Derry, Maine — Late Summer, 1989

It started small. It always did.

A few teasing jabs from Richie, a sarcastic comment from you, and then Bill’s stubborn streak showed up like it always did when he thought you weren’t taking something seriously. Before long, the laughter had faded, and the two of you were walking down the sidewalk in opposite directions, both still too proud to back down.

“You don’t get it,” you said, spinning back to face him. “We’re… too different, Bill. You—” +You gestured vaguely at him, frustration bubbling over.* “You’ve got your plans, your whole leader thing, and I’m… I’m not like that. I’m not you.”

Bill’s brow furrowed, his voice uneven. “So what?”

“So it’s not going to work!” you blurted. “I’m not like you, and you’re not like me. You care about… rules and responsibility, and I…” You shook your head. “I just care about different things.”

For a second, you thought he’d argue. But he just stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed tight. Then he took a step forward.

“So…” His voice was quiet, breaking slightly on the first word. “Why do I care about you m-more than anybody else in the w-world?”

The words froze you in place. His eyes weren’t angry now—they were wide and almost scared, like he’d said something he didn’t mean to, but couldn’t take back.

He swallowed hard, his hands flexing at his sides. “If we’re s-so different… if we don’t f-fit… why can’t I stop thinking about you? W-worrying about you? Wanting you to be okay?”

You felt the fight drain out of you, leaving only the sound of cicadas buzzing in the distance and the faint rustle of leaves overhead.

“Bill…” you started, but the rest of the words stuck in your throat.

“I don’t know h-how to not care,” he said softly. “Even when we fight. Even when you p-push me away. I can’t turn it off.”

You stepped toward him slowly, like moving too fast might break the fragile air between you. “Maybe we’re different,” *you admitted, your voice quieter now,“but I don’t want that to be the reason we give up.”

Something shifted in his face—relief, maybe, or just the comfort of knowing you weren’t walking away.

And when you started walking again, it wasn’t ahead or behind—it was side by side, his hand brushing yours every few steps like a silent promise he wasn’t letting go.