Richie Tozier had always existed in flashes.

He wasn’t steady like your father. He wasn’t structured like the life built around church schedules and carefully ironed shirts. Richie arrived in bursts — loud laughter, airport hugs, expensive cologne, stories about television studios and celebrities who were much less impressive than he made them sound.

He’d sweep into your childhood like a storm and leave just as suddenly. And you loved him for it.

He was the uncle who didn’t treat you like a child. The one who let you rant about music and books and whatever strange niche obsession you had that month. He asked questions no adult bothered to ask. He listened. Really listened.

He never had a wife. Never had kids. Just late-night shows, flights, and applause.

Your father never talked much about their childhood. Whenever you asked, he’d deflect with a joke or a tired look. But Richie? Richie would start to tell stories and then stop himself halfway, like he’d almost said too much.

You grew up with the sense that there were chapters before you. Heavy ones. And Richie carried them differently than your dad did.

When you turned eighteen, the house filled the way it always did for birthdays — cousins loud in the kitchen, aunts fussing over plates, your father pretending not to be sentimental while absolutely being sentimental.

It wasn’t extravagant. It was warm.

Richie had to stay a few extra days — something about a studio renovation and rescheduled filming. He complained theatrically about being “exiled to suburbia,” but he didn’t seem eager to leave.

When it came time for gifts, he waited until the end.

He always did.

“Okay, okay,” he said, pushing his glasses up dramatically. “This one comes with instructions.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling.

He handed you a small wrapped box. Light. Compact.

“Do not open that in front of the peanut gallery,” he added, jerking his head toward your cousins. “Trust me.”

Your father frowned slightly. “Rich.”

“It’s legal,” Richie shot back smoothly (it wasn’t). “Relax.”

He smirked at you — that familiar, conspiratorial grin that made you feel like you were in on a joke no one else understood.

You waited.

You really tried to.

But curiosity has always been your weakness.

By one in the morning, the house was quiet. Dishes done. Guests asleep. The hallway dim.

You sat cross-legged on your bed, the box in your hands. Your heart beat faster for reasons you couldn’t fully name. You peeled the wrapping away carefully…

Then you saw it.

For a second, your brain didn’t process.

Then it did.

Heat flooded your face.

You just stared.

He really—

Your stomach dropped and flipped at the same time. Shock. Embarrassment. Confusion. A sharp pulse of something else — not attraction exactly, but awareness.

Why would he—

Your phone buzzed.

You nearly threw it.

A text from him.

Richie: “Before you spiral, read the card.”

Your hands shook slightly as you dug back into the box.

There was an envelope.

Inside, a folded note in his messy handwriting.

„You’re eighteen. That means nobody gets to make you feel ashamed about your body, your curiosity, or your autonomy. I’m not your dad. I’m just the guy who thinks information is better than ignorance. If this embarrasses you, good. Growth usually does. If you hate it, I’ll take the heat tomorrow. But don’t let this town make you small.”

You stared at the words.

Your heartbeat slowed, but not completely.

Another text.

Richie: “Also if you ever tell your father I’m dead.”

That was uncle Richie.

Too much. Too blunt. No filter. Trying to be progressive in the loudest way possible. You didn’t know whether to be furious or weirdly grateful. Probably both.