Chapter Text
Dear Will,
I’ve been sitting at this desk for two hours. I bought this notepad at a small shop near campus because the paper felt heavy and expensive, the kind of paper someone writes something important on. But now that it’s in front of me, I feel like a fraud. I’ve written your name and scratched it out four times already. It’s ridiculous. We’ve known each other since we were five, and suddenly, I’m terrified of a piece of paper.
University life isn't exactly what they show in the movies. It’s mostly just grey hallways, bad coffee, and the constant, crushing realization that I’m just one of thousands of people here. My roommate, a guy named Tobias, is nice enough, but he’s a pre-med student who spends eighteen hours a day memorizing bone structures. Sometimes I just stare at him and wonder if it’s easier to learn about dead bodies than it is to understand why my own life feels like a hollow shell.
I spent the whole summer back in Hawkins. I thought it would help, you know? Being back where it all happened. Mom needed help with the renovations, and Holly is growing up way too fast - she asks about you, by the way. But the house… it felt like a museum. Joyce and Hop’ have finally settled into that place on the edge of town, and they’ve made it look so warm, so full of life. But every time I went over to help Hopper with the porch, I kept looking at the driveway. I kept waiting for that tan van to pull up.
When my mom told me you weren't coming home for the summer, that you’d found an internship at that gallery in the city.. I think I forgot how to breathe for a second. The summer was endless, Will. Heatwaves and silence. I’d bike past your old house and just… stand there. It’s like the whole town is haunted, not by monsters anymore, but by the versions of us that don’t exist anymore.
I tried to be "normal." I joined the local tabletop gaming society here at school. I walked in there thinking I could be the Dungeon Master again, that I could take control of a world since I have zero control over this one. But I couldn't do it. I sat at a table with a group of strangers, and it felt like sacrilege. There’s this guy, Lucas - funny coincidence, right? - who plays a Druid. He’s got this habit of chewing on the end of his pencil when he’s looking at the map, his brow furrowed in that exact same way yours does when you’re deciding whether to fire an arrow or cast a protection spell. For a heartbeat, the room went quiet, and I almost called out your name. I had to leave. I told them I felt sick and I haven’t been back since.
I’ve been trying to channel that energy into writing instead. It’s not a campaign, it’s… a story. A real one. I haven’t told anyone else about it. It’s set in a kingdom that’s recovering from a great shadow, a land that’s safe now but feels broken. There’s a Paladin who was supposed to be the leader, the brave one, but now that the war is over, he realizes he’s just a guy with a rusted shield and no idea where to go. And there’s this Cleric. He’s the heart of the story. He’s the one who kept the Paladin’s soul intact during the darkest nights, even when the Paladin was too stupid or too blinded by his own "destiny" to notice. In my story, the Cleric goes away to a distant land to heal people, and the Paladin is just… wandering the castle walls, writing messages he’ll never send. It’s a bit on the nose, I guess. You’d probably laugh at my lack of subtlety. You always were the better storyteller.
I keep thinking about El. About the.. sacrifice. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in this cramped dorm room, reaching for a radio that isn't there. I wonder what she’d think of us now. She always wanted us to be happy, to be free. Everyone else seems to be doing it, Will. Dustin is thriving in his engineering program, and Lucas is actually making a name for himself on the court and in his classes. They’ve moved on. They’ve processed the trauma and tucked it away in a drawer.
But me? I’m still treading water. I’m still looking back at the shoreline of this city, wondering where it all went wrong.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, mostly because there’s nothing else to do when the silence in this room gets too loud. I look back at the way I handled things, the way I handled us, and I hate the person I was. I think about those years after you came back from the Upside Down, how I spent so much energy trying to be "cool" or "grown-up." I was so obsessed with moving forward that I didn't realize I was leaving you behind in the process.
I think about our promise. Crazy together, right. I think about how many times I let that promise slip through my fingers because I was too scared of what it actually meant. There were so many moments, Will. Moments where you looked at me like you were waiting for me to say something, to be the leader everyone said I was, and I just… I looked away. I was so dismissive of your feelings, your drawings, your games. I called them "childish" because I was terrified of how much I actually needed them.
How much I needed you.
I keep remembering that rainy day in the garage, years ago. The way your face looked when I told you we weren't kids anymore. I wish I could go back and punch myself for that. I wish I could tell that version of Mike Wheeler that being a "kid" with Will Byers was the best thing that ever happened to him. Now that I’m actually an adult, or supposed to be one, I realize that "growing up" is just a fancy word for losing the people who make you feel safe.
I treated you like you were a burden sometimes, didn't I? Or like a ghost. I think I was so afraid of the connection we had, that weird, invisible tether, that I tried to cut it myself. And now that it’s actually frayed, now that the line is dead and I’m speaking into a void, I’d give anything to have you annoy me with a D&D manual or a story idea. I’d give anything for you to look at me again, even if it was with that quiet sadness I used to ignore. At least then, you were looking at me.
I keep replaying that last day in my head. The day you moved out of the cabin for college. We were all standing there, saying those awkward goodbyes, promising to call, promising that "nothing would change." What a lie that was. If I had known that would be the last time I’d see your face in person for over a year, I wouldn't have just stood there like a statue. I would’ve said something real. I would’ve grabbed your hand and told you… I don't know. Something. Anything to make sure you knew you weren't leaving everything behind.
I think I would have apologized. Not for one specific thing, but for all of it. For the silence, for the distance, for not being the person you deserved. I think I would have told you that no matter how far you went, you were still the center of my my best friend. But instead, I just waved. I watched the car drive away and I felt the air go out of my lungs, and I haven't really taken a full breath since.
I hope you’re doing better than I am. I hope the city is vibrant and that you’re filling up sketchbooks with things that aren't monsters. I hope you’re happy, Will. Truly. Even if I’m not there to see it.
I’ll probably find a reason to write again next week. I have a lot of stamps.
Love, Mike.