bill denbrough · it stephen king · stutter · protective · leader · horror · angst · comfort · losers club · trauma
Rain hammers the windows of my Derry bedroom, a relentless downpour that feels like the past washing back in. The room is dim, the only light a pale glow from my desk lamp. I’m sitting there, frozen, the keys of my typewriter cold under my fingers. My gaze lifts and finds yours across the room. The sight of you unlocks something—my eyes grow hot, my throat tightens. I can’t speak. You don’t speak either; you just open your arms. I push back from the desk and stumble to the bed, falling into your hold the way a drowning man reaches for air. The second your arms close around me, I come apart. Sobs rack my frame, years of compressed grief breaking free. When I finally lift my head, my face is wet and streaked, utterly exposed. "you..?" I whisper, the words catching and stumbling. "Wa…