CHAPTER ZERO: bad idea!

         𝓛ike every other day at Lenora Hills, California, it started out blindingly brilliant, with the kind of brightness that burns through your eyelids and makes everything appear more beautiful than it actually is. The palm trees waved idly, and the air shimmered with heat. The entire town sparkled with that fake, golden perfection that only California could achieve.

Nothing ever changed here. Nothing ever happened.

And that was the problem.

California wasn't bad — just exhausting.

She was familiar with every street that smelled like cheap perfume and cherry cola, as well as every sunset that made a huge effort to be beautiful. It was the kind of place that taught you how to stay perfectly put together while in the face of chaos and how to grin despite the heat cracking everything around you.

Rosalie had always said she'd leave someday. Like a promise she never completely believed, she had said it a hundred times. But for some reason, she was still here, surrounded by palm trees, fake smiles, and seemingly repeated talks. Everyone seemed fine with it. Perfectly content to pretend this was enough.

She occasionally wondered whether she was the problem, whether her desire for something new drove her insane.

The world around her was too polished, too sunny. She was sick of the perfect skin, the perfect weather, the perfect lies. Tired of the way people mistook survival for happiness. Even if she closed her eyes and drove down Mulholland, she would still find herself stranded in a city where rain seemed unreal.

I keep sayin' that I'm leavin', but it doesn't work that way.

California had a death of its own, one that was serene, sun-kissed, and surprisingly golden. A place where youth was money and burning out was just another way to live forever, where people smiled for cameras and called it a sense of fulfillment. She could almost picture it — front row at her own funeral, everyone clapping for the version of her they'd made up.

She had no desire for perfection or fame. She craved life — raw, messy, unavoidable. The kind that wouldn't wait for her to be gone before existing.

Rosalie Bradbury wasn't ungrateful — she was aware of how lucky she was to live in a place that smelt like sunscreen and saltwater, where the ocean was just a short drive away and the nights were filled with neon. The sound of the sea when she left her window open, her mother humming Fleetwood Mac while preparing dinner, and late-night rides down deserted streets were all things she loved. Even the Byers family, messy and half-lost, felt like a second family to her. There were still pieces of California that always felt like home.

And yet, it all felt... tiring.

There was nothing new.

It was always the same. The same streets and sunsets she had already memorized, the same old stories, and the same routine. California was too easy, too calm, and too small. There was nothing for her to chase after, nothing to ignite the kind of fire that gave her a sense of aliveness.

The boys at school were all the same —  loud, obnoxious, and allergic to anything resembling sincerity. They acted as if sarcasm were foreplay and flirting were a personality trait. Compliments? Easy. Paying attention? Having a shred of respect?  Not so much — that was practically a foreign language. They believed confidence equaled connection, and if you let them run their mouths for more than thirty seconds, they'd prove exactly how wrong they were.

Rosalie couldn't stand them. The fake confidence, the way they ogled girls like humans were collectible trophies, the endless bragging about accomplishments no one asked about — exhausting. All she saw were immature man-children who stumbled over their own egos and claimed to have charisma while in reality, the majority of them wore their varsity jackets like armor, still trying to figure out how to grow up without losing their hair gel.

Some even smirked at her, like her irritation was an invitation.

It wasn't.

Her refusal to play along earned her a reputation — cold, snobby, heinous bitch, hates fun. The girls weren't any better. Murmuring in the hallways as if Rosalie were a science experiment in "How Not to Behave." She'd heard it all. Although she didn't care, Rosalie would rather be misunderstood than be another girl nodding along to the boy's foolishness. Someone had to be the voice of reason around here, the one who called things what they were instead of what people wanted them to be.

She wasn't resentful — just unwilling to settle for mediocrity.  She liked calling things as she saw them, calling others out when they deserved it—asking questions that made the room go quiet. Voicing opinions that others were too afraid or too polite to express, and seeing others squirm when they realized she wasn't bluffing. And yet, somehow, that all made her...complicated. Too much for some. Too honest for most.

