Smalltown girl — Lesbyler Fanfic

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔,

Willow Byers, Vancouver, BC

Low takes a slow drag from her cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the frosty air. She watches, slightly mesmerized, as the smoke curls from her lips, twisting and dissipating into the cold.

Beside her, Silas leans back against the portable, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his unzipped jacket, his breath visible in the chill.

“So, uh... sorry. About what I said,” Silas mutters, his voice low and hesitant.

“Don’t be,” Low replies dismissively, her tone casual but firm. “You just... struck a nerve, that’s all.”

“Shouldn’t I be sorry for that?” Silas asks, raising a brow as he glances at her.

“Not if you didn’t know,” Low counters, her gaze fixed on the cigarette as she takes another hit, letting the smoke fill her lungs before exhaling slowly.

“So, uh... this Michelle girl... you think she’s gonna write back?” Silas ventures, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Of course not,” Low says flatly, her tone carrying the weight of certainty.

“Why not?” Silas presses.

“She’s a hot woman, Silas,” Low replies, flicking ash from the cigarette. “Hotter than Phoebe Cates. I think she has a boyfriend by now.”

“Well, I dunno about that,” Silas says, his skepticism evident. “About her being hotter than Phoebe Cates.”

“Hm. You’d take that back if you saw her,” Low says, her lips curving into a faint smirk.

“Well... describe her, then. I’ll be the judge of that,” Silas challenges, leaning forward slightly.

Low pauses, her mind drifting to Michelle’s image. “Well... she’s got nice curls when her mom doesn’t straighten them for her. She’s curvy, I’ll bet you...”

“Not as curvy as Phoebe Cates,” Silas cuts in, his grin widening.

“Well... nobody is,” Low admits, clearing her throat. “She has a birthmark on her cheek... s’all red and stuff. Like Jupiter’s Eye.”

“Doesn’t she sound smoking,” Silas says sarcastically, his tone dripping with mockery. “You had me at the birthmark. Birthmarks are gross, man... they bulge and they swell and shit.”

“Nope,” Low shakes her head, her expression unwavering. “Hers is flat. But bulging ones are hot, too. Have you seen Marilyn Monroe’s mole?” Low asks, her tone pointed, as if daring Silas to disagree.

“Yeah?” Silas replies, shaking his head slightly. “But she’s not my type.”

“Okay. Whatever. That’s not the point,” Low says, waving a hand dismissively. “My point is, Shelley is a beautiful person and I’m just—” She pauses, pursing her lips as she points to her own face. “Y’know.”

“You’re not ugly, if that’s what you’re trying to say,” Silas says, his voice steady. “A pissed-off lesbian? Yes. But not ugly.”

“To boys, I’m ugly,” Low counters, her tone flat, almost resigned.

“I’m a boy, and I don’t think you’re ugly,” Silas says, his brow furrowing slightly.

“You’re saying that to be nice,” Low replies, her voice carrying a quiet certainty, as if she’s already dismissed his words.

“No. Not really,” Silas says with a shrug. “Men just don’t have good taste—most of them, at least. Even I can admit that. Like, I wish I could stop loving Phoebe Cates. But my brain doesn’t let me.”

“Your point?” Low prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“My point is, you’re not ugly. You’re a beautiful woman,” Silas says, his voice softening. “I like your hair, your paint-streaked hands. I like how you’re taller than me, even if I complain about it half the time.”

Low feels a small smile tug at the corners of her lips.

Silas has always been understanding, always sweet in his own awkward way. But sometimes his nerdiness clouds the moment, like now, when he matter-of-factly pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, completely unaware of the warmth he’s just left behind.

“Why do you care? About what boys think of you?” Silas asks, his tone straightforward, but his gaze curious as he watches her.

Low exhales a puff of smoke, her eyes trailing after the wispy curls as they rise and dissolve into the cold air. “Well,” she begins, her voice softening slightly, “Diane and Lucy always used to ask questions like that. To me. I guess.”

“And that brings you back?” Silas prompts, his head tilting just enough to signal genuine interest.

“Yeah,” Low admits after a beat, the memory surfacing in fragments. “They used to ask stuff like, ‘does this make me look fat?’” Her voice dips into a quiet imitation of their tones, equal parts teasing and self-conscious.

The echo of those moments feels distant now, but it clings in unexpected ways—little reminders of a time when she wasn’t quite as aware of the walls between herself and others. 

