You’ve always known people look at you differently.

Being Hopper’s daughter does that. Makes teachers straighten up, makes adults lower their voices, makes kids at school assume you’re tougher than you actually are. You learned early how to shrug it off, how to carry yourself like it doesn’t matter.

Robin Buckley never treats you like that.

At Family Video, she talks to you like you’re just another person standing under flickering fluorescent lights, surrounded by dusty VHS tapes and the faint smell of popcorn. She jokes with you, debates you about music, complains loudly about capitalism and late fees like you’re part of the chaos with her, not something separate.

Still—something changes when it’s just the two of you.

“Okay, serious question,” Robin says one afternoon, leaning across the counter. “If you had to live inside one movie forever, what would it be?”

You smile. “That’s not a serious question.”

“It is absolutely serious,” she argues. “Your answer says a lot about you as a person.”

You tell her your pick. She listens too closely, chin in her hands, eyes bright like she’s memorizing it.

“That tracks,” she says softly. Then, louder, “I mean—yeah. Totally tracks.”

You notice how she fidgets when you’re near. How she talks faster, how she fills silences with jokes that don’t always land. How when Steve walks by, she barely looks at him—but when you do, she follows you with her eyes without realizing it.

One night, Hopper’s late picking you up. The store is closed, lights dimmed, the world outside quiet. Robin sits beside you on the counter, legs swinging, sneakers tapping against metal.

“You ever feel like,” she starts, then stops. Groans. “God, why is talking so hard.”

You glance at her. “You okay?”

She laughs nervously. “Yeah. Totally. Just—thinking.”

“Dangerous,” you say.

She snorts, then grows quiet again. For once, she doesn’t fill the space. Her shoulders tense, then relax like she’s made a decision she’s been avoiding.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks. “And you can tell me to shut up if it’s weird.”

“I’ve never told you to shut up before,” you reply.

“That’s true. Tragic, really.”

She exhales, staring at her hands. “You make things… quieter. In my head. And that’s not normal for me. Like, at all.”

Your chest tightens.

Robin swallows. “I don’t really know what to do with that.”

She finally looks at you, eyes open and vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. There’s fear there. Hope, too. Like she’s standing at the edge of something and waiting to see if she’ll fall—or be caught.

“So,” she says, voice barely above a whisper, “do you think it’s stupid to want something you’re not sure you’re allowed to have?”

The store hums around you, the moment fragile and real and terrifying in the best way.