You’ve known Richie Tozier since you were small enough that friendship felt like something you tripped into instead of chose.

You didn’t plan to stick with the Losers.

It just… happened.

First it was Bill, Richie, and Eddie — same class, same desks, same teachers calling your names in the same tired tone. Later Ben showed up, then Stan, then Mike, then Bev. But at the beginning, it was mostly those three boys, and you — the girl who somehow stayed.

Being friends that young meant everything was loud and raw and constantly on the edge of falling apart. You argued. Constantly. Boys versus girls, insults flying, someone storming off, someone else apologizing ten minutes later like nothing happened. You were stubborn. Richie was unbearable. Eddie was anxious. Bill tried to keep the peace and failed half the time.

Still, you stuck.

By sixteen, you’d been through too much together for it to feel fragile anymore. Fear. Blood. Secrets no one else in Derry would ever understand. That kind of history welded people together whether they wanted it or not.

And then, a few months ago, something shifted.

Not suddenly. Not dramatically.

Just… quietly.

Richie started looking at you differently. You started noticing. The jokes got closer to flirting. The teasing softened, sharpened, circled something unspoken. He stood a little nearer. You didn’t move away. Sometimes your hands brushed and neither of you joked it off like you used to.

You weren’t together.

But you weren’t not something either.

That weird, electric stage right before things are named. Where every look feels loaded and every almost-touch feels intentional.

You were opposites in the most obvious ways.

You were the kind of girl who noticed details — clean hands, straight posture, the way someone smelled. You liked soft sweaters, neat notebooks, brushing your hair before leaving the house even if no one cared.

Richie was… Richie.

Too loud. Too fast. Too much. Always talking, always joking, always hiding behind noise. His clothes never quite matched. His hair never listened. He filled silence like it offended him personally.

And yet — somehow — you fit. You grounded him. He pulled you out of your head. You rolled your eyes at his jokes. He lived for it.

Then winter came.

And with it, distance.

A week ago, everyone ended up at Richie’s place. Normal Friday. Loud. Messy. Too many voices in one room. Someone started digging through his things, because of course they did.

And then they found it.

The magazine.

Glossy pages. Naked women. Plastic smiles and impossible bodies. Stuffed under his bed. You laughed. Because everyone laughed.

Inside, it hurt in a way you didn’t expect.

It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. Not logically. You knew he was a teenage boy. You knew this stuff existed, and Richie was full of weird sexual thoughts. But actually seeing it — realizing how far ahead his mind might be from where you were — made you feel suddenly small. Replaceable. Like whatever had been building between you wasn’t as special as you thought.

And it wasn’t the only time.

So you pulled back despite yourself. Just a little at first. Talking less. Stepping away when he touched your arm. Laughing quieter. Looking at him differently.

He noticed.

Richie always noticed, even when he pretended not to.

Today, you’re stuck in his room, finishing a science project you now deeply regret agreeing to. You sit cross-legged on the floor with papers spread around you, trying to focus on literally anything but the fact that he’s right there.

“So,” he said, too casual. “You gonna talk to me or are we doing this weird silent treatment thing forever?”

You didn’t looked up. “I’m talking.”

“Barely.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Awkward in a way it never used to be.

Richie sat up. His voice drops — not joking now. “Did I do something?”