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“Shit”
Mike swore at his paper. Not under his breath. Out loud. The kind of swear that echoed a little in his apartment and made him sigh afterward, like the walls might judge him for it.
“Seriously?” he said to the blank page. “That’s all you’ve got?”
The page stared back at him. Empty. Just like his apartment.
It has been like that for weeks now. Months, if he was being honest. Draft after draft after draft, all of them ending the same way: nothing. A blank page pretending it was waiting for him when really it was just reminding him just how lonely he is.
Mike shoved his chair back and stood up, running both hands through his hair. He paced, back and forth, thinking. Desk to window. Window to couch. Couch back to desk. A nervous loop he’d worn into the floor over time.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered. “You’ve done this before. You know how this works.”
But that was the problem. The first book hadn’t worked like this at all.
That one had poured out of him like it had been waiting years for permission. Late nights, cramped fingers, words spilling faster than he could type them. He hadn’t been trying to be a writer back then. He’d just been trying to breathe.
He stopped pacing.
That was why he’d written in the first place.
Not for reviews. Not for interviews or signings or the way people’s eyes lit up when they recognized his name. He’d written because there were things inside him that wouldn’t stay quiet unless he gave them somewhere to go.
Places like Hawkins.
Things like monsters.
People like her.
Mike leaned against the back of the sad excuse for a couch.
Eleven didn’t show up in his head all at once anymore. She came in pieces. A flash of a memory. A feeling that settled in his chest on days like this. The way she’d look at him like he was saying something important even when he wasn’t. The way she’d tilt her head, listening, not just hearing, but really listening, like he'd hung the moon for her. How she’d learned words that he said religiously. He swallowed.
He hadn’t written about her specifically. He’d told himself that mattered. Changed names, shifted details, wrapped everything in metaphor and metaphor on top of metaphor until it looked like fiction to anyone who didn’t know better.
People called the book brave.
They called it tender.
Sad in a hopeful way.
Mike called it incomplete.
He pushed himself upright and crossed the room, eyes landing on the bookshelf. Wedged between paperbacks and old hardcovers was his old DND notebook he’d never had the heart to throw away. He pulled it free and flipped through until a folded page slipped out and landed on the floor.
He flinched, and picked it up as if it would explode.
The paper was old, creased, soft from being unfolded and refolded too many times. His handwriting slanted across it. A letter he'd written to her back in 87, right after it happened. It was more for himself. Mike read the last line.
I think about the three waterfalls often. It feels safer there.
A short, breathless laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
“I said three,” he said softly.
He’d been young when he came up with that. Too young to know how childish the dream was. If things ever ended, if they ever got out, they’d go somewhere beautiful.
Five years have passed since graduation. People talked about Eleven like a memory now. A sacrifice. A story with a clean but heartbreaking ending.
Mike knew better. Stories were never that simple. And he was a storyteller after all.
He folded the paper carefully and set it on the desk beside his dull, empty paper. His eyes floated over to a magazine he’d picked up about a year ago.
Gorgeous, three waterfalls, small town, Switzerland.
“Inspiration,” he told the empty room.
A change of scenery. Somewhere he could remember why he started writing in the first place. Somewhere that felt like her.
For the first time in a long time, the brain in his skull didn't feel like an enemy. It felt like a beginning.
He spent the next few hours at the travel agency, filling out forms, staring at brochures. The woman behind the counter was nice, and didn't ask too many questions. He paid for the plane ticket with cash from his savings, and somehow, the decision felt easier than he expected.
Two days later, Mike was on a plane, the little letter folded into his notebook. He didn’t read it again. He just held it in his lap, keeping it flat under the weight of his hand.
Outside the window, the clouds were gold in the morning light. He didn’t think about what he would do when he left. He didn’t think about what he would do when he landed. He only thought about moving. Forward, somewhere, anywhere.
When the plane landed, the air smelled different. Cooler. Cleaner. He grabbed his bag and found the bus to the small town. The driver was cheerful and talked about the waterfalls like everyone in town knew them. Mike nodded, pretending to understand, feeling a nervous excitement he hadn’t felt since high school.
The town was quiet. Cars moved slowly down cobbled streets. People waved at each other. He found a map at the little tourist office and marked a walking path to the waterfalls. The first two were big, loud, and obvious. Families were taking pictures. Mike walked past them without stopping.
The third one was smaller. Hidden. Almost silent except for the water. Trees leaned over it, shading the pool at the bottom. He stayed at the edge for a long time, breathing. It felt like the letter. Like her. Youthful. Beautiful. Melancholic.
“Melancholic, that's good,” Mike whispered to nobody but himself. He jotted the word down in his notebook and smiled to himself.
