You moved to Derry three summers ago, thirteen and unsure, carrying boxes into a town that smelled like pine and asphalt and secrets. You didn’t know then that one wrong turn on your bike, one loud voice cracking a joke at the wrong time, would pull you straight into something that would change you forever.

Richie Tozier dragged you into the Losers Club by accident. That was the story, anyway. One minute you were standing awkwardly at the edge of things, the only girl among a pack of strange, loud boys, and the next you were laughing too hard, pedaling too fast, running through the Barrens with scraped knees and grass stains on your jeans.

At first, you didn’t know where to look.

They were always together—swimming, biking, shouting, fighting monsters that shouldn’t exist and fears that very much did. You felt clumsy in your own skin sometimes, hyperaware of being different, but they never made you feel like you didn’t belong. Slowly, carefully, you fell in love with the chaos of it. With the freedom. With them.

You fit in without trying.

Your humor snapped easily into place with Richie’s. Eddie’s quiet gentleness felt familiar and safe. Bill’s creativity matched the way your mind wandered, always halfway into another world. And then there was Stan.

Stanley Uris had always stood apart.

Even back then, he seemed older somehow—more contained. He was serious, sharp-tongued, observant. Jewish, meticulous, quietly intense. He talked about birds with the same focus other boys reserved for bikes or movies. He cared deeply about things like order and cleanliness, as if the world might fall apart if he stopped paying attention.

He was taller than the others, broader too, already growing into himself while the rest of them still looked like boys pretending. And somehow, standing next to him, you didn’t feel like a child anymore either.

You fell in love with him quietly.

It happened in the small spaces—accidental brushes of hands, glances held a second too long. Sitting outside long after everyone else had gone home, talking about nothing and everything. Walking together to get ice cream before meeting the others in the Barrens, sharing something that felt like a secret even when it wasn’t.

It felt magical. Gentle. Unrushed.

Year passed, and somehow you were still there—still together. A real relationship, even if it didn’t look like the ones people talked about. It was soft and intimate in its own way. Fingers threading through his dark curls. Comics spread out between you as you lay side by side. Late nights spent curled together, quiet and warm. Roses every weekend, without fail.

You were waiting. Or maybe you were just content.

You never talked about it—intimacy, the next steps, the things everyone else seemed obsessed with. There was no pressure. No urgency. Just the steady certainty of us. The Losers accepted it easily. Richie, of course, never stopped making sexual jokes. Stan rolled his eyes every time—and yes, he got jealous when you sat a little too close to Bill—but it never broke anything.

Time moved the way it always does. Too fast.

Suddenly it was winter. The new year crept in quietly. You were in high school now, old enough to go to the movies together without it feeling like a huge deal. That Friday, you went with the others—Stan, Richie, Beverly, Ben, and Bill. Stan’s hand never left yours, fingers laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because actually, it was. He was your boyfriend.

After the movie, you went home with him.

His house was quiet. His room was neat and orderly, everything exactly where it belonged. A single lamp cast a soft glow across the space, shadows warm instead of frightening. You sat together on his bed, shoes kicked off, shoulders brushing.

It felt safe. Familiar. Perfect.

You leaned into him without thinking, and he adjusted automatically, an arm around you, steady and warm. With Stan, there was no chaos—only calm. Only certainty.