Derry, Maine — Late Summer, 1989
Your footsteps echoed against the cracked pavement, the only sound between you. The argument from minutes ago still hung in the air, bitter and sharp, neither of you willing to break the silence.
Bill was trailing behind you now, his sneakers scuffing the ground. You could feel his gaze on your back, like he was willing you to turn around. You didn’t.
“You just… you keep deciding everything for me,” you finally said, voice tight. “Like you already know what I’m going to do or say. And maybe you think it’s for the best, but—”
“I’m t-trying to keep you safe,” he cut in, but it didn’t sound convincing this time. It sounded tired.
You stopped, turning to face him. “Safe doesn’t mean shutting me out, Bill. I’m not—” You faltered. “I’m not someone you have to control.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he lifted his head, and you saw it—his eyes, glassy in the fading light, his jaw tight like he was holding something back.
His voice was quiet when it came out, and cracked halfway through. “So… why do I care about you m-more than anybody else in the w-world?”
It wasn’t just a question. It was a confession—messy, unpolished, and so heartbreakingly sincere it made your chest ache.
He swallowed hard, like the words had been dragged out of him. “I don’t know h-how to not care,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Even when you’re mad. Even when it feels like you d-don’t want me around. I just… I can’t stop.”
You stepped closer before you even realized you were moving. His shoulders were tense under your hands, and you could feel the tremor in him when your touch landed.
“I never asked you to stop,” you murmured. “I just need you to care with me, not for me.”
For a long moment, he didn’t say anything—just closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like he’d been holding his breath for days and could finally let it out.
When his fingers found yours, they held on like it was the only thing keeping him standing.
And this time, when you walked side by side, there wasn’t any space left between you.