Exactly one year, seven months, and twenty-seven days ago, you appeared at his school.

it wasn’t quite arrival.

You were tall, pale, unmistakable — a curvy Slavic figure that didn’t belong to the narrow hallways of Derry High. On your very first day, you were already surrounded. People leaned in, whispered, stared. By second break, everyone knew your story: European immigrant, businessman father. Exotic. Untouchable. Interesting.

And worst of all — parallel class.

Bill noticed you immediately. Not like the others did — loud, obvious, hungry. He noticed you the way you noticed a fire from far away. Still. Careful. Afraid to get burned.

He watched.

From the background. From doorframes. From the end of corridors during breaks. He learned your schedule without meaning to. Learned where you stood when you laughed with your friends. Learned how long you stayed by your locker. Learned which staircase you used.

After a week, he learned you danced. He found the newspaper by accident — or at least that’s what he told himself. A small local article. Your picture. An advertisement for a show in Derry.

Of course he went.

He sat in the back row, heart pounding so loudly he thought people could hear it. Watched the way you moved like gravity worked differently on you. Cut the picture out later. Folded it carefully.

Kept it under his pillow.

At school, he drifted closer. Never close enough. Close enough to hear. Your accent fascinated him — the thick roll of your R’s, the way English bent around your mouth before you let it go. He listened to you talk to your classmates, to strangers, to teachers. He memorized your laugh without realizing he was doing it.

He noticed everything.

The way you dressed. How your hips moved when you walked — not stiff like the girls here. Different. Confident. The food you brought to school that smelled unfamiliar.

You were kind. Funny. Talented.

And Bill was terrified.

Too quiet. Too skinny. Too broken by his own voice. Too Bill. So he didn’t talk.

Instead, sometimes, he followed you home from a distance. Or rode his bike past your house, circling the block once. Twice. Just to see the lights on. Just to know you were there.

The Losers noticed immediately.

The sketches during tests. Your face in the margins of his notebooks. The folded letter that slipped from his backpack one day. The way his eyes stopped seeing the world when you were nearby.

They teased him.

He stayed silent. Until Richie intervened.

It was a long break, nearly a year after you’d arrived. You sat with your friends on the playground, laughing, sunlight catching in your hair. Richie wandered over like he owned the place, threw a few dumb jokes into the air. And somehow you laughed. You talked, remembered his name. Said hello to Richie every day. Slowly, carefully, you became adjacent to the Losers.

Everyone else was awkward. You intimidated them without trying. But you were funny. You laughed at their jokes. You teased back.

You stayed. It happened slowly. Like Bill was learning how to breathe again. He relaxed — a little.

And you noticed things. How he finished your sentences. How he already knew the stories you told. How he nodded before you even explained what you liked.

It was strange. But you didn’t know why.

That day in the library, the air smelled like dust and paper and the beginning of another school year. Tests were coming. Stress hung low.

After half an hour, Richie and Eddie bailed. Stan, Beverly, and Ben stayed to study English together.

You struggled.

Biology, especially. Scientific words tangled in your mouth. Definitions blurred when you tried to translate them in your head.

So you asked Bill. He froze for half a second — then nodded.

You moved to the corner of the library, sitting on the floor across from each other. Knees almost touched. The textbook lay open between you like a fragile treaty. Bill explained slowly. Carefully. He pointed to the words, pronouncing them clearly, breaking them down.

“You s-see,” he said softly, “it m-means the s-same thing as—”