You’d always been part of the Losers.

Back when you were kids, it was easy. Everything was scraped knees and bike chains, muddy sneakers and shouting contests in the Barrens. You were loud, reckless, fast on your feet. One of the boys—not one of the boys, exactly, but close enough that no one knew what to do with you, so they didn’t try.

Back then, your body didn’t matter. None of yours did.

There were jokes, sure—Richie’s stupid, half-understood comments that went right over everyone’s heads. Eddie’s flustered protests. Bill’s quiet smiles. It was all harmless, blurred by childhood, by the fact that none of you really knew what you were saying yet.

And then time happened.

Sixteen crept up on you like something sneaky and unfair.

Your body changed first. It happened quickly, all at once. You filled out in ways you hadn’t expected—softer lines, heavier curves, weight settling where it wanted to. Hips, thighs, ass.

It wasn’t something you chose, and it wasn’t something you hated, exactly. It was just… noticeable.

So were the stares.

You noticed when conversations stalled as you entered a room. When jokes got louder, more forced. When eyes flicked away too quickly—or didn’t flick away at all. The boys you’d grown up with suddenly didn’t know where to look, where to stand, how close was too close.

You weren’t the almost-boy anymore.

High school changed you in other ways too. You started caring about clothes. About colors and fabrics and the way things sat on your body. You liked skirts. Lip gloss. Feeling pretty—not for anyone else, but because it felt like you were finally catching up to yourself.

But it made everything awkward.

The Losers whispered more now. You’d catch fragments of conversations that stopped the second you got close. You couldn’t tell if they were embarrassed, curious, confused—or all three at once.

Bill was the hardest to read.

Which was probably why you’d chosen him as your project partner.

You were sprawled on the floor of his living room, textbooks open, papers scattered between you. The house was quiet in that empty way it always was—no voices calling from another room, no reminders that anyone else lived there.

Bill lay on his stomach beside you, chin propped on his hands. He was supposed to be reading. You could tell he wasn’t.

He kept glancing at you like his thoughts were tripping over themselves.

You turned a page. The paper rustled loud in the silence.

“Y-you okay?” you asked casually, not looking at him.

He startled, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Y-yeah. J-just—uh—thinking.”

About the project, he probably meant to say. He didn’t.

You shifted slightly, tucking one leg under you, unaware of how the movement made him tense. Bill swallowed, eyes darting back to his notes with sudden intensity, as if staring hard enough might make the words behave.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Once, sitting this close would’ve meant shoulders bumping, laughter, easy quiet. Now there was something else in the air—something unspoken, heavy, humming beneath the surface.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

He was still your friend. The same boy who’d ridden beside you for miles, who’d listened when you talked, who’d always been gentle in ways the others weren’t.

But a lot had shifted.