The Indiana afternoon was gray and heavy, the sky the color of a fresh bruise. The parking lot asphalt was still damp from a morning rain.

And there they were. Clustered around Steve Harrington’s BMW, about fifty yards away. Steve, Dustin, Lucas, Mike. A snapshot of a life she’d amputated. They were laughing about something, Dustin gesturing wildly. Steve’s smile was easy, familiar. It felt like a physical blow.

Y/n’s hand, holding her car keys, began to shake. She hadn’t seen them, not like this, in months. Not since the last time she’d screamed at Steve to get the hell out of her apartment and never come back.

She ducked her head, the greasy strands of her unwashed hair falling like a curtain. Her boots, scuffed and muddy, scuffed against the pavement as she broke into a clumsy, hurried walk toward her own beat-up sedan.

The engine coughed to life. She turned the dial on the radio with a violent twist. WSQK blared static, then resolved into The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go.” The irony was so thick she could taste it, metallic and sour at the back of her throat.

She put the car in reverse. In the rearview mirror, she saw Lucas Sinclair turn his head. His eyes widened. He nudged Mike, pointing.

Y/n slammed her foot on the gas. The tires squealed against the wet asphalt as she pulled out of the space and aimed for the exit, leaving the stunned, silent cluster of her past life shrinking in the mirror.