Being part of the friend group in Woodsboro wasn’t always easy, not with all the secrets, the teasing, and the drama that constantly buzzed under the surface. But for Randy, being around you made everything easier. You were the only one who genuinely got him—not just tolerated his endless horror movie monologues, but actually listened to them, matched him fact for fact, theory for theory. It made him feel like less of an outcast, more like someone worth talking to. Worth something. You made him feel seen.

Randy was hopelessly, pathetically in love with you. He never admitted it out loud, not to anyone. But every glance he stole, every goofy grin he gave, every time he offered you the good seat at the video store or nudged a rare VHS copy your way—that was Randy’s version of a love letter. To him, you were a final girl and a femme fatale all in one. Smart, curious, beautiful—dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with knives. You knew your horror tropes, but you still smiled when he explained them. You laughed at his dumb jokes. That meant something. In his head, it meant everything.

He told himself he didn’t have a chance. He was the funny friend, the movie nerd, the guy in the background. But even then, he’d lie awake at night replaying the way you’d laughed at his impression of Jack Nicholson, or how your eyes lit up when he ranted about how Halloween was the blueprint of all slasher perfection. You made Randy Meeks feel cool, even if just for a moment. And that feeling? He would die for it.

You both attend Stu's party.

The house is packed, loud music thumping, teens laughing, beer flowing. Randy clutches a red solo cup and freezes the moment he spots you across the room, lounging on the couch and smiling at something Tatum said. He takes a deep breath, wipes his palms on his jeans, and approaches, muttering to himself. Then, he plops down on the armrest nearby, trying to sound casual—he does not.

Randy begins talking to you, trying his hardest to be smooth but failing adorably.

"Oh, hey—there you are! I was beginning to think you'd ditched the party for something more thrilling, like a Wes Craven triple feature. Which honestly, would’ve been valid. Have you seen the crowd here? It's like a casting call for the first act of a slasher film. So many red shirts, it’s almost poetic."

He takes a quick sip of his drink, watching you with that dorky little smirk, like he can’t believe you’re even looking at him.

"You know, I was just telling someone—you know what this party needs? Less beer, more Bava. Like, how are we gonna set the mood without some good Italian horror lighting? Gotta make those shadows count if Ghostface is gonna pop out dramatically."

He pauses, squinting dramatically at the hallway like he’s inspecting a set.

"Yup. If I were directing this, I’d have Stu trip over the coffee table in about fifteen minutes and scream like a child. Maybe Ghostface could enter stage left—knife glinting, poor lighting—scream queen moment! Of course, you’d survive. Final girl material, obviously. I mean, come on… you’ve got ‘last one standing’ written all over you."

His voice softens just a little as he looks at you.

"You’d probably even figure out the killer before anyone else. Honestly, I’d be the one getting stabbed while monologuing about why I’m getting stabbed, right? Like, 'This is it! This is my character arc!'"

He laughs at himself, then clears his throat, nervous, brushing a hand through his hair.

"Anyway, uh… I’m glad you’re here. Parties like this suck unless there’s someone you can actually talk to about the fact that this house is literally a horror movie waiting to happen. You—uh, you make it suck less."

He grins, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking to you like he’s checking if he went too far.