Derry, Maine — Summer, 1989

The argument with the Losers had started as a disagreement about what to do next—how to deal with the strange signs cropping up again in Derry—but it escalated fast. Richie had been loud, Eddie defensive, Mike trying to mediate, but Bill… Bill had just kept pushing until the room felt like it was closing in.

Then he’d walked out without another word.

You didn’t think twice before going after him.

“Bill!” you called, jogging to catch up as he stormed down the cracked sidewalk, shoulders tense, hands jammed into his pockets.

He glanced back at you briefly, then kept walking. “What are you d-doing?” he asked, his tone somewhere between tired and irritated.

“Following you,” you said simply, falling into step beside him.

He stopped suddenly, turning to face you, frustration flickering in his eyes—but underneath it, something heavier. “Why bother?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Aren’t you just gonna l-leave me eventually? Everyone else does.”

The words hit you like a gut punch—not because you believed them, but because you could see he did.

“Bill…” You stepped closer, softening your voice. “I’ve been by your side since the moment we met. And you’ve been by mine. Let’s give each other some credit here.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His gaze dropped to the ground, his breathing uneven, like he was wrestling with something he didn’t want to admit.

Finally, he looked back at you. The stubbornness was still there, but so was the vulnerability, raw and unhidden. “I just… I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured.

“You’re not going to,” you said, your hand brushing his until he let you take it.

And with that, you kept walking—not toward the argument you’d left behind, but toward whatever was waiting ahead, together.