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Mike Wheeler had always been good at disappearing.
Not the kind of vanishing Hawkins was used to—no gates, no Upside Down, no flickering lights to mark his absence—just the quiet fade of someone who stopped being noticed. A TV on mute in a noisy room.
It started slowly. First, he skipped Hellfire. Then, he stopped riding his bike to Dustin’s. Then, his friends’ calls went unanswered until they stopped calling altogether. Soon, it was just him and the four walls of his bedroom, and they were starting to feel less like home and more like they were holding him hostage.
He’d lie in bed staring at the ceiling until it blurred, until he wasn’t sure if he’d been there for hours or days. The air felt heavy, like it was sinking into his chest. The walls seemed closer every time he looked up, creeping in inch by inch.
Some nights, he’d whisper into the dark just to hear his own voice, to remind himself he still existed.
—
That’s where Eddie found him.
Not on purpose—he’d been looking for Dustin, something about a new campaign—but when Mrs. Wheeler mentioned Mike was “resting” for the third week in a row, Eddie decided maybe the kid needed a distraction.
He knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.
Mike was lying in bed, half-buried in blankets, curtains drawn against the late-afternoon sun.
“You planning on hibernating until spring, Wheeler?” Eddie leaned against the doorframe, hair wild, smirk in place.
Mike sat up just enough to mutter, “Go away.”
Eddie tilted his head, studied him for a beat longer than comfortable, then shrugged and dropped into the desk chair. “Nah. Think I’ll stay.”
—
Eddie started showing up after that. Sometimes with burgers, sometimes with tapes, sometimes just to sit on the floor and pick at his guitar. He never demanded conversation. Never asked for explanations.
Which might be why, one night, Mike cracked.
“It’s like…” He dug his nails into his palms until they hurt. “Like there’s this… voice in my head telling me I’m useless. Every day. Louder and louder. And if I just… stopped existing, no one would care. Not really. They’d move on.”
The cassette player hummed softly between them.
Eddie didn’t make a joke. Didn’t tell him to knock it off. He just leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Kid… don’t you dare pull that disappearing act on me. I’ve lost too many already.”
Mike blinked hard, throat burning. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh, I do,” Eddie said. And the way he said it made Mike believe him.
—
It didn’t stop.
The voices in his head weren’t the kind you could reason with. They weren’t loud—more like whispers—but constant, curling around every thought. You’re not enough. You’re a burden. You don’t matter.
The four walls became his whole world. And the smaller they felt, the smaller he felt.
One night, it got bad enough that Mike found himself in the bathroom, staring at his reflection. His face looked pale, hollow, almost like someone else’s. He pressed his palms to the counter and wondered how it would feel if this was the last time he saw himself.
He didn’t hear the front door slam. Didn’t hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.
He only heard Eddie’s voice when it was too close, too sharp.
“Mike—!”
Eddie’s hands were on his shoulders before Mike could move. His eyes were wild. “Jesus Christ, Wheeler, what were you thinking?”
Mike opened his mouth, but nothing came out except, “I just… wanted it to stop.”
Eddie pulled him into a hug so tight it hurt. “I know. God, I know. But you can’t… you can’t leave like that. Not when you’ve got people who’d miss you.”
Mike almost laughed—bitter, sharp. “Who?”
“Me, for one,” Eddie said instantly. “And Dustin. And your sister. And probably your mom. Hell, even the guy at the record store would be confused why you stopped coming in to pretend you weren’t broke.”
It wasn’t a cure. It wasn’t even enough to silence the voices for long. But it was something.
—
Eddie started staying over more often after that. He’d crash on the floor or in the chair, pretending it was because his uncle’s trailer was “too boring.” But Mike knew it was because Eddie didn’t trust the silence.
Mike still had nights where the walls pressed in, where the air felt too heavy to breathe. But sometimes, there’d be a knock on his door. Or a greasy bag tossed into his lap. Or a mixtape slid across the floor with Eddie muttering, Thought of you when I heard this.
It wasn’t hope—not yet.
But it was proof that someone had heard him.
And for now, that was enough to keep breathing.