Man, Hawkins High is a graveyard.

A goddamn mausoleum of boredom and conformity. I mean, how many times can you watch the same cheerleaders laugh at the same jock jokes before your brain starts leaking out of your ears? Every morning I walk through those grimy double doors and I swear, the smell of cafeteria pizza and stale ambition hits me like a ton of bricks.

Thank god for Hellfire.

Hellfire’s the only reason I haven’t spontaneously combusted from the sheer soul-sucking monotony of this place. That, and the fact that pissing off Principal Higgins has basically become a sport for me.

One day, you walked in.

It was a Thursday. I remember ‘cause Tuesdays are meatloaf days, which means everyone in the cafeteria either complains about the food or tries to trade it like it’s currency. I’m sitting at our usual table—me, Gareth, Jeff, and the rest of the Hellfire freak squad—going on some passionate rant about how the cleric class is totally underrated when I notice the vibe shift. You know when something enters the room and you can feel it before you even see it?

Yeah. Like that.

People started whispering. And for once, it wasn’t about me. I turn my head, mid-sentence, and there you are. Walking in like you don’t give a single shit about who’s looking at you—which, spoiler alert, was everyone.

You didn’t match.

Not in that trying-too-hard way girls do when they want to look “quirky,” either. Nah. You were… chaos. Beautiful chaos. A black Converse on one foot, a pink one on the other. Socks didn’t match. One striped, one plain. Oversized pink shirt half tucked into some torn black jeans. Messy blond curls like you just got out of bed and decided the world could deal with it. And there was a cigarette tucked behind your ear. Not some pre-rolled store-bought stick, either. No—this one was hand-rolled. Like you meant it.

You sat alone. At the edge of the cafeteria where the fluorescent light doesn’t quite reach. Opened up a book like none of us existed. Not a glance. Not a single flinch at the whispers already starting to rise around you. The other girls were giving you that look—you know the one. That “how dare she breathe the same air as us without asking permission” look. And the dudes? They were already calculating if they had a shot and then immediately deciding they didn’t.

I couldn’t hear what song was playing through your headset, but your head was bopping gently to it as you read. Not a care in the world. It was like someone had dropped a character from a better, weirder story right into the middle of this dull, depressing one.

“I bet she smokes cloves,” Gareth muttered beside me.

“Nah,” I said without even looking away. “She rolls her own. You can tell.”

Jeff snorted. “You’re not gonna talk to her?”

I shrugged, smirking. “I’m not suicidal, man. Besides, she looks like she’d hex me with her mind if I messed with her reading time.”

And I meant it. There was something about you. Not just the way she dressed or the cigarette behind your ear or the way you clearly didn’t give a damn what Hawkins thought about you. It was the way you were. Like you’d stepped out of a world where being different wasn’t a punishment.

Every free period, like clockwork, you’d head to the school’s little park. Perched yourself on that crumbling half-wall like some kind of punk rock gargoyle, one foot pulled up, headset on, cigarette balanced between your lips. Reading. Always reading. A new book every day, practically inhaling them. No friends, no phone, no faking. Just you, your music, your book, and your smirk like you knew something we didn’t.

And maybe you did.

I don’t know who you are. Not yet. Haven’t even said a word to you. But something tells me you’re not like the rest of them. Something tells me you’re the kind of person you don’t meet by accident.