Sentences formed without thinking. Paragraphs followed. The story wasn’t finished, it wasn’t perfect, but it was alive. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this.
By the time he closed the notebook, the sun was dipping behind the hills. He tucked it away, feeling lighter than he had in months. Peaceful, almost absurdly peaceful.
He walked back to the little inn where he was staying. The wooden floors creaked under his shoes, the hall smelled faintly of lavender and old wood. He put his bag down, peeled off his jacket, and was just about to sink onto the bed when a voice floated from the room next door.
“Jane!”
Mike froze. The name hit him in a way that made his chest tighten. Jane. Her real name. His mind jerked toward Hawkins, toward the girl who’d disappeared, toward the letter folded neatly in his pocket.
He shook his head, forcing a small, ironic smile. It’s just a coincidence, he told himself. A happy one.
He let the thought go. Maybe it was a child, maybe a tourist, maybe nothing at all. He climbed into bed, letting the sheets pull him down, letting the quiet lull him. Outside, the wind moved the trees softly, carrying the distant sound of water.
Mike closed his eyes and let sleep take him. For the first time in a long time, the world didn’t feel heavy.
He dreamed of her that night.
It wasn’t Hawkins. Not exactly. The streets were softer, the air warmer, and everywhere there was water. Three waterfalls tumbled down from the hills, mist curling in the sunlight. He walked along the banks, barefoot, his notebook tucked under his arm.
And there she was.
She stood at the edge of the smallest pool, where the water was calm and quiet, leaning slightly against a tree. Her hair was longer, brushing her shoulders, and she was staring at the water, a peaceful smile brushed on her lips. Mike didn’t call her name. He just watched, breathing in the way she made his heart swell.
She turned slowly, as if she had known he would be there all along, and her eyes met his. Suddenly a huge gust of wind blew debris all around them, taking her from him once again.
He woke up with a gasp, just a dream. He observed the golden light spilling into the room, and got out of bed.
The town smelled of fresh bread and coffee. He wandered down the cobbled street and slipped into a small cafe tucked between two low buildings. The place was quiet, almost empty, except for the hiss of the espresso machine and the occasional clink of cups.
He ordered a coffee and a croissant, and sat at a small wooden table by the window. He opened his notebook again, letting his fingers hover over the blank page. For the first time in years, words came without strain, spilling easily. He scribbled small observations about the cafe. The way the light hit the tables, the aroma of pastries, the gentle chatter of the few locals. He didn’t write a story, he wrote what he saw, and it felt enough.
After finishing his coffee, Mike tucked the notebook under his arm and stepped back into the sunlight. The path to the waterfalls stretched ahead of him, winding between trees and green hills. He walked slowly, letting the quiet morning guide him, letting the memory of the dream linger at the edges of his mind.
“See you later, Jane!” A woman laughed.
He felt her before he saw her. A heavy feeling right where his chest rose when he took a deep breath. An electric buzz that shot straight from his head to his feet.
Brown hair, almost to her waistline. Brown shorts. A flowy yellow tanktop. A red bandana tied around her neck.
He forced himself to look away, convincing himself it was just a trick of the light, a tourist who happened to move like her. But then she turned slightly, and her profile caught the sun. The curve of her jaw, the slope of her shoulders.
Mike’s hand shook, rattling against the notebook. He swallowed.
His body felt heavier than air, heavier than gravity, like the world had pressed itself down around him and she had become the axis everything was spinning on. Every thought he’d had for the last five years. The letters he never sent, the stories he tried and failed to write, the nights he lay awake imagining her safe, imagining her gone. All collapsed into a single, impossible moment.
She began walking away.
Time stretched thin, thick, elastic and Mike felt himself both too small and too large for it all. She was getting away. Again.
No.
No.
“El.” He said into the air. If it wasn't her, she wouldn't react.
Her steps faltered.
Mike’s heart slammed against his ribs, loud enough he could almost hear it over the gentle roar of the waterfall. She paused, just for a heartbeat, and glanced over her shoulder.
The world narrowed to her eyes. The same sharp, quiet intelligence, the same softness beneath it. Alive. Real. Not a memory, not a dream, not a ghost.
Mike’s throat went dry. Every word he had wanted to say for five years, every sentence he had scribbled and torn out. Would it always amount to this?
“El,” he said again, quieter this time, almost a question, almost a prayer.
Her eyes widened, recognition flickering across her face, subtle and fleeting. A smile, hesitant, delicate. Not a big dramatic gesture, just the soft acknowledgment of the person she had once trusted, once loved, once survived with.
“Mike…?” She gasped. She looked shocked. Color flushed her face beautifully.
A raw tension formed in the air. A familiar one.
“Three waterfalls.” Mike laughed. Tears spilled down his face. His entire body shook.
