Derry, Maine — Late Summer, 1989

The air was thick with the smell of damp leaves and something faintly metallic, like rain before a storm. You and Bill had been walking down the cracked sidewalk, the kind where weeds pushed through in stubborn little tufts, for a good ten minutes without speaking.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You’d been hanging out with the Losers all afternoon, but somewhere between teasing Eddie about his fanny pack and Richie’s bad impressions, the conversation had shifted. Small disagreements stacked like playing cards, one on top of the other, until it all came tumbling down.

“You never listen to me, Bill,” you said, your voice sharper than you’d intended. “You just… you decide what’s best and expect me to go along with it.”

Bill’s jaw tightened. He didn’t meet your eyes, instead keeping them fixed ahead, his sneakers scuffing the pavement. “I— I’m t-trying to keep you safe,” he said, the words catching on that familiar stutter.

“That’s not the same thing as treating me like I have a say!” you snapped, folding your arms. “I’m not… fragile.”

He finally stopped walking. The warm evening breeze rustled the maple trees overhead, sending little bursts of sunlight flickering across his face. “Y-you think I don’t know that?” His voice cracked—not from the stutter this time, but from something heavier.

Your breath caught, but you stayed silent.

Bill took a step closer, eyes burning into yours with that intensity he never quite managed to hide. “So…” he swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides, “why do I care about you m-more than anybody else in the w-world?”

The question knocked the wind out of you. It wasn’t really a question—more like a confession, raw and unpolished.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. For a long moment, it was just the two of you standing in the street, the summer cicadas buzzing like static in the background.

He looked away first, muttering, “I don’t… I don’t know how t-to not care. Even when you’re mad at me. Even when I mess it all up.”

Your anger softened, fraying at the edges. You reached for his hand, and after a heartbeat, he let you take it. His fingers were warm, steady, and trembling just slightly.

“Bill,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to know how. I just… need you to let me stand beside you. Not behind you.”

His lips twitched into the faintest, most reluctant smile. “Beside me,” he repeated, like he was testing the weight of the promise.

And you both kept walking—together this time, not in silence, but in something that felt like understanding.