“Does this make me look fat?” Diane asked, her voice tinged with a mix of self-consciousness and casual inquiry, as she smoothed the skirt she was wearing.

Willow’s gaze flicked toward Diane, but her attention didn’t linger.

It drifted, as it often did, to Shelley.

Shelley sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly with an effortless poise that made Willow’s heart stutter.

Even in moments like these—ordinary, mundane moments—Shelley had a way of commanding attention without trying.

“No...” Willow drawled, her tone barely invested as she gave Diane’s outfit a passing glance.

“And you’re being honest?” Diane pressed, her brow furrowed in mock suspicion.

“Course I am,” Low replied with a shrug, though her focus had already shifted back to Shelley.

The curve of her jaw, the way her hair caught the light—it was ridiculous how captivating Shelley could be, even in the most trivial of situations. “When have I ever lied?”

“A lot, actually,” Diane corrected, snapping Willow’s attention back momentarily.

Shelley rolled her eyes, the motion as fluid and dismissive as ever.

“Why do you care so much? We’re going to the arcade,” she said, her voice laced with mild irritation. But to Low, even that sounded endearing—a little spark of fire that reminded her why Shelley stood out so much.

“Well, Quincy Boyd’s there,” Lucy piped up, tugging on her shoes with practiced ease.

“Seriously? Quincy Boyd?” Shelley scoffed, her exasperation palpable as she crossed her arms.

“What?” Diane asked, furrowing her brow.

“He looks like a hobo,” Low added quickly, her tone sharp, though her eyes flicked toward Shelley again.

The way Shelley’s irritation played out across her face, the subtle smirk that tugged at the corner of her lips—it was magnetic, and Low couldn’t help but let herself linger in the moment, basking in her quiet admiration.

“I don’t think you get it, Shelley,” Diane admitted, plopping down beside her on the bed.

Shelley had flopped back dramatically, her arms sprawled out like she was auditioning for the role of Most Over It Teenager. “I think Quincy’s the one,” Diane continued, her fingers tapping absently at Shelley’s sternum.

Shelley swiped Diane’s hand away with a sharp motion, her nose scrunching in irritation.

Low, watching from her spot on the floor, almost expected Shelley to start hissing like a cat.

The thought made her lips twitch into a faint, amused smile.

Even when Shelley was annoyed, she was good-looking—her every movement sharp, deliberate, and somehow captivating.

“Stoltz looks better,” Lucy chimed in from across the room, her tone casual as she tugged at the lacesof her sneakers.

“Shut up, Lucy,” Diane snapped briskly, her focus still on Shelley.

But Low’s attention was elsewhere.

She couldn’t help but notice the way Shelley’s hair fanned out against the bedspread, the way her eyes rolled with such effortless disdain. It was ridiculous, really, how someone could make even irritation look graceful.

Low shifted her gaze quickly, hoping no one noticed the way her cheeks warmed. She busied herself with picking at a loose thread on her jeans, but her mind stayed stubbornly fixed on Shelley, as it always seemed to.

“We really doing this?” Silas mutters, his tone light but carrying a tinge of guilt, as if daring the universe to notice their absence from school.

Low exhales slowly, the smoke unfurling like a ribbon. “Why not?” she says, her voice nonchalant. The sting of the cold air mixes with the burn in her lungs, and she finds herself strangely comforted by the contrast.

They eventually make their way to the arcade, their footsteps crunching against the frozen ground.

But neither of them steps inside.

Instead, they find a worn bench near the planter outside, the metal icy beneath them. They sit in companionable silence, each lighting up another cigarette.

Low takes another drag, the second cigarette already nearing its end.

She stubs the butt against the bench’s armrest with practiced ease before tossing it into the cigarette receptacle.

The brief relief of clean air feels strange but welcome as she leans back and stretches her legs out in front of her.

Silas follows her lead, stubbing out his cigarette and flicking it away.

He exhales the last bit of smoke and leans back, his breath misting faintly in the cold air.

For a moment, they sit quietly, watching the faint gray clouds drift above them, the hum of the arcade and distant traffic creating a backdrop that feels oddly peaceful.

But whatever calm little world Low and Silas have carved out for themselves shatters like a prized snow globe, glittering shards of peace dripping away like syrup from jagged glass edges. The air feels colder, sharper, as the words slice through it:

“Fucking dyke!”

Low’s head snaps up, her heart lurching as her eyes dart around in a brief, frantic search for the source.

