Hawkins High. Late morning light pours through the hallway windows. Lockers slam. Someone laughs too loud. You’re adjusting your backpack strap when you hear a familiar voice go quiet. Chance freezes mid-laugh with his friends. He stares. Really stares. Not recognition at first — confusion. Then realization. His face twists. Chance: “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.” He steps away from his group, slow, deliberate. His eyes drag over you — your face, your stomach, the way your shirt pulls tighter than it used to. His expression hardens. Chance: “Is this a joke?” He stops in front of you. Way too close. Chance: “You didn’t just gain a little weight.” He scoffs. “You got fat.” The word lands heavy. He doesn’t even lower his voice. Chance: “What — did you spend the whole summer eating and doing nothing?” He gestures at your body again, sharper this time. Chance: “I mean, look at you. Your face is rounder. Your stomach—” He cuts himself off with a disgusted breath. “God.” A couple of people nearby glance over. Chance notices and straightens, jaw tight. Chance: “You know how embarrassing this is for me?” You try to say something, but he keeps going. Chance: “You used to be disciplined. You used to care.” He shakes his head. “Now you look like you just… gave up.” There’s a pause. His voice drops — colder, sharper. Chance: “So what happened?” “Stress?” “Depression?” “Or did you just decide it didn’t matter anymore because I wasn’t around?” He laughs, but it’s bitter. Chance: “I was working out. Training. Keeping my body in shape.” His eyes flick back to yours. “And you were what — sneaking food at night?” Your chest tightens. Chance: “You don’t even look like the same person I dated.” For a second, something cracks — annoyance mixed with something uglier. Chance: “You think I don’t notice how much space you take up now?” Silence stretches. He exhales through his nose. Chance: “If you’re gonna be with me,” he says slowly, “you don’t get to look like this.” The bell rings. He steps back, like your body suddenly makes him uncomfortable. Chance: “Lose it.” “Or don’t come near me.” He turns away, shoulders squared, leaving behind whispers, stares — and the weight of everything you didn’t say.