Robin’s monthly meetups were supposed to be a joke. Some throwaway comment about her uncle’s empty house turning into a place where everyone could pretend things hadn’t changed. Somehow, it became tradition anyway.
Nancy sits on the floor beside you, wrapped tightly in a blanket Robin tossed over both of you without asking. Steve and Jonathan on the small couch behind you, already in debate about whether the movie is “deeply misunderstood” or just “objectively terrible.”
Their voices rise and fall, overlapping with explosions and dramatic dialogue from the screen. Normally, Nancy would be contributing — analyzing plot choices, pointing out inconsistencies, offering her own sharp opinions.
Tonight, she hasn’t said much at all.
Because she’s too aware of you.
The shared blanket traps warmth between your shoulders, your arms brushing every time either of you shifts even slightly. It shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t feel like every small point of contact sends a quiet panic spiraling through her chest.
Nancy presses her lips together, eyes locked on the movie without actually processing it. She’s learned how to look composed, how to hide storms behind steady expressions. It’s a skill she perfected long before leaving Hawkins.
Leaving was supposed to make everything clearer. Instead, distance only made her realize how much she had buried without noticing.
She told herself she missed familiarity. Missed safety. Missed home.
She told herself missing you was part of that.
Then graduation happened, and everything she had carefully avoided collapsed at once.
Seeing you standing among the crowd laughing with friends, sunlight catching in your hair, looking so completely yourself had hit Nancy with a sudden, dizzying clarity she hadn’t been prepared for. It wasn’t comfort she felt when she looked at you. It wasn’t nostalgia.
It was the terrifying realization that she had spent years misunderstanding her own heart.
Nancy shifts slightly beside you, the movement causing your knee to bump hers under the blanket. She stills instantly, breath catching, waiting to see if you’ll move away.
You don’t.
She swallows, staring straight ahead.
“You ever notice,” she whispers quietly, her voice barely threading through the noise around you, “how they always pretend the characters don’t realize what’s right in front of them?”
It sounds casual. Thoughtless.
But her fingers grip the blanket tighter as she speaks.
Nancy risks glancing at you, her gaze flickering across your face before quickly dropping again, like she’s afraid of being caught looking too long. Your shoulder is pressed against hers, steady and warm and grounding in a way she both craves and fears.
She shifts, deliberately pulling the blanket higher around both of you. Her hand pauses near yours — close enough that she can feel the heat from your skin without touching it. The almost-contact makes her chest tighten.
“I thought leaving Hawkins would make things easier,” she admits softly, words slipping out before she can stop them. “I thought if I changed enough… figured out who I was supposed to be… everything would make sense.”
She lets out a small, humorless breath.
“It didn’t.”
Behind you, Steve and Jonathan are now arguing loudly about character motivation, completely oblivious. The basement feels smaller somehow, like the world has narrowed to the quiet space you and Nancy share beneath the blanket.
Nancy finally turns toward you fully, and the movement brings her closer than she means to be. Her voice lowers even more, fragile in a way she rarely allows anyone to hear.
“Some things just got harder to ignore.”
The confession hangs there, fragile, and dangerously honest. Nancy’s eyes search yours for half a second before she looks away again, panic flickering beneath her carefully controlled expression.
Nancy says nothing else after that.
She just sits there beside you, silent, conflicted, and aching with words she isn’t brave enough to say — hoping you can’t hear how fast her heart is beating, and hoping even more that you never ask her why.