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To remember is pain as to forget is punishment.
The typewriter keys stuck halfway down—rusted, dust-packed, ink stained. Mike’s fingers hovered over them like he was waiting for a ghost to whisper the next word. Paper curled at the edges, yellowing under the basement’s bulb.
On paper, when testing a newly bought pen or freshly sharpened pencil, he would always scribble her name. It won’t be any word, any other letters, any phrase, not even a sentence.
Eleven. El. E. L. V. N.
On the typewriter, he’d typed her name so many times—countless times—the letters had worn grooves into the platen.
Mike was never the same again. Since that night, all he could remember was the strong thrashing and crashing winds as debris and structures flew around only to be sucked into a vast nothingness.
And then came the stillness of deafening silence. It was already haunting for him to see her stand there, by the gate, all by herself. Hearing the deathly hush was even worse. He thought the love of his life died thinking there was nothing else that can do. That they couldn’t run away together, far away from the range of controlling government who saw her as a key, a machine, a tool. Far away from the pain of having to fight something again.
At some point, Mike thought El was selfish for her choice. She was selfish for leaving him behind, for not letting him run to her so he could hold her warm, small body against his. So he could shield her from fragments and scraps that may hurt her.
But no, calling her that would only add insult to injury. He didn’t want to view her that way. Mike didn’t want to disdain her choice. Her sacrifice.
He blamed himself instead.
If only he was stronger, he would’ve been able to break out from the soldiers’ formidable hold. If only he was faster, he would’ve been able to pull her out on time. If only he screamed and pleaded louder, she probably would’ve had a change of mind.
If only… he had held her hand tight before they jumped off the truck when the soldiers told them to.
Mike watched the people around him mourn, get well, and move on.
He didn’t know how they did it.
Exactly thirty days after what happened at MAC-Z, the basement became a mausoleum. Nothing moved unless he moved it. Dust settled like permission. The Party—Lucas, Dustin, Will, and Max—came by less and less. Not because they didn’t care, but because there was nothing to say that didn’t sound like lying.
Sometimes Will would linger at the foot of the stairs, knuckles whitening around the banister.
“You don’t have to stay down here all day,” Will said once.
Mike didn’t look up from the typewriter.
“I know.”
“But you haven’t eaten.”
“I know.”
Will opened his mouth, closed it again. Then, quieter, “She wouldn’t want you to disappear too.”
That did it.
Mike’s fingers stilled. The typewriter hummed faintly, like it was waiting.
“She didn’t want to disappear either,” Mike said. His voice cracked on the second syllable. “And she still did.”
Will didn’t answer. He just nodded, eyes glassy, and left the way people do when they realize they’ve stepped into sacred ground.
At night, Mike dreamed in fragments. Wind. Sirens. The smell of gunpowder and metal.
Her long, wavy brown hair haloed by light. Her bloodied nose. Her eyes—always her eyes—locked on his like she was trying to memorize him before letting go.
“I’m sorry,” El said, over and over.
“No,” Mike argued. “No- no, no, no—El, you don’t get to be sorry. You don’t get to leave.”
She never answered that part. She just smiled at him, soft and devastating, the way she did when she’d already made up her mind.
Mike woke every time reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.
The first time Hopper came by, it was a rainy evening.
He remembered the very first time he saw El. In the midst of search for Will, he found someone else.
Mike thinks life began when he met her.
He stood in the doorway like a man unsure whether he was allowed to cross the threshold of someone else’s grief.
“She saved us,” Hopper said eventually, voice rough. “The whole damn world.”
Mike laughed. It came out sharp, wrong. “She just wanted to be normal.”
Hopper swallowed. “Yeah.”
“She wanted to grow up,” Mike continued. “She wanted-” His throat closed. “She wanted to eat Eggos for breakfast and complain about things and hangout with me and-” He stopped. “She wanted a future.”
Hopper looked down at the floor. “I know, kid.”
Mike finally looks up to him.
“Then why does everyone talk about her like she’s… some kind of weapon that finally did its job? Why did everyone forget about her so easily?”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and guilty.
“You’re also forgetting her, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” Hopper said again, like an apology could still be useful.
Like a simple “I’m sorry” could bring her back. To him. To his arms.
Sometimes, on the worst days, Mike talked to her anyway.
He sat on the basement floor, back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
“I would’ve gone with you,” he said aloud. “You know that, right?”
His voice echoed faintly, mocking him.