It doesn’t take long to spot them—two guys strolling down the opposite side of the parking lot, their movements casual but their eyes pin-point and predatory.

They nudge each other, laughing in that inside-joke way that feels anything but harmless.

Low’s chest tightens, a mix of anger and fear bubbling up inside her. Her fingers twitch, the ghost of her cigarette still lingering on her skin. She doesn’t hesitate. She’s quick to pipe up, her voice steady but sharp, cutting through the frosty air like a blade.

“What’d you say!?” Low shouts, her voice cutting through the parking lot like a blade, thin and colder than the wintry breeze swirling around them.

The words hang in the air for a moment, sharp and daring, but the boys merely snicker in reply, their laughter low and mocking.

Low’s eyes narrow as she takes them in.

Their garb is almost laughable—tight, tucked-in shirts paired with loose, flowy pants and sandals.

They look more like stoner caricatures than the stereotypical homophobic small-town teenage boys she’s used to.

But their intentions are the same, their cruelty just as pointed, even if the city’s diversity has given them a different veneer.

Her chest tightens, anger bubbling just beneath the surface. She doesn’t care what they look like. Their words sting all the same, and she’s not about to let them go unanswered.

Before Low can fully comprehend what she’s doing, she’s already yelling, her voice sharp and cutting through the cold air.

The movement is instinctive, almost primal, as she scrambles onto the edge of the planter with an alarming quickness, her stance aggressive and unyielding.

“What, you want a piece?” she hollers, her voice echoing across the parking lot.

From this angle, she probably looks tiny to the two assholes strolling in the opposite direction, but Low doesn’t care. Her words are a challenge, daring them to turn back.

Twisting slightly away from Silas, she doesn’t catch the flash of surprise that washes over his face, his wide eyes betraying his shock. Low slaps the thigh of her jeans with a loud, deliberate motion, her hand flying up in a sharp gesture of defiance.

“Come get some then! Go on! Come and tell that to my face!” she shouts, her voice rising with each word, fueled by a mix of anger and adrenaline.

Low feels a sharp tug at the hem of her jeans. “Cut it out, Low!” Silas whispers sharply, his voice urgent and low, but she barely hears him.

Across the parking lot, the two boys are laughing, their voices loud and uneven, like they’re high on something stronger than life itself.

The darker-haired one nudges his friend in the ribs, his movements exaggerated and loose. “Eh, man, you think she can tell us how to find a good pussy?” he slurs, his words dripping with mockery. Their laughter erupts again, sharp and wheezy, like hyenas circling prey.

Low doesn’t get it at first. She doesn’t want to get it. But then, as if they’ve plucked the thought straight from her mind, the lighter-haired boy croaks out through his laughter, “Immediately!”

“Y’think she likes pink or red ones? She’s seen all, that dyke-whore!” the darker-haired one snips in reply, his grin wide and cruel. “A whyke!”

Their laughter rises again, wheezing and relentless, their grinning faces burning into Low’s vision like staring into the sun for too long—searing, painful, impossible to unsee.

Her stomach twists violently, a sickening churn that makes her feel like she might empty the nothingness inside her right onto the pavement. The anger bubbling in her chest is hot and immediate, but it’s tangled with something colder, sharper—fear.

It coils around her ribs, tightening with every mocking word that reaches her ears.

Low’s fingers twitch at her sides, her breath hitching as the adrenaline surges.

She feels small, exposed, like the world has tilted against her. But the anger pushes back, drowning out the fear just enough to keep her standing tall. She doesn’t know what she’ll do next, but she knows she won’t let them win. Not like this.

“Come the fuck down here then!” Low shouts, her voice slicing through the parking lot, twisted with something she can only recognize as hatred. “I’ll make your nuts explode in red! How bout that?!” The words tumble out, sharp and raw, her voice cracking somewhere between the first statement and the last.

She doesn’t notice it—she’s too consumed, too preoccupied with the fire burning in her chest.

Silas tugs gently at the hem of her jeans again, his touch grounding but hesitant. “Willow,” he warns softly, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

Low’s shoulders relax slightly at the sound of her name, but her eyes remain locked on the boys, wide and narrowed like a hawk’s.

She watches them until they drift off toward a sector of the parking lot she can’t see, their mocking laughter fading into the distance.

Only then does she let herself fully relax, the adrenaline draining from her limbs like water from a cracked glass.

