Chapter Text
November 6, 1987
Will,
The therapist the government forced on us — you know which one — told me it might help to write things down. Moments. Pieces of memories.
He said it could help me accept certain things. And help me express myself too. You know I’m bad at that.
What am I even supposed to write?
That the gates of hell closed? That El is gone? That we’re all supposed to act like none of it ever happened?
Ridiculous.
My mom, on the other hand, seemed pretty enthusiastic about the idea. So we went to Melvald’s to find me a notebook. Not a school notebook — a real one. Thick cover, slightly yellowed pages, lines already drawn.
Now it’s sitting right in front of me.
And I still don’t know what to write in it.
To be honest, I didn’t even know who I was supposed to write to. I couldn’t really picture myself writing for myself, like Nancy with her diaries.
And then I thought of you. I figured you wouldn’t judge me.
Anyway, it’s not really meant to be read.
I still don’t know what to write. The therapist said it would come on its own.
We’ll see.
Mike
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November 20, 1987
Will,
Going back to school feels weird.
Everyone acts like it’s over. Like the cracks have been sealed for good. Like the world didn’t almost split open.
I can’t do it.
I have this constant feeling that something is going to jump out. A noise behind me, a flickering light, a silence that lasts too long. I flinch for no reason. I always feel like I’ve forgotten something important. Like when you leave the house and can’t remember if you locked the door.
We talked about it a little, all of us. Not for long. No one wants to linger on it. But I feel like we’re all the same. How do you go back to history class after spending years fighting monsters no one else will ever see?
Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing a disguise.
Like I’ve put on a version of myself that’s a little too big. Someone pretending to be normal, but who isn’t really normal anymore.
At least we’re all together. The party, I mean.
I don’t say it often, but it matters. More than I could ever write properly.
I miss El.
Mike
··· -·-· ·- ·-· · -··
December 5, 1987
Will,
I think I’m grieving.
And at the same time, I feel bad using that word.
Because if I really think about it, El might not be dead. Not like that. Not completely. I like to imagine that she’s somewhere, figuring out who she is without us. Without me. Living a life that truly belongs to her.
So why does it hurt this much?
I think a lot about the last moments. About what I said.
About what I didn’t say, especially.
I know I should have told her that I loved her. Everyone made that clear to me, even without saying it. As if it was obvious. As if it was… simple.
But it wasn’t.
Our relationship had already started to fall apart long before all of this. We weren’t even together anymore. Or maybe we were. I don’t know. She dumped my ass in front of all our friends, after all.
In a way, I think I’m glad she did. Or…no. That’s not the right word. I don’t think glad is what I mean. But… I understand it now. At least, I think I do. We were too young. Too fused together. Too dependent. We hurt each other without really understanding why.
Sometimes I wonder if it was really love, like in the movies. Or if it was mostly the fear of being alone.
I feel guilty for thinking about it. Like analyzing it is betraying what we had.
Maybe I’m just writing nonsense.
Mike
--· ··- ·· ·-·· -
December 14, 1987
Will,
The days all blur together, but I wouldn’t call them calm.
We still see each other almost every day after school. It’s become a kind of ritual. We meet up, hang out, talk about normal things. Classes. Games. Whatever. I think it helps everyone to act like we know exactly what we’re doing, like slipping back into our habits might protect us a little.
Sometimes, I almost feel like it works.
But there’s always something tense in the background. Like no one ever really relaxes. We laugh, but it doesn’t last long. The silences feel heavier than they used to. No one says her name, but I’m sure we’re all thinking it. About what it means to tell yourself that she’s not here anymore.
It’s not the first time El has disappeared. We already thought she was dead once. Back then, I kept going, more or less. I learned how to live with the idea, even if it hurt.
This time, it’s different. I can’t really explain it. It’s not just waiting, or fear. It’s like something has closed for good. Like a door shut quietly, and I can’t pretend I didn’t hear it.
My mom is here too. More than usual.
