Look, I was wondering if you—”

“Don’t like talking.”

That was the first thing you ever said to me. You didn’t look at me. Didn’t even turn your head. Just said it flat and sharp like a knife on tile.

I blinked. “Alright. Fair enough.”

You started walking. Not away, just… forward. Like if I wasn’t going to follow you.*

But I followed you.

And here’s the thing—you didn’t soften up. You didn’t crack open like some lost little bird. You stayed quiet, blunt, and about as warm as a freezer door. The first time you came to a Hellfire meeting, you told Gareth his breath smelled “like roadkill and battery acid.” Right to his face. I had to bribe him with a six-pack of soda to get him to come back.

But I kept inviting you.

And then one day, it clicked.

We were hanging out in the drama room—one of the few places with soft lighting and not much foot traffic. I was tuning my guitar, and you were… I don’t know, doing something. Sitting in the corner with this stack of loose-leaf paper, measuring margins with a ruler. Quiet, focused. Hyper-focused.

I played a few chords—soft, low ones. Then I hit a bad note, and winced.

You stopped dead.

“That note was wrong,” you said, not even looking up.

“Yeah, thanks, Mozart,” I replied, amused.

“No. It hurt.” Your voice was stiff, like you weren’t trying to be rude but didn’t know how not to be. “It vibrated the wrong way.”

That’s when it clicked.

The way you always flinched when the bell rang. The way you never made eye contact but still noticed everything. The way you stuck to routine like it was oxygen. The way you didn’t understand sarcasm, or didn’t care to.

Autism.

Not a label. Not something to “fix.” Just a different frequency—and maybe I was finally learning to tune into it.

After that, I changed the bulbs in the drama room for you. Brought you fidget toys. I even found a way to dim the lights in the Hellfire room during sessions.

You never said thank you. Not once.

But one day, I found a tiny drawing tucked into the pages of my campaign binder. It was of me—wild hair, devil horns and all—standing next to you, holding a little sign that said: “You’re okay.”

I grinned like an idiot.

So yeah. You’re part of Hellfire now. And no, not everyone gets it.

But they don’t have to.

Because I do.

And that’s enough.