She lowers her head, pulling back from the planter’s edge and dropping down onto the bench beside Silas. She doesn’t bother shaking him off, doesn’t even try to mask the weight pressing down on her chest.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible, hardly registering as a whisper. The word hangs in the air, fragile and uncertain, as she stares down at her hands, the anger and fear still simmering beneath the surface.

Her eyes fix on the pavement, unfocused, as her fingers idly trace the edge of her jeans. The distant hum of the arcade feels intrusive now, a bittersweet reminder of what the place once meant to her—a haven of neon lights and endless distractions.

But that sweetness has soured. The arcade is no longer just a place of laughter and bad pizza and endless quarters lost to stubborn machines.

It’s stained now, marked by that laughter—the mocking, cruel laughter from the boys. Every memory she’s ever had here feels tainted, like a once-perfect picture defaced with careless strokes of red ink.

Her breath shudders as the realization hits her fully, and tears well up in her eyes.

She hadn’t wanted to cry.

Not here, not in front of Silas.

But it creeps up on her, slow and relentless, until a single tear slips down her cheek. She wipes it away quickly, pretending it’s just the cold air stinging her face.

“Low,” Silas says softly beside her, his voice so careful it only makes her chest ache more. She doesn’t look at him. She can’t.

“I don’t get it,” she whispers, her voice trembling. She hates how small it sounds, how broken. “I didn’t ask for any of it. I was just... sitting here.”

Silas shifts uncomfortably, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Some people are just...” He falters, searching for words, but they feel hollow before they even leave his lips. He knows there’s nothing he can say to make it better.

Low finally looks up, her gaze sweeping across the parking lot.

The spot where the boys had stood feels burned into her memory, as if it will always be there, no matter how much she tries to forget.

Her fists clench, then loosen, as the anger bubbles up again—hot and raw—but it doesn’t last long. It fades into sadness, a deep, aching sadness she doesn’t know how to untangle.

“I used to love arcades,” she murmurs, her voice cracking. Another tear slips free, and this time she doesn’t bother wiping it away. “I used to feel... safe there.”

Silas doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he shifts closer, trying to be comforting, even if he doesn’t know how to fix this.

Low’s shoulders slump as she leans forward, her hands clasped tightly together. The arcade’s glowing lights flicker faintly in her peripheral vision, but they feel miles away now, unreachable.

The realization feels like a stone sinking in her chest.

The arcade isn’t just a place anymore—it’s a scar, a reminder of how quickly something she loved could be taken from her.

She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to walk through its doors again without hearing their laughter, without feeling that knot of fear and anger in her stomach.

For the first time, she doesn’t want to go back.

“To slay the dragon, use the magic sword,” Princess Daphne’s flirtatious voice had droned from the arcade screen, syrupy and theatrical.

“Oh, Jesus!” Diane had exclaimed, her voice a mix of excitement and mild panic. “I’m in uncharted territory here, guys.”

Her fingers had flown across the buttons, movements frantic as she finally managed to wield the magic sword. The dragon loomed on the screen, fiery breath curling ominously. “Down! Down! Down!” Lucy had yelled from over Diane’s shoulder, her voice sharp and urgent.

“I’m going! I’m going!” Diane had snapped back, her focus unwavering as she pressed the buttons like her life depended on it. “Okay. Okay...” Lucy had tried to explain something, but Diane had cut her off with a quick, “Shuttup, Shuttup!”

Despite her efforts, the dragon’s final blow had landed, and Diane’s character had crumbled into a skeleton. The screen had flashed GAME OVER in bold, mocking letters. Low had suppressed a laugh as Lucy patted Diane’s back in mock comfort.

“NO! I hate this overpriced BULLSHIT!” Diane had yelled, her frustration boiling over as she kicked the machine with the force of a boot squashing a bug. “Son of a BITCH! Piece-a shit!”

“You’re not nimble enough,” Lucy had clicked her tongue, still patting Diane’s back. “But you’ll get there one day.”

“Whatever. I’m still tops on Centipede and Dig Dug,” Diane had muttered, her pride flickering through the frustration.

Low had watched the scene unfold, her laughter fading as a strange sensation had washed over her.

She’d felt off-kilter all day, but this had been different—an unsettling warmth had flooded her lower abdomen, followed by a sharp, insistent pain.

It had sprung up suddenly, demanding her attention.

“Not for long, Henderson,” Lucy had teased, her tone light and playful.

