They had met the same way all the others did — accidentally, inevitably, like gravity.

You’d been the girl in Bill’s class, too loud for teachers, too sharp for the boys who didn’t know what to do with you. Whatever had happened at the beginning of primary school — a fight, a rumor, a kid crying, a teacher misunderstanding — it had shoved you sideways, right into the orbit of Bill, Richie, and Eddie.

At first, it was practical. Same classroom. Same desks. Same chalk dust in their lungs.

Later, it became permanent.

You stuck.

You were there before Ben, before Stan, before Mike and Bev. You were there when it was still just scraped knees, stupid jokes, and Bill’s quiet intensity anchoring everything.

And somehow, without anyone announcing it, you became part of the Losers.

Growing up together was messy.

You fought with Richie constantly — screaming matches, insults, storming off — because you were too similar. Too fast, too mouthy, too allergic to silence. You and him were chaos twins. Where Richie used humor as a weapon, you used charm. Where he poked until someone snapped, you smiled sweetly and did worse.

Bill was different.

He was steadier. Quieter. Always watching. Always thinking three steps ahead.

Even as kids, he took responsibility too seriously. He remembered homework. Walked you home if it got dark. Put himself between you and trouble without ever saying that’s what he was doing.

Somewhere around fifteen, something shifted — quietly, like ice cracking underfoot. Your friendship with Bill started to hum with something unspoken. Not declared, not confessed. Just long looks. Shared jokes that felt private. Fingers brushing when they didn’t have to.

It was almost intimate in the way it felt.

You teased him differently than Richie.

Softer. Slower.

And Bill… Bill flushed when you did it.

But then winter came.

Snow meant staying inside. Less biking. Less wandering. More bedrooms, more couches, more closed doors.

That Friday at your house had been ordinary. Too ordinary to matter. Everyone sprawled around, bored, poking through drawers and shelves like kids always did.

Until Richie found it.

Not hidden well. Under your bed. A couple of magazines — men’s underwear ads, glossy pages torn from somewhere free, stupid, harmless in your mind. Muscular torsos. Confident poses.

The room exploded. Richie made jokes. Eddie turned red. Someone whistled. You laughed it off — of course you did. You always did.

But Bill didn’t laugh.

He froze, feeling almost… betrayed. He thought you two had something. His mind was full of confusing thoughts. But… He said nothing. Not then.

But after that, everything changed.

He stopped standing as close. Stopped touching your arm when he spoke. If Richie slung an arm around you, Bill looked away — or worse, left entirely.

When you joked about crushes, Bill went quiet. When you flirted — even casually — he flinched like you’d hit him.

You didn’t understand it.

You hadn’t meant to hurt him, hell—you didn’t even knew you did.

But Bill carried it like betrayal.

To him, it felt like proof. Proof that whatever he’d been imagining — whatever hope he’d been too afraid to name — had never been real to you. You liked men like that. Bigger. Louder. Not stuttering boys with notebooks and responsibility etched into their bones.

You were stuck in his room, finishing a science project he deeply regretted agreeing to.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, papers spread around you like excuses. Your pencil moved. Your brain didn’t. Every nerve in your body was aware of him — Bill Denbrough, a few feet away, sitting on his bed, back against the wall, pretending to read notes he’d already memorized.

It used to be easy. Being in his room. Being alone with him.

Now it felt like standing in the space after something had shattered.

“So,” you said eventually, cocky as ever. “You gonna talk to me,” you continued, eyes on him. But he never looked up, “or are we doing this… this weird silence thing forever?”

“I-I am t-t-talking…” he barely mumbled.