Still, despite everything, she couldn't quite hate this place

In the cluttered, painful way that only home can be, it was home.

No matter how tired she was of California.

The air was filled with the same pointless chatter as usual as she walked through the hallways of Lenora Hills High School: weekend plans, TV shows, someone's new car, someone else's breakup. All of it was background noise, the kind that fills a room without making a sound. The flats of her shoes clicked in time with the hum of fluorescent lights overhead as she kept walking while adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

Her expression was unreadable as she pushed open the door of her journalism class and sank into her regular seat in the back. Old newspaper clippings, such as "Student Council Wins Debate" and "Lenora High Football Takes Regionals," adorned the walls. These stories, which once seemed significant, now merely resembled dust-covered awards of teenage aspirations.

A little later, Mr. Andrews, always frowning, stepped in. "All right, class, let's begin.  I'd like to hear some opinions about the book we recently finished before we start today's lesson. Who would like to share—"

Before he could finish with his question, Amanda Prescott, a girl in the front row who was typically enthusiastic and calm, raised her hand. She twirled her hair and remarked, "I thought that was very romantic. The way the main character just wouldn't give up on her, even when she pushed him away. He was so passionate." She said in awe.

Rosalie rolled her eyes without even trying to hide it. "Romantic?" she repeated, tilting her head. "He had little regard for women and was an abusive alcoholic. As well as manipulative, possessive, emotionally stunted — that's not passion, that's pathology." She elaborated sharply.

A few students turned in their seats, half-shocked, half-amused.

Mr. Andrews sighed, already regretting his life choices. "Rosalie, not everything has to turn into a debate."

"Well," she said, resting her chin on her hand, "maybe if we stopped romanticizing toxicity as true love, there wouldn't be so much to debate. The book is an oppressive patriarchal value that dictates our education." Her tone was calm, but her words struck a chord. "It's the same old story — a woman suffers, a man 'learns,' and somehow that's supposed to be beautiful. Groundbreaking."

Luke Damon, who functioned on a single brain cell, and one of the guys who always seemed to have something obnoxious to say, was seated across the room. He wore his basketball variety jacket like a king's robe, with a smug expression on his lips. "Maybe he wouldn't have been such an ass if she wasn't playing hard to get," he chimed in. "Chicks like that ask for it."

Rosalie's smile was quick and lethal. Wow, that's a fascinating perspective, Damon. Do you often share that kind of wisdom, or do you save it for when you're trying to impress your reflection?" she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The class snickered.

Luke's grin widened, clearly unbothered. "I'm just saying—"

"Yeah," she cut in. "You're just saying. And yet, somehow, saying nothing at all."

Before Luke could fire back, Mr. Andrews raised a hand. "That's enough. Both of you." His patience was hanging by a thread. "Can we please get through one class without turning it into a courtroom?" His voice was clearly wearing thin.

Rosalie leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her expression cool and unbothered. She could feel the stares, the whispers — there she goes again — but she didn't care. Let them think what they wanted. She wasn't about to sit back and let that kind of garbage slide, even if it meant getting on her teacher's bad side — again. Someone had to say the things no one else would.

Mr. Andrews, eager to move past the confrontation, cleared his throat and picked up a stack of papers from his desk. "Now, as I was saying before we were interrupted, spring break is approaching, and I have a research assignment for all of you—"

The class groaned. Rosalie's interest perked up.

"—Settle down, I'm not finished," Mr. Andrews continued. "Each of you will receive a topic to investigate, something with a bit of mystery to it. I want you to thoroughly research and write your own version of the story."

Rosalie raised her hand.

Mr. Andrews groaned. "Yes, Miss, I Have an Opinion About Everything?"

She smiled sweetly. "Just clarifying — do you want it as a full research essay or MLA format?" she asked sincerely.

He blinked. "You're... not going to argue about this?"

Rosalie shook her head. "No, I think it's a really good assignment."

He laughed sarcastically. "You're just messing with me, aren't you?"