“I would’ve held your hand the whole time. Even if it hurt. Even if it scared me.”
He laughed softly through tears. “You always said I was brave… and understanding. I think you were wrong.”
The lights flickered. Mike froze.
For half a second—just half—he felt it. A pressure in the air. A warmth. Like standing too close to something alive.
“El?” His voice was barely sound.
Nothing happened. The light steadied. The moment passed.
Mike closed his eyes, grief folding back in on itself.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”
Mike thought the worst part was silence. Now, it’s the noise.
People laughed again. Hawkins learned how to breathe without screaming. Stores reopened, buildings were re-built again. For other people, it’s peace again. No more disasters, no more military control over the town.
Mike wanted to tear it all down.
At school—when school resumed, because of course it did, someone complained about a history test.
“After everything,” Mike snapped, too loudly. Heads turned. “You’re worried about a goddamn test?”
The girl stared at him, confused, offended. “I- sorry?”
He stood up so fast his chair shrieked against the floor. “She died!” he said. “And you, people, are acting like it’s a fucking normal peaceful Tuesday!”
No one answered. No one stopped him. Not Will, Dustin, or Lucas. Not even Max.
A teacher cleared their throat and told him to step outside.
Mike didn’t apologize.
A memorial was held. He didn’t even want to attend. Attending a stupid memorial meant nothing for him. Attending it would mean that he’d accept that she’s gone.
Except that she’s not. She just disappeared. Vanished. That’s it.
They couldn’t call it a funeral. Not a funeral—because well, there was no body. Otherwise, it would’ve been a dumb idea, right?
The said memorial consisted of just a stage, white folding chairs, and a banner that read: FOR THE FALLEN HEROES OF HAWKINS.
Heroes.
Mike stared at the word until it blurred.
They talked about courage. About the dead people. But no mention of the sole person who actually saved the world.
No one mentioned Eleven. His El. No one said her favorite color. No one said how she laughed too loud at his stupid jokes. No one said how she hated being ignored or how she always reached for his sleeve when she was cold.
When it was over, people hugged. They cried neatly. Then, they went home.
Lucas exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a while now.
“I think… I think this helped.”
That’s when Mike lost it.
“Helped who, exactly?” he demanded.
Lucas blinked. “Mike-”
“She saved us,” Mike said, voice shaking. “One time. Then again. And again. And again. And when she needs the saving? We backed off like fucking cowards.”
“How many times does it take before it counts as enough?” he continues.
Max shifted uncomfortably. “We’re not forgetting her.”
Mike turned his head toward her. His face scowled.
“You didn’t forget about her? Oh, yeah? Did anybody even tell you how she saved your ass while you were lying on that fucking hospital bed?”
“Mike, now you’re just being an asshole!”
“I don’t fucking care! All of you should’ve died instead of her!”
There was silence.
“You guys are forgetting her.” Mike shots once more. “You already are.”
Dustin frowned. “Mike, you’re not being fair.”
“No,” Mike said bitterly. “What’s not fair is that she never got to be anything else.”
Silence fell like a verdict. One by one, they left.
At home, Karen suggested therapy.
“It might help to talk to someone,” she said gently, like he was made of glass.
Talk? To someone?
“About what?” Mike asked boringly. “You want me to talk to someone, so they could- what? Tell me shit about ways on how to forget?”
Karen flinched. “Michael-”
“I won’t forget her, Mom. Because forgetting is a punishment.”
Mike started counting again.
Not days. Not weeks.
Her sacrifices.
Once, when she was a little kid and barely understood what dying meant.
Once, when she returned to the very place that used her and closed the gate.
Once, when she lost her powers and her home and still came back.
Once—this time—when she didn’t.
Three times? Four? Probably even more.
He didn’t know anymore. The numbers blurred together until all that was left was the fact that it had always been her.
Always her standing in front of the storm so the rest of them could hide.
One night, Nancy and Holly found Mike tearing pages out of the typewriter, hands shaking with fury.
“Stop,” Nancy said softly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Mike laughed hysterically. “Good. I’m useless, anyway.”
He slammed a page onto the table. Her name screamed back at him in black ink.
“They’re erasing her,” Mike said. “They’re trying to make me forget her.”
Nancy didn’t answer right away. She tells Holly to go back upstairs and close the door. Holly follows her immediately.
“For sure you know how it feels,” he said, voice breaking despite himself. “To have something ripped out of you and still be expected to breathe like nothing happened.”
