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“Hey, kid. How was Mike’s?” Hopper asked as Will shuffled through the front door, his face tense and eyes red-rimmed.
“It was fine,” Will mumbled, dropping his bag by the stairs.
“You eat dinner there? Or do you want me to heat something up for you?”
Will shook his head. “No, I was gonna eat here, but I’ll do it myself. Thanks, though.”
Hopper didn’t respond right away, just studied him with those sharp, observant eyes. Will hated how easily Hopper could see through him. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Will replied curtly, heading toward the kitchen.
“Then why do you sound like you’ve been crying?”
Will froze mid-step, his shoulders stiffening. He turned to face Hopper, his voice rising. “I said I’m fine, Jim! Jesus! Just leave me alone!”
Hopper blinked, clearly taken aback, but Will didn’t wait for a response. He stormed up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Once inside, he threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. The remorse hit him almost immediately, a dull ache in his chest. He hated snapping at Hopper, and the way the word “Jim” had come out felt like a slap in the face— not just to Hopper, but to himself. He’d worked so hard to build this relationship with Hopper, and moments like this felt like he was tearing it apart, brick by brick. He always tried his best to rise above, but… he was so angry at Mike, and had taken it out on Hop. He didn’t deserve that.
The memory of Mike’s kiss played on repeat in his head, colliding with the image of those letters— so many words Mike had never shared with him. It made his stomach twist.
After a few minutes of stewing in guilt-riddled silence, Will sat up with a groan. He couldn’t just leave things like this. Pulling himself together, he headed back downstairs. The kitchen lights were still on, and Hopper was sitting at the table, a beer in one hand and a Better Homes and Gardens magazine in the other. The scene was so normal, so Hopper. He glanced up as Will walked in but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to speak.
Will shuffled to the fridge, pulling out a container of leftover chicken piccata. He heated it in the microwave and sat down across from Hopper, avoiding eye contact as he fiddled with his fork.
“I’m sorry,” Will said eventually, his voice low. “For, um… everything. You didn’t deserve me snapping at you. And… you’re my dad, so I’m sorry for calling you… you know. Jim.”
Hopper’s face softened, and he set the magazine down. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate that. I know something’s bothering you, though, so I’ll let it slide… this time.”
Will managed a small laugh, his grip on the fork loosening. Hopper leaned forward, resting his arms on the table.
“What happened?” he asked gently.
Will hesitated, the words stuck in his throat. Hopper’s patience was a steady pressure, silently coaxing him to talk. Finally, he sighed and pulled his bag onto the table, fishing out a pile of papers held together by a large paper clip in the middle.
“These,” he said, dropping them onto the table with a thud. “Mike wrote them. Twenty-six of them.”
Hopper raised an eyebrow, picking up the stack. “Twenty-six, huh? That’s some effort. What do they say?”
Will gestured vaguely. “Read one.”
Hopper removed the paper clip and straightened the first letter in his hand, his eyes scanning the page. His brow furrowed as he read aloud: “‘Dear Will, I’m so in love with you.’” He let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s a start.”
“Dad—” Will groaned, burying his face in his hands.
“Hold on, hold on,” Hopper said, grinning as he kept reading. “‘I wanted to kiss you. I really, really wanted to kiss you, Will. And I want you to hold me in your arms forever, because it’s the only place I can truly call home.’” He looked up. “Kid, this is a love letter. A real one.”
“I know,” Will muttered, his voice muffled by his hands. “That’s why I hate him for it.”
Hopper leaned back, giving Will a bemused look. “You hate him? For what? Loving you? I thought that was what we were rooting for!”
“No! I mean—” Will let out a frustrated sigh. “Because he didn’t tell me! He just… wrote all of these and never said anything! And now I’m supposed to just… what? Be okay with it?”
Hopper studied him for a moment before setting the letter down. “You’re overthinking this, kid.”
“I’m not overthinking,” Will snapped. “This is serious!”
Hopper raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting. It was a strategy that always worked on Will, and tonight was no different.
“I can’t do anything now because he already kissed me,” Will blurted, his voice barely above a whisper. He stared at the plate in front of him, unable to meet Hopper’s eyes. “After I found the letters.”
Hopper’s eyebrows lifted. “He kissed you, huh? And what did you do?”
Will swallowed hard. “I ran.”
Hopper blinked, leaning forward. “You ran ? After he kissed you?”
“Yeah,” Will said, the word sharp and defensive. “Because… because I don’t believe him, okay?”
Hopper frowned. “Don’t believe what? That he likes you? Kid, the guy wrote you twenty-six love letters. You think he’s just messing with you?”
Will pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. “I don’t know what to think. He kept those letters from me. For years, Dad. If he really felt that way, why didn’t he tell me? Why now?”
Hopper scratched his beard, considering. “Maybe because he was scared. Or maybe he didn’t know how to tell you. Hell, Will, sometimes it’s easier to write things down than to say them out loud.”
Will snorted, shaking his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. If he cared about me so much, why hide it?”