I think it’s because she knows. Really knows. Not just the basics. The Upside Down. The monsters. All of it. She never pretends it didn’t happen. She protected Holly. I still remember the hospital. The bandages, the machines. I know what it cost her. And somehow, she kept going. Long enough to be there when Max, Lucas and the others needed help.
Sometimes I talk to her. Not for long. Not about everything. Just enough to breathe a little. I don’t have to explain or soften anything. She listens, she understands. And that’s enough. I think it helps me to know she saw the same things we have. And that she’s still here.
I pay attention to everything. The noises. The looks. The moments when the group breaks apart and I end up alone. I feel like I’m constantly on edge, even when everything looks normal.
So we keep going. We meet up. We pretend. And for a moment, it’s almost enough.
Mike
·-- ·- - -·-· ···· ·· -· --·
December 25, 1987
Will,
Merry Christmas.
It feels strange to write that this year, because everyone is acting like it’s just another day, only with a few more lights, a few more decorations, and a lot more forced smiles. We’re all trying to fall back into something normal, like sticking to the calendar is enough to put things back in place, like simply celebrating Christmas could erase what we’ve been through.
I think it’s even harder during the holidays, precisely because everyone pretends even more that everything is fine. No one really wants to linger on what’s missing, on the absences, so we talk louder, we eat more, we keep ourselves busier.
Hopper was there. I expected him to look broken, or at least much sadder, but instead he seemed… steady. Not happy, not really at peace either, but less shattered than I imagined. Like he’d found a way to stay standing, even if it was shaky. It surprised me, and without really knowing why, it gave me a bit of hope.
I keep telling myself that El might still be alive. Not here, not like before, but somewhere. I know it might just be a way to reassure myself, a story I’m telling myself to cope with the idea that she’s gone, but I can’t quite let it go. I need to believe it, at least a little.
I feel a bit ridiculous writing things like this. It’s so far from what I usually write that sometimes I barely recognize myself on these pages, but I guess that’s kind of the point.
Anyway, I’m being careful with this notebook. I hide it well, at the bottom of my desk drawer, wedged between my old school stuff.
I wonder if you’ve been told to write too. And if that’s the case, I wonder what it might look like, what you’d choose to write down, what you’d leave out.
Mike
-··· · ·-·· ·· · ···- ·
January 6, 1988
Will,
School started again this week.
It feels strange how quickly everything snaps back into place. The bells, the hallways, the noise. Like nothing ever stopped. Like we didn’t just live through something that should have changed everything.
The Christmas decorations are gone now. The lights too. It’s quieter. Not calm—just quieter. The kind of quiet that doesn’t really hide anything.
We’re still together, all of us. We sit at the same tables. We walk the same routes. We talk about the same things as before. Homework. Games. Stupid stuff. I catch myself going along with it, nodding, laughing at the right moments.
Sometimes it works.
And then suddenly it doesn’t.
There are moments where the noise doesn’t cover anything anymore. Where a joke lands wrong, or the silence lasts a second too long. No one says anything, but I can feel it. Like we’re all pretending at the same time, hoping no one will be the first to stop.
I don’t think anyone’s doing this on purpose. I think we’re all just tired.
I keep waiting for something to happen. Not something bad, not exactly. Just… something. Like if I stay alert enough, I won’t miss it. Like if I let my guard down, that’s when it’ll all fall apart.
It’s harder now. Harder than it was during the holidays. Back then, the lights helped. The schedule helped. Now it’s just us again.
And that doesn’t feel like it used to.
Mike
- ·· ·-· · -··
January 18, 1988
Will,
I’ve realized that I’ve been talking less and less lately, not just to the others, but to you too. I know you’re there, I really do, and yet part of me would rather keep my distance, like staying a little on the sidelines is easier than risking saying something I wouldn’t know how to take back.
I think I’m also telling myself a stupid story — that you wouldn’t really understand. Not completely. Because you lost El too, in your own way, like a sister, and it would feel unfair to put my contradictions on you, my hesitation, my thoughts that go in every direction without ever really settling.
So I stay quiet. I act like everything’s fine, like that’s enough to fix the problem. I answer when people talk to me, I do what’s expected of me, and I avoid going any further than that.