Nancy swallowed hard. “Mike-”
She stepped closer, careful, like Mike might shatter if touched wrong. She looked at the page on the table—Eleven, over and over, the ink bleeding through in pages where the keys had struck too hard.
“No one’s trying to erase her,” Nancy said quietly.
Mike rounded on him.
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding?”
He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers digging in as if he could reach whatever was still tearing him apart.
“I… just stood there.”
Nancy shook her head. “You didn’t have a choice—we didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” Mike snapped again. “That none of us had a choice. Funny how she was always the one who paid for it anyway.”
Mike paces around. Throwing and kicking things that his hands and legs can catch on. Nancy flinched.
“Mike,” she muttered, his voice wavered. “We loved her too. But you need to-”
Mike’s laugh was sharp. And ugly.
“Did you love her enough to watch and let her die?”
The words landed wrong. Too hard. Too far.
“I’m the only one who cared for her, the only one who understood her—the only one who loved her…”
Nancy went very still.
“I saw her disappear in front of my very own eyes, Nance,” he continued. “I felt it. Everything. Like—like something tore through me. You know?”
Mike’s eyes filled with hot tears. Nancy looks at him like he was a pathetic being. That he’s probably gone crazy.
“W-Why are you looking at me like that? D-Do you–do you also think I’ve gone crazy? That’s why you agreed with Mom about me, getting help and all that bullshit?”
Nancy didn’t look away. That was the worst part.
Her expression didn’t twist into pity, or fear, or that careful distance people used when they thought you were fragile and contagious. She just looked… tired. Older than she should’ve been. Like someone who had learned too early what surviving actually cost.
“No,” she said quietly. “God, Mike. No.”
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
“Because I’m scared,” Nancy said. “Not because I think you’re crazy. I’m scared that you’re not being yourself now.”
That stopped him.
She shifted closer, slow, deliberate, like she didn’t want to spook him.
“I believe you,” she said. “About what you felt. About her. All of it.”
Mike’s breath hitched. “You say that, but-”
“But you’re angry,” Nancy interrupted gently. “And you’re not sleeping. You flinch every time you see something that reminds you of her. And- and now, you’re tearing yourself apart trying to carry something no one should have to carry alone.
She paused, swallowing.
“And that scares me.”
Mike sat on the couch and dragged a hand down his face. His fingers came away damp.
“Everyone keeps acting like she’s… like she’s done her part and that’s it. Like she clocked out.”
“I know,” Nancy said. Her voice wavered for the first time, “they did it with Barb, too.”
The name landed between them, heavy and familiar.
“They… they turned her into a lesson,” Nancy continued. “A tragedy with a neat ending. Something they could talk about in past tense so they didn’t have to feel guilty for still being alive.”
Mike looked at her then.
“You didn’t move on,” he said.
Nancy gave a small, humorless smile. “No. I just learned how to hide it better.”
She sits beside him, leaning forward, elbows on her knees.
“Mike, what you’re feeling—this anger, this… longingness—it doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you loved someone who shouldn’t have had to save everyone.”
“She was just a kid.”
“I know.”
“She wanted to live, Nance,” he whispered. “She wanted to grow up.”
Nancy reached for his hand before she could overthink it. He didn’t pull away.
“Getting help doesn’t mean forgetting her,” she said. “It doesn’t mean letting them rewrite her into something smaller than she was.”
“Then what does it mean?” Mike asked hoarsely.
“It means you don’t have to bleed alone,” Nancy said. “It means you stay.
The word lingered.
Stay.
Mike’s fingers curled slightly around hers, like his body had made the decision before his mind could argue.
“I keep thinking…” he admitted, staring at the floor, “that if I stop remembering—if I stop hurting—then it means she really is gone.”
Nancy squeezed his hand. Harder this time.
“Pain isn’t proof,” she said. “Love is.”
He let out a shaky breath. “What if–what if one day I wake up and she feels… far away?”
“Then you’ll still remember who she was to you. And that will still matter.”
Mike’s shoulders finally sagged, like something inside him had given up—not in defeat, but in exhaustion.
“I’m so scared. So so scared,” he said. “I don’t want to forget her. I don’t want my mind to erase her.”
“It won’t. Not as long as you’re here to remember her.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The house creaked softly around them. Somewhere upstairs, people moved around the house.
Nancy stood.
“I’m not telling you what to do but… if you ever feel like you’re standing too close to the edge—if you start thinking the world would be quieter without you in it—come find me. Okay?”
