"I have to go,too," I spoke up, my voice barely above a whisper. "My mom's waiting for me." It was only half the truth.
I went around the circle, giving each of my friends a tight hug, saving Ben for last. I tried desperately to keep the tears from...
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•°Corinne's POV°•
Peace is a quiet thing.
I learned that in the weeks after Derry. It isn’t a shout of victory; it’s the silent, steady rhythm of a new heart beating in your chest. For me, it was the gentle rocking of Ben’s houseboat, a lullaby I was still learning. Waking up was no longer a jarring return to a blaring alarm or the oppressive silence of my old apartment. It was a slow, gentle ascent into consciousness, accompanied by the soft lap of water against the hull and the smell of fresh coffee.
And Ben.
I rolled over to find his side of the bed empty, but still warm. A smile touched my lips before I even opened my eyes. This was our life now. Unplanned, uncharted, and utterly perfect.
I found him in the galley kitchen, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. He was shirtless, a pair of low-slung sweatpants hanging from his hips, and the morning sun streaming through the porthole turned the silver in his hair to platinum. My architect, my historian, my savior. Now, my chef.
“I was going to bring you breakfast in bed,” he said without turning around, as if his very soul was now tuned to my frequency.
“You’re ruining the surprise,” I teased, padding across the cool wooden floor to wrap my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against the warm, solid plane of his back.
He chuckled, the sound a pleasant rumble against my skin. “The smell of burning pancakes would have ruined it faster. I’m a little rusty.”
I peeked around him. “They look perfect to me.”
We ate on the deck, our knees touching, watching the world wake up. The simple act of sharing a meal felt monumental, a quiet celebration of the fact that we were here, together, and free.
“What should we do today?” Ben asked, lacing his fingers through mine. The question was a gift. For so long, my days had been dictated by routine and fear. Now, every day was a blank page.
“Anything,” I said, meaning it. “Everything. As long as it’s with you.”
His smile was brighter than the morning sun. “I have an idea.”
An hour later, we were walking hand-in-hand through the Portland Museum of Art. He didn’t just show me paintings; he told me the stories behind them—the architects who designed the buildings they were painted in, the history of the pigments, the revolutions that inspired the artists. He saw the world in layers of structure and story, and watching his mind work was its own form of art.
I pulled him toward a small, lesser-known Impressionist piece, a blur of fiery autumn leaves against a stark, gray wall. “January embers,” I whispered.
He squeezed my hand, his voice soft and sure. “My heart burns there, too.”
The afternoon melted away in a bubble of laughter. We found a dusty old record store and spent an hour flipping through vinyl, arguing playfully over the merits of The Beatles versus The Rolling Stones. He bought me a scratched-up copy of an album I’d loved as a teenager, and the gesture felt more romantic than a dozen roses. It was a piece of my past, offered back to me by the man who was my future.
As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink, Ben led me to the Western Promenade. We found our bench, the one with the view we’d shared as kids, but seen through entirely new eyes.
The silence between us was comfortable, filled with the weight of everything we’d survived and the breathtaking lightness of our new beginning.
“I never stopped,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky met the sea. “Carrying you with me. Even when I didn’t remember your name, my heart did. It always felt like I was building around a hollow space. I designed all those libraries, those banks… I think I was just trying to create a world solid enough to hold the shape of someone I’d forgotten.”
Tears pricked my eyes, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming rightness of it all. “I forgot. I forgot everything. But my heart… it must have remembered you. Because nothing ever felt like a homecoming until now. Until you.”
He turned to me then, his eyes reflecting the dying fire of the sky. He cupped my face in his hands, his touch a vow. “I love you, Corinne. I have since I was a boy who found his courage by kissing a girl in a tunnel.”
“I love you, Ben Hanscom,” I breathed, the words finally finding their true home. “I’m not letting go again. Ever.”
He kissed me, and it was nothing like the frantic, life-saving kiss in the sewers. This was slow, and sweet, and full of promise. It tasted of the present and the future, of coffee and hope and a love that had literally defied a monster.
Later, on the deck of the boat, I watched the sun set again. Its reflection danced on the water, a path of liquid gold leading right to me. It was truly calming. In my hands was Stanley’s letter, the paper worn soft from reading. I’d opened it again this morning, needing his quiet, logical voice.
Dear Losers,
I know what this must seem like, but this isn't a suicide note. You're probably wondering why I did what I did. It's because I knew I was too scared to go back, and if we weren't together, if all of us alive weren't united, I knew we'd all die. So, I made the only logical move. I took myself off the board. Did it work? Well, if you're reading this, you know the answer. I lived my whole life afraid. Afraid of what would come next. Afraid of what I might leave behind. Don't. Be who you want to be. Be proud, and if you find someone worth holding on to, never ever let them go. Follow your own path. Wherever that takes you, think of this letter as a promise. A promise I'm asking you to make. To me. To each other. An oath. See the thing about being a loser is you don't have anything to lose.
So... Be true. Be brave. Stand. Believe. And don't ever forget... We're losers and we always will be.
Stan’s words weren’t a sad echo from the past anymore; they were a blueprint for my future. He had given us the permission we didn't know we needed. So I had quit my job. I had chosen my path. It wasn't a grand career; it was a grand love. It was breakfast on a deck and walks through museums and the profound peace of a hand to hold in the quiet moments.
Ben appeared, his footsteps soft on the deck. He didn’t speak. He simply bent down and pressed a kiss to my temple, a silent "good morning" that spoke volumes. He sat beside me, his warmth a familiar comfort against the cool morning air.
"You sleep okay?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"For the first time in twenty-seven years," I said, leaning into him, "I didn't dream of tunnels or clowns. I just dreamed of this. Of you."
I felt his smile against my hair. We sat in silence then, watching the golden path on the water widen as the sun climbed higher. Every minute with him was pure bliss, a conscious choice to embrace the happiness we had fought so hard to earn.
The scars on our hands were gone. The ones on our hearts were fading, soothed by the gentle, constant rhythm of this new, ordinary, extraordinary love. The past was finally, truly, behind us.
Ahead of us was nothing but time, and I intended to cherish every single second of it.
