Chapter Text
Mike Wheeler decided he was done wasting time on a Tuesday afternoon, which felt about right.
It was May 30th, 1989. Five hundred and seventy-one days were marked in his journal – the one his mom's friend had suggested might help with his grief and "big feelings". One year, six months, and twenty-four days since Mike lost her.
The love of his life.
Or the supposed one, at least.
His graduation had come and gone in a hectic blur – the preparation, meaningless celebrations and parties that felt completely undeserved.
Everyone else seemed to be moving forward, assuming Mike would, too.
When the noise finally died down, he was left to the mercy of his own room, the door shut and the silence loud enough to let Hopper’s words ring through the cavities of his brain, hollowed out by grief.
Two paths. Two paths, and Mike decided he would choose the right one.
Whatever that meant now.
- 2 weeks later
It's sweltering in Hawkins – a heat so heavy Mike feels like an undead minion in a necromancer’s army.
The stench of mowed grass and charred barbecue seeps into his room, no matter how loud his shitty fan rattles against his desk.
June 9th, 1989.
581 days since El left.
One year, six months, fourteen days.
He presses the pen harder. He traces over the four, the one, the two
darkening them like it might change their meaning.
This is all your fault.
No.
She made a choice.
The numbers don’t move. They sit there. taunting him.
This is what people warn you about: counting days.
Picking the scab so it never quite heals.
He knows.
Still.
It’s the least he can do.
The fan clicks.
Whirs.
Clicks again.
Sticky notes litter his wall, half-peeled and curling at the edges, each written in careful handwriting.
It’s how his mother talks to him now – running errands, making him mow lawns that don’t need mowing, pairing socks for too long, organising cabinets that have already been sorted through three times, and cleaning out the pantry twice a week.
She says it keeps him ‘grounded’.
All it really does is shove him out the door and into the droning, conversational gravity of their small town.
He hates it here. Everyone asks the same questions.
Wearing the same exaggerated curiosity — the kind meant for checking in on his mom, not prying into his future.
A future that feels like a party he’s pretending he got invited to.
So what are you doing now, Mike? Oooh, college already! How exciting.
Where are you going? What’s your major? What’s the plan?
There’s no escape – his mom’s friend at the store, a neighbour at the mailbox.
Someone always brings up his dad’s job, like that’s somehow relevant.
They ask every time. entitled. Like it’s any of their business.
A screech slices through his thoughts. Young kids skate up and down his road, laughter ricocheting off the pavement.
He sighs, turning to his journal again. Yesterday’s impassive poem sits on the other page, judging his failure.
He stares at the blank lines under the date. he’s forgotten how to write at all.
He clicks his pen a few times, leaning back in his uncomfortable desk chair, back aching.
Droplets bead on his forehead and down his nose. his shirt clings where sweat has soaked through.
He should open a window — but he can’t. That would only make the noise worse.
The words start to blur together. His brain scrambles for anything, pushing so hard it hurts his head.
He swore to himself he’d write something every day.
He glances toward the window. One kid chases another with a water gun he swears is "poisonous"; his friends dissolve into helpless fits of giggles and screams.
SLAP
Mike shuts his journal with a frustrated huff.
God, the monsters were horrible. But at least they faced them together.
Mike crosses the room and drops onto his bed.
He sighs while folding his pillow up, over his ears. His eyes sqeeuze shut. He misses it bad: the games, the carelessness.
Most of all, he misses the little kid that it belonged to.
Now he’s turned down too many invitations and ignored too many phone calls.
Somewhere, an unspoken rule formed: everything had to happen on Mike’s terms.
Group hangouts became less common. Mike slowly grew more alone.
Reaching out required too much energy he didn’t have. Plus, there was always the certainty whoever he’d call
had better company anyway.
Itchy Heat crawls down his neck, onto his back as the noise outside swells again, the kids racing in circles.
Mike hates this house.
He used to love the basement: the quiet, the sense of maturity that came with owning such a large space. Now it’s like a vault of memories.
At least his bedroom has changed over the years: new posters, a new bed, shelves rearranged more than once.
Four walls, once intended to reflect his inner world, now mirror only a self he ever thought he knew.
Nevertheless, the memory of that confidence was strangely comforting. Even if it wasn’t entirely real, it was something – something more solid than what he has now.
“So what are you going to do, Michael?” he mutters, mimicking the high, probing chirp of someone who seemed to think he had an answer.
What he’s doing is lying on his bed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until everything disappears in a blur of red and black.
Hopper’s voice echoes in his head.
You’ve got two roads ahead of you, kid.
Mike swallows.
The first one is long and dark, but at least it's predictable. The other – better one – is crowded with so many uncertainties he doesn't want to confront and choices he doesn’t know how to make.
If he stands too long, he’ll get pushed off either way.
The problem is, it’s hard to move when the walls of his bedroom feel like they’re closing in.