Mike looked up at her, eyes red, raw.
Nancy hesitated, then added, softer. “She wouldn’t want you to disappear too.”
This time, Mike didn’t snap. He just nodded.
He thought he got it already. That he was already fine and can do things again without having to cry whenever he thinks that El should be by his side.
All he could think of are possible ways El could’ve gone to. Not to the vast nothingness. That’s what he’s sure of.
Which means there had to be somewhere.
Mike lay on the basement floor, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks like they might spell something if he stared long enough. His chest felt hollow, like the air inside him learned it didn’t need permission anymore.
Everyone else had stopped coming to check on him. Maybe they’ve grown tired, or whatsoever.
The house was quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful—quiet like something waiting.
Mike wondered, distantly, how long it would take before anyone noticed if he stopped coming upstairs.
Not died. He didn’t think of it like that. He hated that word now. Hated how easily it slid into conversations and speeches.
To not wake up reaching for someone who wasn’t there. To not hear people laugh like the world hadn’t cracked open. To not carry the unbearable responsibility of remembering her when everyone else had decided it was optional.
Maybe then the noise would stop.
May of 1989 came quietly.
It didn’t announce itself with thunder or grief or the end of the world. It arrived the way time always did—uninvinted, unapologetic—dragging Mike along whether he was ready or not.
Graduation day was warm. Too warm. The kind of summer heat that made everything feel unreal, like a dream you’d wake up from sweating.
Mike stood in line with the rest of his class, cap crooked, orange gown fit perfect in the shoulders. People laughed. Parents cried. Cameras flashed.
From the outside, he looked fine.
Better, even.
He smiled when spoken to. He answered questions about college plans with rehearsed ease. He stood beside his friends—Dustin rambling excitedly, Lucas’s arm wrapped around Max’s, and Will, all giddy and smiles.
People whispered things like, “I’m glad he’s doing better,” and “he seems like himself again.”
Mike nodded along, accepted congratulations, and shook hands.
Inside, he felt like a carefully maintained lie.
When his name was called, he walked across the stage to polite applause. The principal handed him his diploma. For a brief, absurd second, Mike thought of El beside him. Dressed also in the orange gown, holding her own diploma. He thought of how she would’ve leaned forward and kissed him like she was afraid he would evaporate.
That night, after the caps were thrown and the pictures were taken, Mike went home and sat alone in the basement.
The typewriter was still there.
He didn’t touch it. If he did, he would plummet down again in the darkness.
Some things… stayed sacred by remaining untouched.
Weeks passed. Summer stretched thin and endless.
Then the letter came.
It was thick and cream-colored.
Mike stared at it for a long time before opening it, like it might explode or vanish if he moved too fast.
Congratulations!
The word blurred.
A university far from Hawkins. Far from Indiana. Far enough that no one—nothing would remind him of his one and only love. His El.
Karen cried when he showed them the letter. Nancy and Holly hugged him hard, longer than necessary, like they already knew what leaving would mean.
“Write,” Nancy said.
“I will.”
Packing was easier than he thought. He didn’t take much. Just clothes, books, a box of old D&D notes he couldn’t quite let go of.
At the bottom of his bag, folded carefully, he placed a single page of yellow paper.
I will always remember you.
The morning he left, Hawkins looked the same as it always had. Streets intact. Houses standing. Life continuing.
Mike stood on the curb with his bag at his feet, sunlight warm on his face.
For a moment—just one—he thought he felt it again. The pressure in the air. That impossible warmth.
He didn’t say her name because some goodbyes felt too final when spoken aloud.
The bus doors folded shut with a hiss. Mike took a seat by the window. As Hawkins rolled past him, shrinking into something distant and harmless, he kept his eyes forward.
He didn’t look back.
Not once. Not twice. Never.
From the outside, it looked like moving on.
New city. New routines. New people who didn’t know his history.
Mike learned how to laugh at the right moments. How to answer “where are you from?” without flinching. How to exist.
Years passed like that.
But some nights—when he’s all alone, surrounded by the hum of places that had never known her—Mike lay awake staring at ceilings that weren’t cracked the same way.
He remembered her laugh. Her hand in his. The way she stayed when no one else should have had to. He carried her with him everywhere he went.
Not as a ghost. Not as a wound that ever fully closed and healed.
But as something permanent. Something that shaped him.
Mike never went back to Hawkins, but he never forgot about El either.
Because to remember was pain.
And to forget—was a punishment he would never allow himself.