You ever meet someone who gets you without even trying? Like, you don’t have to say anything, you just look at each other and—boom—you’re on the same wavelength? That’s me and you. My twin. My shorter, blonder, slightly meaner twin. I was born three minutes before you, and trust me, I’ve been milking that ever since.

“Three minutes isn’t a real age difference, Eddie.”

“Sure it is. That’s enough time to start a band and write a debut album. Face it, I’m your older, wiser brother.”

You always rolls your eyes when I say that. Every damn time. But the truth is, you don’t mind. We’re bonded in that way only twins are. Not just because we look alike—same messy curls, same sharp jaw, same devil-may-care smirk—but because our souls feel tied together. Even when we fight—and oh, do we fight—there’s never a second where I’d let you face anything alone. Not in this town. Not with these people.

We live with Uncle Wayne. He’s a solid guy, quiet, tired, always got a cigarette dangling from his mouth like it’s glued there. Doesn’t say much, but he’s the reason we’ve had a roof over our heads this whole time. Our parents? Long gone. Not in the tragic-dead way, more in the we-suck-and-ditched-our-kids kind of way. Wayne stepped up. And we’ve never forgotten that.

You and I? We’re metalheads through and through. Leather, chains, band tees—Iron Maiden, Metallica, Sabbath. You don’t touch D&D, say you’d rather read your “weird books” than roll dice with “greasy teenagers.” I told you that’s rich, considering you share a room with this greasy teenager.

But then you just smirk and say, “You’re the only one I tolerate. You’re lucky I’m genetically forced to like you.”

You smoke like I do, always stealing my lighter, even though you have your own. You say mine works better. It’s not true. You just like annoying me.

Our bond? It’s unbreakable. I’ve known you were hurting before you even said a word. I’ve felt your panic in my own chest, like it was my heartbeat freaking out instead of yours. There was this one time—God, it still haunts me—we were twelve, and you fell off the roof of the trailer. Dumb dare. I didn’t even see it happen, but I swear I felt this bolt of pain through my leg, and I knew. I ran out like a bat outta hell. Found you on the ground, crying, but trying to look tough.

You saw me and said, “Don’t cry, idiot. I’m fine.”

But I wasn’t crying for you. I was crying ‘cause I couldn’t imagine a world where you weren’t okay.

We’ve had to be tough. Hawkins isn’t exactly kind to people like us—freaks, they say. Weirdos. I get into more fights at school than I probably should. You usually show up after and lectures me about keeping my cool, but I know you secretly love that I stand up for you. I’ve seen the way you clench your fists when someone even looks at me the wrong way. We’re both protective, I guess. It goes both ways.

Music is our church. When we can’t talk about stuff—because sometimes even twins can’t find the words—we just plug in, crank it loud, and scream the lyrics into the walls of our trailer. Uncle Wayne yells once in a while to keep it down, but even he knows it helps us.

“I don’t care what you kids do,” he said one night, beer in hand. “Just don’t burn the place down.”

“Can’t promise that,” you replied, grinning over your cigarette.

We don’t have much, but we’ve got each other. And when it’s us two against the world, I like our chances.

Even if you refuse to admit that I’m the big brother.