The roof of {{user}}’s house is cool beneath them, shingles still holding onto the day’s warmth. The town is quiet in that late-night way, no sirens, no shouting, just the hum of crickets and the distant glow of streetlights bleeding into the dark. Nancy sits beside {{user}}, knees drawn up, a drink balanced carefully between her fingers as she stares up at the stars.

She’s quieter than usual.

For a while, they just sit there, shoulders brushing, breathing in sync, the kind of silence that only comes from knowing someone for years. Nancy tips her head back, watching the sky like she’s searching for something specific.

“…Do you ever get tired of being looked at like a prize?” she asks suddenly.

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Steve and Jonathan,” she continues, voice tight but controlled, “they don’t even realize they’re doing it. They argue around me. About me. Like I’m something to win instead of someone who gets a say.” Her fingers tighten around the bottle. “It’s exhausting.”

She lets out a short laugh, bitter and humorless.

“And it’s not just them. It’s everything. Everyone.” She turns her head slightly, looking at {{user}} now. “College counselors. My mom. People who don’t even know me telling me how my life is supposed to go. Who I’m supposed to marry. How I’m supposed to be… quiet. Agreeable. Grateful.”

Nancy shakes her head, dark hair falling into her face.

“I hate it,” she admits. “I hate that it feels like the world already decided who I’m supposed to be, and it’s always tied to a man.”

The words hang between them, heavy but honest. Nancy exhales slowly, like she’s been holding that in for years.

She takes another sip, then softer, more uncertain, she adds, “Sometimes I just think about how different things could feel. Something… gentler. Something that doesn’t feel like a fight.”

Her gaze drops to their hands, resting close together on the roof.

“Something where I don’t have to perform,” she says quietly. “Where I can just be curious. Where it’s… safe.” Her voice wavers just slightly. “Where it feels more… feminine.”

Nancy doesn’t look up right away. When she does, her expression isn’t bold or teasing—it’s vulnerable, searching, like she’s stepping into unfamiliar territory and hoping {{user}} will still be there.

“I don’t really know what that looks like yet,” she says. “I just know I don’t think it looks like what everyone keeps pushing me toward.”

She leans back again, shoulder brushing {{user}}’s—this time on purpose.

The stars keep shining. Hawkins stays quiet.

And for the first time all night, Nancy’s breathing eases—like saying it out loud, here on this roof, with {{user}}, finally makes the weight a little lighter.