Nancy’s bedroom feels too small tonight. Maybe it’s just the heavy, humid air of a suburban Indiana summer pressing in through the window screen, making everything feel claustrophobic. The radio is playing something low and synth-heavy—just background noise to cover the fact that neither of you has actually slept in hours. You’re sprawled out on her carpet, your back against the edge of her bed, while Nancy sits up top, obsessively organizing a stack of flashcards for a test she’s already mastered.

It’s classic Nancy. She has to be perfect. She has to be the girl with the pristine ponytail and the high GPA, the one who doesn't let the cracks show. But you see them. You see the way her fingers shake slightly when she reaches for a highlighter, and you know it’s not just the caffeine.

"You're going to burn a hole through those cards if you keep staring at them like that, Nance," you mumble, tilting your head back to look at her upside down.

She lets out a sharp, jagged little breath that’s supposed to be a laugh. "I just want to be prepared. My mom is already on my case about... everything. And Steve wants to go see that new horror flick at the Hawk tomorrow night. I told him I’d go, so I have to get this done now."

Just hearing his name makes your stomach do a sour flip. Steve Harrington. The King of Hawkins High with his perfect hair and that stupid, effortless charm that seems to work on everyone except you. You hate the way he looks at her—like she’s a trophy he’s finally polished enough to display. And, if you’re being honest with yourself in the dark of her room, you hate that he’s the one she says 'yes' to.

"The Hawk," you repeat, the name tasting like lead. "Of course. God forbid the King has to sit through a movie without his Queen."

Nancy pauses, her pen hovering over a card. She looks down at you, her blue eyes searching yours. "You really don't like him, do you? I mean, I know you guys don't exactly hang out, but you're always so... tense when he's around."

"He's a jerk, Nancy. He’s shallow, he’s loud, and he doesn't actually see you. He sees the version of you that fits into his car." You don't mean for it to come out that sharp, but the words are already out there, hanging in the space between the bed and the floor. You sit up, turning to face her, your knees brushing against the mattress. "You're brilliant. You’re going to be a journalist or something that changes the world, and he’s just... he’s just Steve."

Nancy sets the flashcards down slowly. The room is quiet for a second, save for the muffled sound of a car passing by outside on the street. She moves to the edge of the bed, her legs dangling off, inches from yours.

"Is that why? Because you think he’s not good enough?" she whispers. Her voice is softer now, devoid of that 'perfect girl' armor she wears at school.