“Locker 112” Derry, Maine – Autumn, 1987

The leaves had started to fall in Derry, painting the sidewalks in oranges and browns, crunching under beat-up Converse and muddy boots. The middle school hallways always smelled like pencils and old paper, and for some reason, they felt colder in October—especially when your heart was doing somersaults every time you passed by his locker.

Locker 112. Bill Denbrough’s.

You’d liked him since the start of seventh grade. Something about his quiet kindness, the way he stuttered through presentations but never gave up, the way he always helped others before thinking of himself—it made your chest ache in the most confusing, dizzying way.

So you started writing him notes. Little things. Things you were too scared to say out loud.

The first one said: “Your story in English class was really good. I liked the ending.” You didn’t sign it.

The second: “You looked happy when you laughed with Richie today. I like your laugh.” Still unsigned.

Then came more: “I think you’re brave, even if you don’t think so.” “Do you like fall too? The air smells like apples.” “If I were braver, I’d say this to your face.”

You slipped them into the vents of his locker when no one was watching. Every day. For two weeks.

And every day, you walked home wondering if he read them. Wondering if he guessed they were from you. Wondering if he liked them—or thought they were weird.

⸻

On Friday, it rained. Cold, sideways Derry rain. Your sleeves were soaked, and your backpack strap was digging into your shoulder as you stopped by Bill’s locker, heart hammering.

You reached for the slit—note in hand—when someone cleared their throat behind you.

You jumped.

And turned.

It was him.

Bill Denbrough, standing a little awkwardly, brown hair damp, his books hugged to his chest.

“H-H-Hey,” he said, eyes soft and curious.

You froze, cheeks burning.

“Uh… hi.”

“I-I-I think you f-f-forgot something,” he said, and he held out… a note. Your note. The one you hadn’t even slipped in yet.

You blinked. “Oh. I—yeah. I was just…”

Bill gave a tiny smile, the kind that pulled at just one corner of his mouth.

“It’s y-you, right?” he asked, voice quieter now. “The notes?”

There was no use lying. Not when your heart was threatening to burst out of your ribs.

You nodded, slowly.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t walk away. He just looked at you, like he was thinking hard.

“I l-liked them,” he said. “A lot.”

“You did?”

“Y-Yeah. They m-m-made me smile. Like… really smile.” He looked down, then back up, nervous but earnest. “I w-w-wrote something for you too.”

You blinked. “You did?”

He opened his notebook and pulled out a folded piece of paper—lined and smudged and torn at the edge. He handed it to you with a slight tremble in his fingers.

You unfolded it.

Inside, in messy, slanted handwriting, was one line:

“I think you’re brave too.”

You looked up.

Bill was already blushing, rubbing the back of his neck.

“W-W-Wanna walk home together?” he asked.

The hallway was nearly empty now, echoing with locker doors and shouts from outside. The rain was still coming down.

But next to him—with his soft voice and gentle eyes—it felt warm.

You smiled, and nodded. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

⸻

That day, the rain didn’t feel so cold. And neither did the spaces between you and Bill. Not anymore.