“Maybe for the same reason you’re sitting here doubting him instead of talking to him about it,” Hopper said, his tone gentle but firm. “Fear. People do stupid things when they’re scared, kid. Doesn’t mean they don’t care.”
“It’s not the same.”
Hopper gave him a pointed look. “Isn’t it? You ran because you didn’t know what to do. Maybe he didn’t, either.” Will didn’t respond, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.
Hopper sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Look, I’m not saying you have to believe him right away. But you owe it to yourself— and to him— to figure this out. Running’s not gonna help anyone.”
Will looked up at him, his expression conflicted. “What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t mean it? What if—”
“Will,” Hopper interrupted, his voice steady. “What if he does? What if this is real, and you’re too busy doubting it to give it a chance?”
The weight of Hopper’s words settled over him, sinking into the cracks of his doubt. “I don’t know if I can,” he admitted quietly.
Hopper was quiet for a moment before speaking. “You know,” he said, his voice softer, “after Sarah died, I started writing her letters.”
Will’s head snapped up, his eyes widening. Hopper rarely talked about his daughter.
“I didn’t know how else to deal with it,” Hopper continued. “I’d sit down at the table and just… write to her. About my day, about how much I missed her, about all the things I wished I’d said when I still had the chance.” He paused, his gaze distant. “It helped. A lot. More than I expected it to.”
Will swallowed hard, his throat tightening at the thought of Hopper, alone, pouring his heart out onto paper.
“Maybe you should try it,” Hopper said, his eyes meeting Will’s. “Write Mike a letter. Or twenty-six, if that’s what it takes. Get it all out— everything you’re feeling. You don’t even have to give it to him. Just… write it down.”
Will stared at him, the suggestion settling into his mind. “You think it’ll help?”
“It did for me,” Hopper said simply. “And hey, worst-case scenario, you’ve got some practice if you ever decide to write him back for real.”
Will let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re full of advice tonight.”
“Just trying to help,” Hopper said, reaching across the table to squeeze Will’s shoulder. “You’ve got this, kid.”
Will glanced down at the letters again, then back up at Hopper. For the first time all evening, he felt the weight in his chest lighten. “Thanks, Dad,” he said quietly.
Hopper smiled, his hand still firm on Will’s shoulder. “Anytime.”
Will finished his meal in silence, the letters sitting between them on the table, no longer just a source of frustration but a bridge to something bigger. Something he wasn’t quite ready for— but something he knew he couldn’t ignore.
The next evening, Will sat at his desk, staring at the blank sketchbook in front of him. The desk lamp cast a warm glow over the surface, but it did little to calm the knot twisting in his stomach. He twirled the pen in his fingers, debating whether this was a good idea at all.
“This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes darting to the pile of letters from Mike sitting at the corner of the desk. He hadn’t touched them since last night, afraid they’d say something new if he opened them again— something even more overwhelming than before.
Will sighed, pressing the pen to the paper, and began to write.
August 17th, 1989
Dear Mike,
I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. This is so stupid. It’s not like you’ll read these, anyway… and it’s my fault that you won’t.
Will paused, chewing on the cap of the pen. It felt easier to pour his thoughts onto the page when he pretended Mike would never see it. He tapped the pen against the desk, staring at the words he’d written. Should he be this honest? Did it even matter? He continued.
I ran away last night after you kissed me, and I’m pretty sure I already regret it. You came into the store earlier looking for me, and… I hid, like the coward I am and have always been. I didn’t want to face the fact that I hurt you.
He set the pen down for a moment, his hand trembling. Writing it out made it all feel so real— the kiss, the way he’d bolted, the look on Mike’s face when he left. Will swallowed hard, trying to shake the memory before it overwhelmed him.
He picked up the pen again.
It’s just that when you kissed me, I was still so overwhelmed with anger towards you for keeping these letters from me. For keeping the truth from me. If you had just been honest with me about your feelings, things could have been different. But I can’t do anything now. I left, and I won’t blame you if you never want to talk to me again.
Will paused again, rereading the last few sentences. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling heat creep up his face. “Too much?” he muttered, but he didn’t cross it out. He needed to say it, even if Mike would never see the words.
Hopper suggested this, actually. Writing letters. He said he used to write them to his daughter, and that it really helped. I’ll admit, it’s a cool alternative to journaling. Feels less formal. I get why you did it.
The corners of Will’s lips twitched upward for a brief moment, a flicker of understanding crossing his mind. Writing like this felt… easier. Safer. He tapped the pen against the desk again, thinking of how to finish the letter.
So, um… yeah. I don’t know how to end this. You’re the writer, not me. I’m just… yeah. I’m sorry for everything.
Love,
Will
Will leaned back in his chair, staring at the letter. The words blurred slightly as his eyes misted over, and he blinked quickly to clear them. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. That was all he could manage for now. He closed the sketchbook carefully, making sure not to smudge the fresh ink, and set it aside. For the first time since leaving Mike’s, he felt like he could breathe just a little bit easier. He knew he'd never question Hopper’s wisdom again, that was for sure.