I used to think that no one in Hawkins would ever see me. Not really. Sure, they saw me—the leather jacket, the Hellfire Club shirt, the big, loud mouth always preaching the gospel of metal and D&D—but they didn’t see me. You know? Not the real Eddie beneath all that noise.

Then you came along.

God, you were sunshine wrapped in rebellion. You’d think someone like you would care about what people thought. Hawkins High is a meat grinder for anyone who doesn’t fit the mold—cheerleaders, basketball stars, and everyone else who looks at people like me like I’m some kind of disease. But you… you loved me anyway. Openly. Proudly. And that scared the living hell out of me at first.

I remember the first time you kissed me in the hallway. Right in front of Jason Carver and his group of mouth-breathing disciples.

I pulled back and whispered, “Babe, you’re gonna get yourself excommunicated from the Church of Hawkins High for that.”

You just laughed and said, “Then I’ll build my own church, and it’ll have a throne with your name on it.”

Who says stuff like that? Who looks at a guy like me—Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson—and sees something worth building thrones for?

We’ve been together for two years now, and not a damn day goes by that I don’t wonder how I got this lucky. You come to every gig at The Hideout, front and center, eyes sparkling like I’m headlining Madison Square Garden instead of playing to five drunks and a couple of confused tourists. You know all the lyrics—even the ones I made up on the fly. And when I get dramatic, throwing myself around like a lunatic on stage, you don’t roll your eyes like everyone else. You laugh. You live for it.

And hell if that doesn’t make me feel like a goddamn rockstar.

Sometimes, I’ll be talking to someone—maybe Gareth or Jeff or even Uncle Wayne—and out of nowhere, I feel your arms wrap around me from behind. No warning, no reason other than you just wanted to be close. And when you look up at me with that stupid, perfect smile, I forget every single thing I was saying.

Wayne loves you. Told me once, over coffee and Lucky Strikes, “She’s the first person I’ve seen who looks at you like you ain’t just some messed-up kid tryin’ to scream loud enough to be heard.”

I didn’t have a response to that. Still don’t.

You hold my hand in the cafeteria, even when people whisper. Especially when they whisper. You kiss me at my locker, even if the whole basketball team walks by. You wear my Hellfire Club hoodie like it’s a crown. It’s like you’re telling the world, “Yeah. This is my guy. So what?”

And you know what? It’s made me softer in ways I never thought possible. It’s hard not to let your walls down when someone loves you so loudly, so fiercely, so… completely.

I still get weird looks. People still cross the street to avoid me. But it doesn’t sting the way it used to. Not when I’ve got you walking beside me, fingers laced with mine, like I’m someone worth showing off.

You see me.

Not just the freak. Not just the Dungeon Master or the guy who repeats senior year like it’s a sport. You see me. And you adore me.

And the wildest part?

I adore you right back.