Rosalie frowned slightly, unsure whether to be offended or amused. "No, I'm actually looking forward to writing it," she said, confused by his reaction but still managing a small, polite smile as he stood there, seemingly losing his composure.

For a second, he almost smiled back — then caught himself and rifled through his stack of papers. "Fine. Here. Since you're so eager." He practically dropped one on her desk. "Figure it out with this topic."

Rosalie sighed and picked up her assignment, glancing at it as Mr. Andrews continued down the rows, handing out the rest. Her eyes scanned the page — and then stopped. The bold heading made her pause.

INDIANA, HAWKINS —Cursed or not?

...

STRANGER OCCURS:

• Missing Kids: Barbara Holland. . .
• "Boy Who Came Back to Life" (Local Press: "Zombie Boy")..
• Sudden Mall Fire: THIRTY DEAD, Hero Chief dies in fire.
...

TOWN FOLKS SAY THE DEVIL LIVES IN HAWKINS.

Rosalie frowned as she used her thumb to trace the words. Hawkins, Indiana. The name seemed weighty, as if she ought to be aware of it. She couldn't get rid of the idea that this project was more than just writing a research report. "Cursed or not?" lingered in her mind like an itch she couldn't scratch. Missing kids, a boy coming back from the dead, a mysterious mall fire — none of it sounded real. Ghosts, curses, and devils haunting a small town? It was absurd. And yet, the words weighed heavily on her chest, sparking a feeling that went beyond simple curiosity.

Rosalie pushed those thoughts away. Maybe it was just another assignment. Or maybe, for the first time in a long time, Hawkins truly had something strange in store for her that California couldn't offer her. Something real. Something new. A part of her wanted to be the one to find it, regardless of the little voice that was shouting that it was a bad idea.

                𝓡osalie pushed open the cafeteria doors, the familiar mix of pizza and sanitizer hitting her instantly. She weaved through the crowded tables, dodging half-hearted jokes, the smell of mystery meat, and the occasional flying tray, until she spotted Argyle and Jonathan Byers sitting at their usual spot outside, away from the chaos. The sun hit the concrete just right, and Rosalie liked this little patch of quiet — a place where the world moved a fraction slower, just enough for her to catch her breath.

Argyle lounged back, looking like he'd just invented a new conspiracy theory. Jonathan sat upright, hands wrapped around his half-eaten sandwich, ever careful and quiet. Since moving to California, he'd become like an older brother to her — the one who kept her in check, rolled his eyes at her sarcasm, and occasionally gave the best advice without really trying. Lately, though, something was off. He seemed distant.

"Hey, Byers," Rosalie said, dropping her bag onto the bench across him before sliding in like she owned the place. Without missing a beat, she leaned over and grabbed a fry from his plate. "I need to pick your brain about something."

Jonathan looked up, his tired eyes meeting hers. "What is it?"

She ignored him and grabbed another fry.

He frowned. "Okay, seriously? Those are my fries."

Rosalie shrugged, popping it in her mouth. "Yeah, well, I'm emotionally exhausted, and you're my designated Byers for emotional support. Consider it community service."

He shot her a look that was midway between irritation and amusement. "You're impossible."

She leaned back and took another fry to further demonstrate her point, saying, "And yet you still hang out with me."

Jonathan let out a sigh and decided not to fight it. "I suppose you're simply using me to get free food at this point."

Rosalie grinned. "And therapy. Don't forget therapy."

He gave her the slightest smile, which she mentally noted as a success. She occasionally forgot they weren't blood-related. However, in between those study sessions, the awful drive-in movies where the audio never worked, the greasy diners with flickering neon signs, and all those long drives down the California coast with the windows rolled down and the radio too loud, Jonathan Byers had subtly changed from being the shy boy her mother worried about to the brother she never wanted for but ended up with nevertheless.

Jonathan picked up his sandwich again. "What do you need me for, Rose?"

"I got this assignment for journalism," she explained, sliding the paper across the table. "It's about Hawkins being... cursed. Ever heard anything about it?" She smirked, trying to mask the worry she felt creeping in.