“I’ve still got Quincy’s number,” Diane had fired back, her voice tinged with defiance.

“Sadie told me that he told her that I gave him butterflies one time,” Lucy had countered smugly.

From beside Shelley, who had been silently observing the chaos with a small smirk, Low had clutched her stomach, her face twisting in discomfort.

The pain had intensified, and her breath had hitched. “I... uh... I think I gotta use the restroom,” she had mumbled, her voice strained as she had shuffled toward the restroom door, her steps hurried and uneven.

“Low?” Shelley’s voice called after her, soft but tinged with concern.

Low barely registered it as she pushed against the girls’ bathroom door, her movements hurried and deliberate. She knew it would be empty—girls didn’t usually hang out at the arcade, and right now, that emptiness felt like a blessing.

She walked gingerly to the toilet, her steps uneven, and pulled down the seat.

Sitting there, she tried to quell the ache twisting in her stomach. It wasn’t the tacos from yesterday—she was sure of that. This wasn’t the kind of stomachache she’d felt before. It was unfamiliar, sharp, and unsettling.

A sudden knock at the door pierced through her thoughts, making her jump. Her heart raced as she heard Shelley’s voice again, softer this time. “Low, you in there?”

Low didn’t answer right away. Slowly, she lifted herself off the seat, her movements hesitant. Her gaze dropped downward, and that’s when she saw it—a dark red spot.

Blood.

Her breath hitched, panic rising in her chest.

Oh shit.

The realization hit her like a freight train.

The puberty talk had only happened a year ago, when her mom and older sister had pulled her aside for the standard lecture:

“You’ll experience a large growth spurt, with periods.” Her mom had said she got hers at fourteen, and Johanna had said fifteen. It had seemed safe to assume Low would follow suit—fourteen or fifteen, just like them.

But no. Eleven. She was eleven.

Her hands trembled as she stared at the spot, the ache in her stomach now overshadowed by the weight of what this meant.

She felt small, unprepared, and overwhelmed, the bathroom suddenly feeling too quiet, too empty. Shelley’s voice came again, muffled through the door, but Low couldn’t bring herself to respond. She wasn’t ready to face this—not yet.

Low felt the ache in her stomach twist into something deeper, something heavier.

Her chest tightened as the realization settled in—she was alone in this.

Her, Shelley, Diane, and Lucy were supposed to become women together, to share these milestones, to laugh about them and complain about them in equal measure.

They were supposed to face everything together.

But now, Low was here, facing this moment by herself. Why was she born this way? Why did it have to happen now?

Her hands trembled as she nestled her face into them, trying to block out the overwhelming flood of emotions. She wanted to be alone, to sit in the quiet and let herself process.

But she couldn’t bring herself to ask Shelley to leave. She was too nice for that, too polite even in her distress.

“You can come in,” she mumbled, her voice muffled and shaky.

The door creaked softly as Shelley opened it, sliding through the small crack she formed. Her thin figure moved easily through the narrow space, her steps careful and deliberate.

She didn’t say anything as she came forward, her gaze steady but gentle. Shelley lowered herself to the bathroom floor, sitting in front of Low’s hunched form.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, but it wasn’t harsh. Low’s shoulders slumped further, her face still buried in her hands, but the knot in her chest loosened just slightly.

“What’s up?” Shelley asked, her voice calm and gentle—a stark contrast to the usually loud, dramatic tone Low was used to hearing from her. It was disarming, in a way.

Low slowly lifted her face from her palms, her gaze meeting Shelley’s.

Shelley sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, waiting patiently, her curls falling just right, shadowing her forehead and catching the faint light in her black-brown eyes. She looked effortlessly kind, so genuinely concerned, that Low felt her chest tighten.

She realized then that she could never lie to Shelley—not when she was sitting there like this, looking so sweet, so sincere.

“Uhm… Aunt Flo visited,” Low mumbled, her words stumbling out awkwardly.

Shelley raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“Uhm… my shark week came,” Low tried again, her voice tinged with quiet desperation.

Shelley glanced down at her feet uncertainly, her confusion clear. “I don’t follow.”

Low’s frustration flared, sharp and sudden, fueled by the swirling emotions she didn’t know how to process. “For Christ’s sake! I got my period!” she snapped, her voice louder than she intended, the irritation spilling out before she could stop it.

The second the words left her mouth, regret washed over her like a cold wave.

