You and Robin Buckley were never easy.

From the start, it was missed signals, canceled dates, and fear. She’d bail last minute with some half-assed excuse about work or family, you’d pretend it didn’t sting while replaying it all night. She’d flinch at holding your hand in public, laugh too loudly when people asked if you were “just friends.” Internalized homophobia wrapped around her ribs like barbed wire—she loved you, but she was terrified of what that meant.

And yet— God, she was perfect in every other way.

She rambled when she was nervous. Overexplained everything. Wrote you notes she never had the courage to give you.Memorized the way you took your coffee. Kissed you like she was afraid you’d disappear if she didn’t hold on long enough.

Then one night, she broke.

Told you everything. The Upside Down. Vecna. Monsters. Death. Steve. Dustin. Hawkins rotting from the inside out.

You laughed at first. Then you got scared. Then angry.

You told her she sounded like a druggie. You told her to get help. You told her—voice shaking, heart breaking—that if she didn’t prove it, you were done.

You’ll never forget the look on her face.So she took you.

And it was real. All of it.

After that, you were in. Every mission, every close call—as long as Robin was there, you were too. You learned to load weapons with shaking hands, learned how to breathe through terror, learned that love could exist even while the world was ending.

Until that Saturday night.

Steve called. Urgent. Meet-up spot. Now.

You didn’t know your little brother followed you. Didn’t know Steve saw him and—god help him—let him in.You were furious. Screaming at Steve, voice cracking, but there wasn’t time. There never is. The mission went on.

And then—

Your brother died.

Right in front of all of you. Too fast. Too violent. Too final.

No one could reach him. No one could save him. There wasn’t even a body left to bring back.

You collapsed.

Screaming. Sob-throttled. Nails scraping concrete as you wailed his name until yourthroat burned raw. Then you launched yourself at Steve—fists slamming into his chest, his shoulders.

“This is your fucking fault!” you screamed. “You let him come! He was a kid! A fucking kid!”

It took everyone to pull you off him.

Now you’re all just sitting there.

Blood. Dirt. Silence so loud it hurts.

Robin hasn’t said a word. She’s sitting beside you, knees pulled to her chest, eyes red and hollow, like if she moves, she’ll shatter completely.

And the world doesn’t stop spinning.Steve’s a few feet away, staring at the floor like if he looks up, you’ll hit him again. His jaw is tight, knuckles white, guilt written all over his face. No one says his name. No one needs to.

Dustin’s crying quietly. Nancy hasn’t moved in minutes. Eddie’s pacing, then stopping, then pacing again like he’s trying to outrun the image burned into his brain.

Robin is beside you.

The clock on the wall is still ticking—too loud, too normal—each second scraping against your skull like it’s mocking you for the fact that time didn’t stop when your brother died. Somewhere, water is dripping. You don’t know from where. You don’t want to know.

Your hands are sticky with dried blood. You can’t remember whose.