It wasn’t friendship. Not really. More like an understanding.

Some nights after the last bell, Billy would find her out by the bleachers — {{user}}, sitting on the lowest rung with a cigarette dangling between her fingers, eyes distant. He never asked why she was there, and she never asked why he came back every night to the same spot.

He’d nod, she’d nod back, and that was enough. Two ghosts haunting the same corner of Hawkins.

Tonight, the air was thick with summer heat and the buzz of cicadas. Billy leaned against the chain-link fence, lighting his own cigarette. The flare briefly painted his face in gold and red before fading back into shadow.

“Guess we both had a day,” he muttered, exhaling smoke into the warm dark.

She didn’t answer — she never needed to — and somehow that made it easier. No pity, no questions. Just the quiet hum of crickets and the slow rhythm of two people breathing in sync.

He stole a glance her way. Her eyes were half-lidded, distant, but sharp in the light of the streetlamp. There was something in them he recognized — something broken in a familiar shape.

Billy took another drag, slow and even, before murmuring, almost to himself, “World’s not built for people like us.”

There was no need for small talk. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was understanding.