Her shoulders slumped, and she looked away, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her jeans. “Sorry,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible. The heat in her cheeks burned brighter, mixing with the ache in her stomach as the weight of the moment pressed down on her.

“I’m being stupid,” Low muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.

“You’re never stupid,” Shelley replied, her tone steady and confident, not an ounce of doubt in her voice. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze soft but unwavering. “Are you okay?”

“I—I—yeah?” Low stammered, her voice wobbling as she tried to find the right words. “No? I don’t... I don’t—” She groaned, pressing her thumbs into her eyes, as if the pressure might somehow push the swirling emotions back down.

“Hormones,” she muttered, the word heavy and bitter on her tongue.

“It’ll get better,” Shelley hummed, her voice gentle but uncertain. “I... I think.”

Low let out a shaky breath, her chest tightening as she tried to speak again. “I just can’t—I feel—” she paused, her frustration bubbling over. “I can’t words,” she breathed, her voice cracking slightly.

“I understand,” Shelley assured her, her voice steady and warm as she reached out to take Low’s hand. Her grip was firm, grounding, the warmth of her palm sending Low into a fit of contradictory chills—comforting yet overwhelming.

“You’re mad at me,” Low gulped, her voice trembling as she rolled her wrist nervously. “I’m a terrible friend.”

“What, for getting your first period?” Shelley asked, her tone tinged with humor but never unkind.

Low’s gaze dropped to their joined hands. “I thought you’d be pissed,” she admitted quietly. “I thought you’d think I tried to grow up before you.”

“Well, I am pissed,” Shelley said, her words hanging in the air for a moment.

Low sniffled, her chest tightening. “I knew it,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“No, no... not like that,” Shelley quickly corrected, her grip on Low’s hand tightening slightly. “I’m pissed at your uterus,” she said, her tone light but sincere. “For hurting you.”

Low blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Shelley squeezed her hand again, her gaze steady and unwavering. “I don’t think I could ever be mad at you, Low,” she admitted softly, her words carrying a quiet certainty that made Low’s chest ache in a different way—less painful, more tender.

Low felt another gentle squeeze of pain, her hand instinctively moving to rub the area. She winced as she felt the unmistakable flood of blood, her stomach twisting with discomfort and embarrassment.

“This place doesn’t have any tampons... or pads,” she muttered, her eyes darting around the bathroom as if a solution might magically appear. “What are we gonna do?”

“Uh... there’s a pharmacy across the street,” Shelley suggested, her voice calm but uncertain.

Low shook her head, her cheeks burning. “I don’t think I wanna get up,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think it stained my pants.”

Shelley paused for a moment, her brow furrowing in thought. “Well... you can borrow mine,” she offered, her tone casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Low blinked, her embarrassment momentarily replaced by confusion. “What’re you gonna wear?” she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

“I’ll wear yours,” Shelley said with a small shrug. “We can act like I got mine.”

Low stared at her, too embarrassed to fully process Shelley’s own potential discomfort. After a moment, she nodded hesitantly, her voice barely audible. “Okay.”

Shelley gave her a reassuring smile, her calm demeanor steadying Low’s nerves just enough to keep her from spiraling further.

They exchanged pants in the quiet of the bathroom, the air heavy with unspoken emotions.

Shelley’s jeans fit Low perfectly, the fabric snug but comfortable, while Shelley’s new attire was tighter around her waist. The red spot, like Jupiter’s Eye, stood out starkly against the middle area, a glaring reminder of the situation.

“Are you sure, Shelley?” Low asked, her voice hesitant, her gaze flickering between Shelley’s face and the stained jeans.

“Positive,” Shelley replied without hesitation, her tone steady and reassuring. She tugged softly at the waistband, adjusting the fit with practiced ease. “Let’s go.”

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔,

Michelle Wheeler, Hawkins, Indiana

It’s late—far too late for Shelley to be awake. One a.m. The grisly green digits on her alarm clock glare at her like tiny, disapproving ghosts. But there’s no way Shelley can sleep tonight, not when she has this. A golden ticket. A letter from Willow Byers.

Willow Byers. She hasn’t seen her in three years. Three entire, endless years.

Shelley waits all day for this moment, her excitement bubbling just under the surface.

She waits for Nana to leave—though she loves her dearly, Nana has a way of hovering.

She wolfs down her dinner faster than she should, speeds upstairs, scrawls nonsense on her homework just to get it over with, and now—finally—she has all the time to herself.