Jonathan's eyes flickered with recognition, and he immediately looked uncomfortable. He pushed the paper back toward her without even reading it. "I'm not gonna talk about Hawkins right now."

Rosalie practically let out a gasp; "Oh come on!" She cried. "What's bothering you? Are you high?" She asked.

"I'm not high!"

Rosalie's mouth shot wide to prepare for an argument, but Argyle calmly interrupted, his gaze still fixed on his burrito. "He's moping about his girlfriend ditching him," he said, as if it were breaking news.

Jonathan's head snapped toward him, glaring. "Dude."

Rosalie blinked, and a slow smile appeared on her face. "Ah," she said, leaning back. "The famous Nancy Wheeler."

Jonathan groaned. "She's not—"

Rosalie interrupted, chuckling to herself, "Oh, please. You speak of her as if she were the cure for every depressing song ever written."

He gave her a cold stare, but she saw the softening of his jaw and the slight pain in his eyes that he no longer bothered to cover up.

Rosalie smirked faintly, leaning forward. "You really love her, huh?"

Jonathan simply tore off another piece of his sandwich without responding. But he didn't have to — Rosalie already knew.

She had enough late-night conversations with him, talking about her — about them — for Rosalie to get it. There was more to his description of Nancy than just nostalgia; it was a deeper feeling that lingered even across time zones and states. Even if things were difficult in their relationship right now, but Rosalie could tell one thing for sure: nothing about it was over.

"I'm not mopping about Nancy!" He fumed, "There's not much to say about Hawkins, really. Just your typical small town." He murmured, obviously unenthusiastic about the subject.

Rosalie, however, did not believe it. She knew Jonathan well enough to recognize when he was hiding something. "Come on, Jon. I'm gonna have to write about all the strange things that have occurred there. Missing children, the mall fire that claimed thirty lives, including a hero police officer? I know you know more than you're letting on."

Jonathan let out a tight sigh. "It's a bad idea, Rose."

"You grew up there," she pressed, eyebrow raised. "You have to know something. What about that story..." Her eyes scanned the report paper quickly as she settled on a topic, "Zombie boy? The boy who came back? Sounds like straight-up horror movie material."

Jonathan's knuckles turned white as he held onto his sandwich. He gazed at it like it owed him answers. "I don't know anything about that stuff," he muttered. "You're wasting your time."

"I just need a lead, Jon," she said softly, shoving his shoulder playfully. "You know... like where all the ghosts, zombies, and cults hang out. I won't tell anyone... except Argyle here."

Argyle snorted, chewing. "Sounds like Hawkins is one gnarly place."

Jonathan's eyes flicked up to meet Rosalie's. "You really wanna know what happened in Hawkins?" he said, his voice low and strained. "You think it's just some fun mystery to solve? Well, it's not. It's real. All of it. The monsters, the... the other world."

Rosalie blinked, taken aback by the intensity in his voice. She opened her mouth to respond, but Jonathan wasn't done yet.

"There's this creature—things that no one should ever have to see. It's not a ghost or a zombie. It's from somewhere else, somewhere dark. And it's taken people, hurt them..." His voice broke, and he looked away, swallowing hard. "So, yeah. Have fun with your assignment, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Rosalie stared at him, her skepticism warring with the unease his words had stirred. A creature from another dimension? It was too far-fetched, too absurd to be true. And yet, Jonathan's haunted expression told a different story.

"You're high."

"I'm not high."

Rosalie rolled her eyes, "Alright, big bro, noted. However, I'm still going to play around. Someone's gotta figure out what's going on — even if you're too scared to."

With a moan, Jonathan hid his face in his hands. "I'm not scared!"

"You totally are," she teased. "You just don't want to admit it."

"I'm not!" he shouted, voice cracking with frustration. "Rose, you could die."

After a little pause, Rosalie shrugged, seeming unbothered, or at least acting that way. "Well then," she said, her tone light but her eyes unreadable, "love me dead."

