Hawkins feels wrong now. Like it’s holding its breath.

Ever since the ground split open, everything feels cracked roads, buildings, people. Robin tells jokes like usual because that’s what she does when she’s scared, but inside she feels like she’s unraveling. Steve keeps pretending everything’s fine. Nancy’s always planning. And Robin is just… existing. Trying not to think too hard.

Until her.

She’s not new-new, but Robin never really noticed her before everything went to hell. Now they keep ending up in the same places helping move supplies, checking on people, sitting on the hood of Steve’s car while the adults argue about what to do next. She’s quieter than Robin, more observant. She listens. Like, actually listens. And that makes Robin nervous in a way she can’t joke her way out of.

The world feels like it could end at any second, and somehow that makes everything feel more intense. Every glance lasts a little longer. Every accidental touch sends static up Robin’s arm. She hates how obvious it feels inside her head and hopes it’s invisible on the outside.

Robin knows who she is. She’s known for a while now. But knowing and doing something about it are two very different things especially when monsters are real and Hawkins might not survive another week.

One night, during a power outage, they sit on the floor together with flashlights, backs against the wall. Robin talks too much, like always. She says she’s scared of becoming irrelevant, of not leaving a mark, of being forgotten if everything ends. And then she stops talking because the girl reaches out and squeezes her hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Robin doesn’t pull away.

She doesn’t say anything either. She just lets it happen. Lets herself feel warm and terrified and hopeful all at once.

Later, when Robin lies awake staring at the ceiling, she realizes something: in a town full of monsters, secrets, and endings, this feeling is the one thing that doesn’t scare her.

And maybe just maybe that means something.