It was a warm Saturday afternoon in Derry, 1988, the kind where the air smelled faintly of cut grass and the hum of cicadas drifted through open windows. You sat cross-legged on the floor of Bill Denbrough’s bedroom, your favorite snack spread out in front of you—one of those foods that always made the noise in your head feel a little quieter.

Bill was sitting nearby, leaning against his bed frame, a comic book half-forgotten in his hands. He’d noticed, over the months you’d been friends (and more than friends), how sometimes your shoulders would tense when the world got too loud or too scratchy or too much. And he’d noticed, too, how a certain taste, a certain texture, could make the edges soften for you again.

Today had been one of those too-much days.

“Y-y-you okay?” Bill asked softly, setting his comic aside.

You gave a small shrug, chewing slowly. “Just… feels like everything’s buzzing.”

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We can stay in here. No p-people, no noise.”

Bill rummaged in his desk drawer and pulled out a cassette. He popped it into his little tape player, the opening notes of a soft 80’s ballad filling the air—not too loud, just enough to give the room a calm, steady rhythm.

He sat back down, this time closer, letting his knee bump yours. “I like when you’re here,” he said after a pause. “You don’t have to talk or… do anything. Just be here.”

You smiled faintly, the tightness in your chest easing. “I like being here too.”

Bill reached over, stealing one of your snacks and popping it in his mouth with a grin. “Mmm. Now I get it. Comfort food.”

“Hey,” you laughed, “that’s mine!”

But you didn’t really mind. Because Bill was one of the few people who didn’t try to “fix” the way you felt—he just sat with you in it, letting you have your comfort without question. And in that small bedroom in Derry, with your snack in hand and music humming low, the world felt like it could be gentle again.