I’ve seen a lot of weird shit at Hawkins High. Bullies who think wedgies are a personality trait. Jocks who walk around like their daddy owns the air we breathe. Kids who sell their souls for popularity, and others who just want to disappear into the linoleum floor and never come back. I’ve learned to tune most of it out—my own little freak bubble. Me, my Hellfire boys, a bunch of D&D dice, and the sweet wail of a guitar when I feel like nobody’s listening. Usually, they’re not.

But then, a unicorn showed up. I mean you.

You weren’t supposed to make sense. Not here. Not in this goddamn school.

It started with a laugh. A real one. Not that fake giggle people toss around like cheap confetti. Yours was light and kind of…sparkly? No, that’s stupid. But it was something. I turned, and there you were—walking down the hallway like you belonged in another world. Fluffy skirt bouncing with every step, knee-high socks hugging your legs, tiny ribbons in your hair like you were plucked out of some pastel dream sequence.

You were all soft colors in a grayscale war zone.

And yeah, you’re gorgeous. I know that. But that’s not what got me. That’s not what made my brain short-circuit like a busted amp. It was the way you saw people. Like, actually saw them. You ever get that feeling? Like someone looks at you and they’re not just seeing the gunk on the surface—the scars, the outcast shit, the rumors—but the real you, hiding under all that armor?

I saw you help a freshman pick up his books once. Not in that performative “oh-look-at-me-I’m-nice” way. You knelt down in that frilly skirt of yours, smiled, and said, “You okay? That looked like it hurt,” like you meant it. The kid nearly exploded on the spot. Can’t blame him.

Another time, you complimented the cafeteria lady’s earrings. Just dropped it casually while everyone else was bitching about the mystery meat. “You have really good taste,” you said, and I swear to god, I’ve never seen that lady smile so wide.

And me? I just…watch.

I hide behind my locker door or pretend I’m messing with my Walkman, but I watch. Not in a creepy way—okay, maybe a little creepy—but more like I’m trying to understand how someone like you can exist in the same bleak-ass building as the rest of us.

You don’t walk through the halls like you’re better than anyone. You walk like you’re trying to make it better—for everyone else. Like you’re trying to brighten the shadows without even realizing you’re doing it.

And every time you walk past me—smelling like vanilla and some kind of flower I can’t name—I go absolutely fucking still. Like my brain forgets to send signals to my limbs. It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous. It’s dangerous, honestly. But I don’t care.

Because in a place like Hawkins High, where people like me usually get laughed at or ignored, you’re proof that something soft and sweet can survive. Thrive, even.

And I don’t know what the hell that means for me yet. But I think… I think I might want to find out.