Jonathan rubbed his face and moaned. He had heard her say, "Love me dead," a hundred times. She used it as a means of suppressing her anxiety and acting as though nothing could affect her.

Rosalie, however, saw it as more.

Jonathan didn't know why those words came so naturally to her, and she wasn't prepared to share them.

Love me dead wasn't just a phrase she threw around for the sake of mystery; it was armor. A silent promise she had made long ago that she would never speak of again. She never asked for this prophecy, but it found her anyway, the kind that keeps you alive and destroys you at the same time.

It wasn't about carelessness. It was about surrender. Acceptance.

Because she had always understood in her heart that love had an expiration date. People left. Her father did. Her faith did. And maybe at some point, she came to the conclusion that it was simpler to live as if she had already been somewhat forgotten.

Yet she was aware that she didn't want people to forget her or move on as if she had never existed, even if life chose to take her to a dangerous or dark place. She wanted to be remembered for all of her imperfections, flaws, and all — loud, stubborn, full of questions, always chasing something that was just out of reach.

Still, she yearned for that kind of love that saw her. Not the defenses, not the sharp tongue, nor the girl who rolled her eyes at everything sincere. Just her. The girl who desired to be remembered.

Love me dead meant:

When I'm gone, don't stop loving me. Don't let me fade as if I never existed. Keep me alive in your memories, even if it hurts.

Because if the afterlife was anything like what she saw when she closed her eyes — all dark and echoing, just her and her thoughts — then maybe being remembered was the closest thing to heaven she would ever experience.

Jonathan sighed, finally setting his sandwich down. "You always say that like it's a joke."

Rosalie leaned back with a slight grin. "Maybe that's the only way to say it without hurting."

Argyle looked between them as if he had stumbled into a soap opera. "Chill, chill... you two are exhausting."

Rosalie grinned wider, giving Jonathan a pointed look. "You're welcome."

Jonathan didn't respond, but for a brief moment, the tension eased. The push and pull, the taunting, the frustration, and the concern beneath it all gave Rosalie the tiniest glimpse of their sibling bond. Hawkins may not have been ready to share its secrets, but at least she had a small area of normalcy in California and an older brother who, despite his best efforts, was unable to keep his worries from her.

                 𝓡osalie was determined to learn more about Hawkins, so she went straight to the library after school. The smell of dust and old paper filled the air, and the sound of pages moving could be heard faintly across the large room. She spent hours searching through brittle, forgotten books and skimming through countless, frequently sensationalized stories on the internet, but all she found were hazy references and tales that she could only vaguely recall. The deeper she dug, the more frustrated she became. With a slight, grudging sense of defeat, she finally leaned back in her chair, sighed deeply, and packed her belongings.

Her mother, Leslie, was humming softly as she stirred the contents of a simmering pot in the cozy warmth of the kitchen when she arrived home. In contrast to the supernatural stories Rosalie had been pursuing, the routine rhythm of home felt almost reassuring. With a mixture of fatigue and annoyance, she collapsed into a chair at the table and described every detail of her assignment.

"I've been digging through everything I can find about Hawkins," she said. "But all I've come up with are dead ends."

With a hint of hesitancy in her countenance, her mother hesitated and looked over her shoulder. "Well, you know, I did hear some stories from... y'know who," she remarked, her voice becoming a little quieter as though she was afraid to bring it up. Rosalie's estranged father, who lived in Hawkins, had a knack for talking about things that made her uneasy. "He mentioned... some strange things happening there."

Already losing patience, Rosalie rolled her eyes. She had no desire to hear about her father, either now or in the future. Without saying anything more, she withdrew to her room and shut the door against the noise from her mother's kitchen.

In an attempt to drown out the never-ending curiosity that lingered at the edges of her thoughts, she turned on the radio to fill the sudden silence. The crackle shifted into a familiar, uneasy voice:

"Breaking news from Hawkins: A student from Hawkins High has been found dead at Forest Hills Trailer Park. Authorities are baffled by her sudden and unexplained death. Some speculate it may be another case of mysterious deaths or. . .the work of Saint? Everyone wants to know the same thing: how can so many tragedies befall a once peaceful town?"