“I remembered.” She sighed, a wistful look forming in her eyes.
Mike stepped closer, trembling, and she didn’t move away. He wrapped his arms around her carefully at first, afraid to break the fragile reality of her being here.
She stiffened for a moment, then leaned in slowly, resting her head against his shoulder. Her arms curled around him, reaching for his hair like it was natural. Mike felt the tightness in his chest loosen slightly.
“I… I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, voice trembling. “After all this time… I didn’t think anyone could find me.”
Mike shook his head, as if shaking out the impossibility. “I didn’t come looking for you,” he said. “I- I came to write. To find something… to remember why I started.”
She stared at him, disbelief etched in every line of her face, and then a faint, shaky laugh escaped her. “You… you came all this way… for words? And you found me?”
“I didn’t know I would,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “I thought… maybe I’d just get some inspiration. The waterfalls, the air… maybe I’d finally write something. I never imagined…” His voice caught. “…finding you.”
They stayed like that for a while, the waterfall roaring softly beside them, the mist curling around their shoulders, the impossible made real. Words weren’t necessary.
For a long time, they didn’t speak. They just sat together, letting the mist and sound of the waterfall wrap around them. Eventually, words began to surface, naturally curiosity got the best of both of them. Mike talked about Hawkins, about the friends she’d left behind. He spoke of Dustin, his endless energy and wild theories; Max, still sharp-tongued and brave; Lucas, steady and loyal; Will, who always carried a quiet strength; and Joyce and Hopper, who had held them together in ways they’d only understood later. Eleven laughed softly at some of his stories, shook her head at others, letting herself imagine the lives they had carried on without her.
She told him about the small town she’d found, the quiet people who didn’t ask questions, she'd liked that about them. The kind older lady, Leonie, who had taken her in. How she spent her days helping in small ways, reading, walking along the paths near the waterfalls, learning to trust herself again after years of hiding. She spoke of ordinary things like books she read, the little market around the corner, the daily life in a place that had been kind to her, and Mike felt the same mix of awe and relief he always felt when she shared even the smallest details.
“I…” Eleven began, her voice low, almost swallowed by the sound of the water. She drew in a shaky breath, looking at her hands before meeting his eyes. “When I… when I disappeared, I thought… everyone… everyone would forget me. That you’d forget me. That Hawkins… that everyone we cared about…” Her voice caught. “…that it was all just forgotten.”
Mike squeezed her hand gently. “I never forgot.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “I thought about you. Every day. I missed you… all of you. Dustin, Lucas, Max, Will, Joyce, Hopper… I worried you’d be okay without me. I thought I’d never see anyone again. I grieved, I guess… for all of it. But I had to keep moving. I had to keep going.”
Mike’s chest tightened. “You survived,” he said softly.
She shook her head, a small, bitter laugh escaping. “Surviving doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t… it doesn’t replace anyone. I couldn’t… I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t reach out. I didn’t want to hurt anyone or get anyone in trouble. So I just… carried it all. Alone.”
Mike’s voice was quiet, reassuring. “You didn’t have to. You’re not alone now.”
Eleven looked at him, eyes glassy. “I know. Seeing you… it’s… it’s like the weight of those years just…” She let her voice trail off, unable to find the words. “…like it’s finally lifting.”
Mike reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not letting you go ever again.”
After hours of talking, of laughing softly at memories and sharing the quiet grief of time lost, they stood together and walked hand-in-hand back toward the small town. The sunset moved slowly across the hills.
Eleven led him through the narrow streets and Mike followed, eyes meeting occasionally, just enough to reassure himself she was real. They arrived at a small, warmly lit house tucked behind a cluster of trees. Flowers bloomed in the windowsills, and the smell of fresh bread and herbs drifted from inside.
“This is my home,” she said softly. Leonie, a kind looking woman with streaks of silver in her hair, greeted him warmly, though she gave him space, sensing the intimacy of their reunion. She didn't ask questions. He liked that, too. El showed him around briefly, small gestures, quiet explanations. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. It was hers.
At last, she led him to her room, a small space with soft blankets and books stacked neatly on the shelves. The windows framed the hills and waterfalls in the distance. Eleven turned to him, a hesitant smile brushing her lips, and without a word, Mike sat beside her on the bed.
She leaned against him, and he wrapped an arm around her, feeling the warmth of her body and the steadying rhythm of her breathing. The notebook and the words he had come to find seemed distant now, irrelevant. They sat there in silence, the sunlight fading, the distant sound of waterfalls echoing like a memory.
Mike pressed a gentle kiss to her hair. Eleven rested her head further into his chest, laying down and letting herself breathe, letting herself trust. The world outside existed, but it didn’t intrude here. Here, it was just the two of them.
And for the first time in years, both of their hearts were full.