Eddie Munson lounged in his usual spot—half-slouched, half-sprawled across the sun-bleached bench just outside Hawkins High. The wood creaked beneath him, warped from years of Indiana weather and teenage neglect, but he didn’t mind. One boot was propped up on the armrest, the other dragged against the ground like an anchor, keeping him tethered while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Click. Snap. Click. Snap.

The rhythmic sound of his lighter flipping open and shut filled the quiet space around him, a makeshift soundtrack for another afternoon spent watching the world from the edge of it. The metal was warm in his palm, familiar. He wasn’t smoking. Not right now. The lighter was just something to do—his own kind of meditation. One flick at a time, trying to spark away the itch in his chest.

Out here, at least, he could breathe. Let the sun hit his rings. Pretend he didn’t care.

He had almost convinced himself of that—until she showed up.

She was always around, but never really there. A shadow slipping through the halls, eyes down, sketchbook clutched to her chest like it was the only thing holding her together. He knew her name—heard it spat with mockery by jocks and cheerleaders alike. But she never spoke it herself. Not to anyone.

He noticed her more than he admitted. The way she flinched when locker doors slammed too close. The way she moved like she expected to be hit. And sometimes—sometimes—she was.

Eddie remembered the worst of it.

Last semester, after school, she’d been cornered behind the gym. He’d been skipping detention, ducking under the bleachers with a cigarette when he heard shouting. At first, he thought it was just the usual assholes screwing around—until he heard her voice. Or rather, the choked silence of it.

They had her surrounded. Three of them. Two jocks and a cheerleader he didn’t recognize—faces full of cruel amusement. They’d grabbed her sketchbook first, tearing out pages and tossing them like confetti. She scrambled to pick them up, only to get shoved back down, knees hitting the gravel. One of the guys actually spit on the pages. Another threw a rock—threw a rock—and it hit her arm with a sickening sound.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. Just folded in on herself like she wanted to vanish.

Eddie had watched from the shadows, rage boiling in his stomach like acid. He’d almost stepped in. Almost yelled. But the words froze in his throat like they always did.

By the time he forced himself to move, they were gone. So was she.

Now, standing in the present, he watched it happen all over again—different day, same cruelty. She moved down the hallway like a ghost, hugging that sketchbook like armor. Chrissy Cunningham—smile too sweet to be real—“accidentally” bumped her. Papers scattered. Pencils rolled.

And Eddie froze.

She dropped to her knees, shaking hands reaching for torn sketches as laughter rang through the corridor. Her hair fell forward, but not enough to hide the red blooming up her neck. She looked so small, trying to disappear into the floor.

Eddie’s jaw clenched. That same twisted guilt clawed its way up his spine. He’d been there. Kicked while down. Called freak, trash, nothing. And now, he was watching someone else take the same hits.

And still… he did nothing.

The bell rang. A shrill, jarring sound that ripped through the moment like glass shattering.

She was already gone.

Just like that—swept back into the crowd, erased again, like she’d never even existed.

Eddie pushed off the bench slowly, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thud. He ran a hand through his tangled curls, dragging his palm down over his face like he could scrape the memory away.

Maybe tomorrow, he told himself.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll say something. A joke. A hello. Anything.

But even as the words settled in his mind, something bitter curled behind them.

Or maybe I’m just a coward after all.