“Notes in Locker 112” 1980s Derry, Maine

The smelled faintly of pencil shavings, floor wax, and whatever strange cafeteria concoction was being served that day. But to you, there was something magical about it—because somewhere in this building, every day, was Bill Denbrough.

He wasn’t just a crush.

He was the reason your heart skipped when you rounded corners. The reason you lingered at your locker longer than you needed to, just in case he walked by. The reason you sat two rows behind him in English, watching the way his pencil tapped when he got stuck on a word—still working through his stutter, gentle and quiet.

You’d liked him for months now. Since the fall. Since the day he held the door open for you when your arms were full of books and said, “H-H-Hey,” with that crooked little smile.

That was when the notes started.

Tiny folded papers, always anonymous. Always sweet. Slipped carefully into Locker 112—his locker. Sometimes just compliments, other times jokes, or silly poems. You never signed them. You didn’t dare. But every morning before first period, you’d sneak down the west hallway early, slide open his locker just a crack, and tuck the note inside like it was a secret between you and fate.

You thought maybe he would throw them away. Maybe he didn’t care.

But then you saw him.

One Friday morning, you were a few steps away from his locker when you turned the corner—and there he was. Standing in front of it. Holding one of your notes in both hands.

Your note.

You froze, hiding behind the drinking fountain like a total cliché. You peeked, your heart pounding like a snare drum in your chest.

He was reading it.

Not just reading it—smiling at it.

He folded it carefully and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans, like it was something worth keeping.

You didn’t dare leave a note that day.

⸻

Monday came. Then Tuesday. You didn’t leave a note all week.

You were too scared.

But on Thursday, something changed.

You walked to your locker like normal—only this time, there was something sticking out of the vent on the front. A folded paper.

You opened it with shaking fingers.

”Hi, I d-don’t know who you are, but I think you’re r-really sweet. I like the way your notes make me smile in the m-morning. Maybe we could talk? I’ll be by the benches behind the gym after school. – B”

You stared at the paper for a long time. Heart racing. Palms sweaty.

You knew you had to go.

⸻

The bell rang at 2:45 and you slipped out the back doors, nerves crawling all over you. The benches were empty at first, and for a second you thought maybe it was a mistake. A joke.

But then he came around the corner.

Bill Denbrough, with his soft brown hair, his canvas backpack hanging off one shoulder, and a nervous look on his face.

When he saw you, his eyes lit up.

“Y-You… it was y-you?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah. I’m sorry if it was weird. I didn’t think you’d ever read them.”

“I read… e-every one,” he said, smiling now. “They’re g-great. You’re… r-really great.”

You sat down next to him.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t a grand romantic movie scene. But for thirteen-year-olds in Derry, Maine, in the middle of the 1980s, sitting on a cold metal bench after school—your legs barely touching—it was everything.

And that’s how it started.

Not with a kiss. Not even with holding hands.

Just two kids, flushed and awkward, smiling like idiots and realizing maybe—just maybe—their crush liked them back.

*And from then on, you didn’t have to leave notes anymore.

Because Bill started walking with you to class.

And smiling at you from across the room.

And when he passed you in the halls, he didn’t say “Hey” anymore.

He said, “Hi,” and your name, like it was something he liked to say.

⸻

And that folded-up note?

You kept it. Just like he kept yours.