She’s ready.

Lying on her stomach on her bed, Shelley kicks her slender legs above her as she pulls the envelope from her pocket.

The paper still bears faint yellow splotches from scrambled eggs, evidence of a rushed breakfast, but it doesn’t matter.

To her, it’s perfect.

Snow-white and beautiful, it probably touched Low’s hand once or twice, and the thought makes her fingers tremble slightly as she holds it.

She handles it with the utmost care, not wanting to damage a single corner of the precious exterior.

Slowly, she lifts the paper triangle, her movements deliberate, savoring the moment.

Inside, nestled like a treasure, is the folded lined paper. Her heart flutters as she gently pulls it out, unfolding it like it holds every answer she’s been seeking.

The handwriting—scrawled in bold pigment liner—is unmistakably Low’s. Shelley inhales sharply, holding her breath as she begins to read.

“Dear Shelley,

today is day 1095, at least, it will be in a few days. Feels more like ten years, honestly. Time is funny like that. Emotions can make it speed up or slow down. It’s not really as cool as Back to the Future, though. Because this week is going by fast. Probably because I’ve been so busy. I got my first job. Well, I guess it’s just a summer job. Does that really count? Doesn’t matter. You won’t read this anyway. 

I’ll be serving elderly folks food at the retirement home. Across the street from school. Before you judge me, because I know you would, Darlene practically got me off my lazy ass to work. She says, “if I’m gonna live here as her deadbeat queer niece, I’m gonna have to work for it,”.

But anyways, I probably shouldn’t be joking about that. I’ve literally had to move to a bigger city so it can fit someone like me. But I just thought, making me work for something I’m not in control of? Come on, Darlene.

I mean, she’s well off, you know? She’s got a telemarketer job, so I get to deal with her screaming at people over the phone. I always leave the room, but Darlene tells me I’ve gotta see how to talk to people. She tells me I’m “too shy for my own good” which is like, okay, Darlene, I’d like to see you survive a day in high school as a pissed off lesbian. It’s better not to talk than say anything at all.

Anyways, my little sister, well … cousin, I guess, but she feels more like a sister, Jane. She’s been playing Nintendo, a lot. I mean, a lot. She used to roll around in mud puddles, and I used to take her to the nurse’s office because she’d get lice. She’s sort of like you. I think you and her would get along.

Anyways. My uncle, Jim Hopper’s, been staying with Darlene, she’s been pretty sick. Literally, you can hear her hacking from a mile away. It’s really annoying sometimes. Jim is actually so strict, it’s not even funny.

Like, he almost feels like a dad now. But no, I’ve stayed with Darlene for three years and she doesn’t feel like a mom. Not even close.

He's also a police chief, mind you. So if I get caught smoking a cigarette with my buddy, Silas, I think I’m done for. 

Gosh, it is not my fucking day today, is it? And I’m not even allowed to smoke. But I think I can deal with it, just a bit.

Deal with it as in, adapt. Remember when we were taught that in biology? Natural selection, adaptation? Following right after sex ed. Of course, you remember. Unless you got some sorta head injury while I’ve been gone. It doesn’t really matter, though, again, you won’t read it. As in, I’m never sending this in.

Hops just came in, telling me to get ready for school … so I guess I’ll leave it at this. Your dear long lost friend,

Low.”

Below it, a few small hearts adorn the bottom of the letter, and Shelley’s own address sits beneath them, written in Low’s unmistakable scrawl.

Shelley’s face feels like it might actually combust, a sudden rush of red flooding her cheeks.

For a moment, her head spins, the dizziness making the room sway, until she steadies herself, her breath quick and shallow.

It’s like a flock of metaphorical sparrows has taken off inside her stomach, their fluttering chaos impossible to ignore.

Carefully, Shelley sets the letter on her other side, her fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary, as though releasing it might let the spell break.

She turns over the envelope, her hands trembling slightly, and there it is—Low’s address.

Vancouver, BC.

Her chest tightens, and a spark ignites in her mind, wild and unstoppable. I have to follow her. The thought comes unbidden, unrelenting. I gotta go to Vancouver.

The weight of the revelation settles over her, blending excitement with nervous determination.

The green numbers on the alarm clock glare at her, but Shelley doesn’t care.

There’s no sleeping tonight—not when her world feels like it’s tipping forward, pulling her toward something she doesn’t fully understand yet, but knows she can’t ignore.