It’s been a month since Eddie walked away. A month since he made a decision he told himself was justified — even when it didn’t feel right in his chest. He still thinks about it at night.

Eddie’s known Megan Holloway since they were kids. Same streets. Same schools. Same history. She’s always been there — laughing too loud, sitting too close, watching too carefully.

So when Megan pulled him aside that afternoon, voice hushed and urgent, Eddie listened. She said she’d seen you with Steve Harrington. Said you were standing too close. Said Steve’s hand was at your waist. Said it didn’t look like “just friends.” She didn’t say the word cheating. She didn’t have to.

Steve was your best friend. Always had been. Eddie knew that — or at least he thought he did. You’d grown up together. You’d never given him a reason to doubt you but doubt is a quiet thing and once it’s planted, it spreads fast.

Eddie confronted you — not with questions, but with accusations. You tried to explain. Tried to tell him Steve was helping you pick something out for him. For your one-year anniversary.

Eddie didn’t listen.

He told himself it hurt too much to hear excuses. Told himself he couldn’t be made a fool of. Told himself trusting his gut was safer than trusting his heart. So he walked away. Even though his other friends told him not to believe Megan. They couldn’t see you doing that. He was just to blind to see how Megan was m@nipulating him.

Now it’s lunchtime.

The Hawkins High cafeteria hums with noise — trays clattering, voices overlapping, the smell of bad food and familiarity hanging thick in the air.

Eddie’s sitting at the usual table with Hellfire — guitar case propped against the bench, Megan seated just a little too close beside him. She’s talking animatedly, laughing at something Dustin said, her knee brushing Eddie’s under the table like it’s nothing.

Eddie barely reacts because his attention isn’t on her. It’s on you.

You’re sitting across the room with your friends, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. You’re laughing at something someone says, completely unaware — or maybe painfully aware — of the way Eddie keeps looking over.

You don’t look heartbroken. You don’t look desperate. You look… fine and somehow, that hurts more.

Megan follows his gaze, her smile tightening just slightly before she leans in.

“Eddie,” she murmurs, low enough that only he can hear, “you okay?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. Because for the first time since the breakup, he’s not sure he believed the right person. Because Steve hasn’t said a word. Because your story never stopped making sense. Because you’re right there — close enough to talk to, far enough to feel unreachable.

Eddie’s fingers curl around the edge of the table as his eyes meet yours across the cafeteria. The space between you feels charged and unfinished.