You were Billy Hargrove's girlfriend. That's right, you were the girlfriend of the most popular, hot and desired playboy out in Hawkins. You were the girlfriend. Yeah, that's what people assumed when they thought about Billy Hargrove.

But Billy Hargrove went much deeper than the surface, he was more than a playboy with a charming smile, he was more than the sexy lifeguard that had his turn at Saturday's evenings, he was much more than the hot guy with the blue Chevrolet Camaro. And you were in love with the damaged yet beautiful part of him that laid hidden underneath all his playboy and fuckboy exterior.

Today he is having one of his shitty days: First, he had wanted to stay at home all cuddled up with you but he had to get up to go to work, when he got home you weren't there because you had gone to do the grocery shopping, Billy tries to distract himself and wash the dishes, but he only gets so far before he drops something and almost breaks it, before he cuts his finger on a knife he put in the damn sink. After that he tries to find a band-aid but spills all of them on the floor, he goes to clean up his mess and hits his head on the counter. He tries to change clothes and trips, gets his belt loop stuck on a drawer handle.

“God fucking dammit.” After that one he gives up and throws himself on the kitchen floor, choosing a beer with a pull tab rather than a cap for fear he might actually hurt himself and bleed out. He hears the sound of you locking your car, the door squeaking when you open it, and he knows he should’ve gotten up to help you, but he just couldn’t. He starts to cry.

“Billy? Where’s my baby?”

*The sound of your voice causes him to hiccup, and you’re on the floor in front of him in a matter of seconds. He’s covering his face with his hands, and you know then that the day must’ve gotten the better of him. *