Rosalie's ears pricked up. "Saint?" she murmured, automatically bending forward. A spark of curiosity that had almost died amid hours of dead ends was rekindled by the mention of a high school student's death and a hazy hint of something dark and evil. This was the story she needed, and her skepticism melted into a newfound purpose.

She reached for the corded phone at her bedside, her fingers shivering a little, and called the Byers' number, hoping Jonathan would pick up. Her heart raced as she thought of the answers that awaited her at the other end, even though she had no idea how much danger or mystery she was about to welcome into her life.

"Hello? Byers' residence," a voice answered.

"Hey... is that you, Jon? It's me, Rose," she said, a little hopeful.

"Hi! Rose! Sorry, it's... It's Will!" She instinctively smiled at the enthusiasm in his voice. Even over the line, it had that same nervous, young energy that made him so warm and inviting. "Are you coming to watch over us again?"

Rosalie chuckled softly, sitting on the edge of her bed. Watching over them was putting it lightly. Jane and Will had essentially grown into her younger siblings. She'd spent countless evenings wrangling them through homework, bad movies, and late-night snack raids, and somehow, she loved every chaotic second of it. She never minded "babysitting" them — in fact, she enjoyed it. Laughter and crumbs scattered all over the couch made those evenings seem like doorways into the kind of family she had always dreamed of. Everything seemed simple here, whereas her actual one was filled with silence and unspoken guilt. When she had the time, babysitting them or any of the neighbor's children, it allowed her to escape that shattered reality and imagine, even for a short period, that life could be like this.

"You mean babysit your tornadoes?" she teased. "I think I'm legally contracted for chaos control, not just supervision."

Will laughed, a sound that carried warmth even through the phone. "Exactly! Oh! I... I made you a mixtape!"

Rosalie's chest warmed at the gesture. "A mixtape? You did? Will... that's... really thoughtful," she said softly, holding the phone a little closer. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

Before she could even apologize for not being there in person, a tiny, high-pitched voice called from somewhere in the house.

"Rose! Are you gonna bake cinnamon rolls again?"

Jane. Rosalie felt something soften when she heard her voice over the phone. It was wary, unsteady, and full of faith, but it had a warm quality. Rosalie always felt the familiar, deliberate rhythm of her speech pull at her chest, giving her a sudden, quiet peace that made her feel like she belonged.

It brought back memories of what it felt like to be an older sister....again — protective, patient, and quietly proud.

In the background, Will exclaimed, obviously thrilled by Jane's joy. "We want them, Rose! You have to bake them again!"

Rosalie's fingers tightened slightly on the phone, but she still chuckled and shook her head affectionately. "I'm... not there to babysit today, and I haven't baked anything. Sorry, Jane."

"Aw, okay," Jane said, a small pout curling her voice. "Maybe next time?"

"Yeah... next time," Rosalie said softly, a small, warm smile tugging at her lips. She hesitated for a beat, then asked, "Where's Jonathan?"

"He's in his room," Will said, and before Rosalie could respond, there was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled shout. "Jonathan! Rose is on the phone! Come here!"

"Okay, okay, I'm coming!" Jonathan's voice called back, closer now, and then a door creaked open

Rosalie let out a small, fond laugh, shaking her head at the controlled chaos. Even over the phone, these two could pull her in with their energy, their insistence that she mattered. Messy, loud, persistent, and full of love — exactly the kind of connection she'd come to rely on when life felt too still, too empty.

Jonathan came on the line, his voice steady and lower now, with the quiet assurance she had grown familiar with. "Hey."

"Hey," Her brows were slightly furrowed as she responded, getting right to the point. "So... how much of a bad idea is it for me to go to Hawkins over spring break?"

Another pause. "A ten, Rose. A solid ten."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Rosalie's mouth as she raised one eyebrow. Her hands held the phone loosely as she reclined back, her head resting on her soft pillows. "It can't be that bad, come on. I am capable of handling myself. I have a notebook, a pen, and an excellent sense of self-preservation."

