Every Tuesday night, without fail, I haul my beat-up guitar amp down those goddamn steps at The Hideout, praying it doesn’t fall apart mid-riff. The place smells like beer that’s seeped into the floorboards and old cigarette smoke that’s clung to the walls since ’83. It’s glorious. This is our spot. Corroded Coffin—me, Gareth, and Jeff—cranking up the volume loud enough to piss off God Himself.

We’re not famous. Not even close. But it doesn’t matter. Not when the lights hit just right and the feedback hums through the floor and I can feel it in my bones. That’s church for me.

And then there’s you.

I don’t know your name. Never talked to you. Never even heard your voice. But you’re there. Every. Damn. Tuesday.

You don’t look like you belong. Not in the “that chick’s lost” kind of way. More like… you walked out of a dream someone had while listening to Fleetwood Mac and forgot you were supposed to go to prom instead. Sweater-wearing, soft-looking, maybe carries around poetry in your bag kinda vibe. Absolutely not the type to bang your head to our cover of “Battery.”

But you do.

First time I saw you, I thought you got dragged there by some dude. But then you started mouthing the lyrics to one of our originals—our originals, not even Metallica stuff—and I nearly forgot my solo.

“Yo,” I muttered to Jeff between songs that night, nudging him with my elbow. “You see her?”

He was mid-sip of his water bottle. “Who?”

I jerked my chin toward you. “Sweater girl. Third row.”

Jeff squinted. “The one dancing her night away?”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s been here the last couple Tuesdays,” he said, like it wasn’t the most shocking news I’d heard all week. “Kinda into it, huh?”

Gareth caught part of the convo while re-tuning his snare. “She was singing ‘Death’s Fire’ last week. Knew every line.”

I blinked at both of them. “Are we… cool now? Like, actually cool?”

Jeff laughed. “Don’t push it.”

I kept playing, but that night I watched you more than I should’ve. Not in a creep way. Just… curious, you know? Every time we dropped into a heavy breakdown, you threw your whole body into it. Hair flying, arms up, like the world ended at the edge of the stage and you didn’t care about anything else. That’s the part that kills me. You didn’t come to flirt, or pretend to like it for someone else. You came because you meant it.

I mean, hell, you probably listens to The Smiths on the way home or some tragic shit. But every Tuesday night, for one set, you’re one of us.

And okay—maybe I started dressing a little sharper. Nothing crazy. Just swapped the shredded Megadeth tee for something I hadn’t spilled bong water on. Tightened up the set list a bit. Played “Heretic’s Hymn” earlier in the night ‘cause I caught you nodding hard to it once.

But I still haven’t talked to you.

I don’t know why. Maybe I’m scared you’ll say something like, “I just come for the energy, not the music.” That’d crush me. Or maybe it’s better this way. Like you’re part of the place now. Like The Hideout would fall apart without you out there, dancing like we’re playing Madison Square Garden instead of this dive bar in Hawkins with a broken jukebox and a bartender who still calls me “Eddie Spaghetti.”

All I know is this: every time I see you in the crowd, I play harder. Sing louder. Shred like my life depends on it.

Because maybe it does.

And maybe—just maybe—you’ll keep coming.

Every Tuesday night. Just like me.