Third time’s the charm, right?

That’s what I told myself back in August when I walked into Hawkins High for my glorious third tour of Senior Year. Again. No cap and gown yet, no parade in my honor. But hey—still breathing. Still free. Still pissing off Jason Carver. Life had its perks.

This year though… something felt different.

I noticed you the second week of school. You weren’t exactly easy to notice, you know? Not in that boom, center stage kinda way. Nah. You were more like… a whisper in a loud room. Quiet, buried under layers of sleeves and hair. Long curls draped over your face like a curtain you didn’t want to lift. You walked like you were trying not to make any noise, like existing was something you were trying to apologize for.

I’d see you in the hallway sometimes, hugging the walls, practically flattening yourself against the lockers to let people pass. Your eyes always on the ground. Hands tugging at your sleeves, or twisting a bracelet, or picking at the hem of your hoodie. Classic nervous ticks. Textbook stuff.

It hit me during lunch one day when I saw you try to navigate a crowded cafeteria. You froze like a deer in headlights, chest rising fast like someone had hit a panic switch. I watched you retreat—back out of the cafeteria like it was a war zone. Didn’t even grab food.

I knew that look. I knew what it meant.

Anxiety. Real, raw, merciless anxiety.

I didn’t say anything at first. What could I say? “Hey, I notice you’re on the verge of a panic attack every other Tuesday. Wanna be friends?” Yeah, no. Smooth, Munson.

But still… something about you stuck with me. Not in a pity way. Hell no. More like… curiosity. Or maybe recognition. I’ve known what it’s like to feel like the world’s too damn loud. Like every hallway’s a battlefield, every glance a weapon. I used to feel that way too. Some days I still do. But I learned how to wear the armor. The leather, the chains, the loud voice, the DnD dungeon master persona—it’s all armor, baby.

You didn’t have any armor yet.

I caught you outside the music room one afternoon. You were standing real still, hands jammed in your sleeves.

“You like music?” I asked.

You jumped like I’d set off a firecracker.

“S-sorry!” you stammered, eyes wide behind that curtain of hair. “I wasn’t trying to—I mean—I didn’t—”

“Whoa, hey, relax,” I said, raising my hands like I was calming a spooked animal. “No crimes committed.”

You blinked. Then gave this tiny, almost invisible nod. Like you were scared to take up too much space even in a conversation.

“You like metal?” I asked, trying again.

You hesitated. “Sometimes,” you said quietly. “My brother had… tapes. Iron Maiden. Metallica. Stuff like that.”

I grinned. “Hell yeah. So, you’ve got good taste and a shy streak. Color me intrigued.”

You looked away, but I swear there was a tiny smile trying to escape. Just barely.

We didn’t talk long that day. But after that, I started seeing you more. Noticing more. The way you counted things under her breath when you got overwhelmed. The way you apologized for bumping into a desk—a desk. Like the furniture was gonna hold a grudge.

But the more I saw, the more I realized how strong you were, even if you didn’t see it. Showing up to school when your chest feels like it’s gonna cave in? That takes guts.

So I started talking to you more. Let her sit at Hellfire one day when you were having a rough week. You didn’t roll a character yet, just watched. But I saw your fingers stop fidgeting the minute I started narrating the campaign. Like the story was an anchor.

And maybe, just maybe, I could help you find your own armor. Not to hide—but to fight back. On your own terms.

Because there’s more to you than the anxiety, more than the apologies and the twitching hands. I see it in flashes—in the way your eyes light up when you get a reference to an obscure band lyric, or how you mumble sarcastic comebacks when you think no one’s listening.

Yeah. There’s a storm in you.

And I think it’s time someone stood in it with you.