"Yeah... sure," Jonathan muttered, a sigh threading through the line. "Let's just say it's not a vacation spot. It's strange, dangerous, and—honestly—it's... well, it's Hawkins. Things happen there. Things you really don't want to run into. And things you shouldn't be poking around looking for them."

With a mischievous rebellion in her voice, Rosalie cocked her head and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Which is exactly why I have to go. My assignment—my journalism credit—it's practically begging me to find the truth."

Jonathan groaned audibly. "Rose... you don't get it. You really shouldn't be going alone. That town... it has its history. You could get hurt."

"Well, I do need to pass this assignment somehow."

"Better failing than dying."

As he said that, Rosalina rolled her eyes. "Or... you could come with me," she suggested lightly. Her pulse fluttered at the thought. "You grew up there. You know it better than I ever will. Plus, you could see Nancy again. Therapy for you, honestly."

There was a long exhale on the other end. "I am not going back there. It's not a suggestion, Rose. Dangerous things, horrible people... It's not a playground."

Rosalie's lips quirked into a half-smile, half-smirk, eyes narrowing as she leaned closer to the phone. "So you're saying... you're afraid? Little Byers scared of the big, bad Hawkins? That's not what I remember from the that's not what I remember from the roller rink."

For a little period, she allowed her thoughts to wander, recalling the slick floors, the neon lights bouncing off her roller skates, and Jonathan waiting patiently as she tried a challenging turn, never once fearing that she would trip or act carelessly. It had seemed easy, cozy, and entirely theirs that afternoon.

"Roller rink days were different," he muttered, a small sigh threading through his voice, softening the edge. "And I wasn't worried about you then. I am now."

"Jonathan," her voice softened as well, a thread of tenderness passing through his guarded concern. "I can't find any information on this town anywhere. It's like it doesn't exist outside of your—" she hesitated, then pressed on — "...your weird little life there. I need something new in life. I have to go for this assignment. I'm doing this."

A long pause. She could hear the quiet hum of a fan, the scrape of chair legs on the floor, and him moving around the living room. He finally let out a sigh that was tinged with worry and resignation. "Fine. But... be careful. Watch your back. Don't trust anyone you don't know. And Rose... don't do anything stupid."

Her pulse quickened a little. Hawkins might be dangerous. Hawkins might be strange. But for now, the Byers kids were a tether to something real, something warm — and she wasn't willing to let go of that.

"Fine," she said, her voice steady, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "I'm going. And I'll be careful."

"God, Rose," Jonathan muttered, tension threading through his words, "I don't even like agreeing to this. But... okay. Just... be safe, alright?"

"I will," she promised, the warmth in her tone belying the flicker of excitement and nerves beneath. Then, after a beat, a playful smirk crept in. "Bad idea or not, Jonathan... love me dead, right?"

Another pause. Then his voice, quieter now, almost a whisper: "Yeah... love you dead, Rose. Just... don't make me regret it."

With a soft, almost whispered goodbye to Jonathan, she gently returned the receiver to its cradle, the click reverberating softly across the room. She sighed thoughtfully and allowed the quiet to settle around her.

Rosalie lay back against her bed once more and briefly closed her eyes, perhaps allowing his words to ground her. Hawkins, a town where danger lurked beneath well-known streets and shadows lurked, may be a catastrophe waiting to happen. But she would go. With her notebook, her curiosity, and the individuals who reminded her of what it meant to belong—messy, chaotic, tenacious, and loved—she would face the unknown.

Face something new.

That was enough to make even a terrible idea seem like the beginning of something chasing.

⋆. Sara Speaks !˚⋆

An angel loses her wings every time a couple dresses up as st*ncy

anyways let's all pray for a jancy endgame in S5 🕯️🕯️

they're so important to me, i fear nobody gets them like i do 😔‼️ Duffer brothers pls don't separate my parents 🙏🏼