It’s easier this way.
At least, I think it is.
Mike
··· ·· ·-·· · -· -·-· ·
January 29, 1988
Will,
I’ve started to notice it lately. The way I hesitate before talking. The way I stop myself halfway through a sentence, like I’m checking something I can’t quite see.
It’s easier when there are other people around. When there’s noise. When I don’t have to choose my words too carefully. When I can just let the conversation move past me without having to step into it.
With you, it’s different.
You notice when I go quiet. You always have. Even when I don’t say anything, you look at me like you’re waiting for something I don’t know how to give you yet.
There are moments when I almost say something. When it’s right there, sitting on my tongue. And then I pull back. I change the subject. I let someone else talk instead.
It’s not because I don’t trust you. If anything, it’s the opposite. I think that’s what scares me.
I don’t know how to be honest without breaking something. I don’t know how to say things out loud without them becoming real in a way I can’t undo.
So I stay where it’s safer. In the middle of the group. In the noise. In the pretending.
I tell myself it’s temporary. That I’ll figure it out later. That I just need more time.
I hope that’s true.
Mike
-·-· ·-·· --- ··· ·
February 11, 1988
Will,
I know you worry when I pull away, and I don’t blame you for it. But it’s not against you. It’s just that I feel like if I really start talking, I won’t know how to stop, like everything might come out at once without me being able to control any of it.
Especially with you. Because you understand too well, and right now I don’t think I can handle being understood. I just want things to quiet down, for everything to stay calm, even if it’s artificial.
That doesn’t mean you matter any less. On the contrary—if I’ve been this careful, it’s precisely because you matter.
It just means I don’t have the shoulders for it yet.
Mike
-·-· ·- ·-· ·
February 14, 1988
Anything Could Happen – The Clean
Will,
There are days when I’m okay. Not “good,” just… okay. And I notice it almost despite myself. I catch myself laughing for real—not that automatic laugh you use to blend in, but the kind that slips out before I have time to stop it. It always catches me off guard when it happens.
I feel guilty afterward. Like forgetting, even for a second, means I’m leaving something behind. Or pretending that everything we went through never existed.
The world keeps turning anyway, whether I pay attention to it or not. Classes keep going. So does homework. Dustin still talks too loud. Lucas is back to basketball like nothing ever happened. And Max pretends everything is normal. Sometimes, I almost believe it. Not for long, but long enough to surprise me.
On top of that, it’s Valentine’s Day. A commercial holiday, if you ask me. But seeing people be even more ridiculous than usual in the school hallways, holding hands and smiling like the world is exactly where it’s supposed to be—it hit me harder than I would’ve liked.
Lucas and Max are still very much in love. You can tell, even when they try to act casual about it. And I’m genuinely happy for them. Really. At the same time, it made me realize something I’d never really wanted to look at before: that kind of simple, right kind of love probably wasn’t what I had with El. And for the first time, I don’t think that with bitterness. I just think that if a healthy kind of love exists, it probably looks a lot like what the two of them share.
I’m starting to think that maybe continuing to live isn’t a betrayal. That it isn’t forgetting either. It’s just… surviving differently.
Mike
-··· ·-· · ·- - ···· ·
February 26, 1988
Will,
Something strange happened last night, while I was alone in my room. The radio on like it usually is, playing in the background without me really listening to it. At some point, the frequency shifted on its own—just some static, then a different song—and at first I thought the radio was just about to give up.
Then the lamp flickered. Just once.
I know it sounds stupid, and I know there has to be a rational explanation. A loose wire. A power issue. Anything that would put things back into a logical order. I thought about all of that, I really did, but in that moment, it wasn’t enough.
Because in that moment, I knew. Not with my head, but with something else.
I told myself that she was okay, wherever she was, and for the first time in a long while, that thought didn’t hurt. It didn’t make me sad. It didn’t even really make me happy. It calmed me.
It was like I could finally breathe without feeling like I was doing something wrong.
Mike
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March 20, 1988
I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For – U2
Will,
I’ve started making plans again. Stupid little ones I hadn’t even thought about not that long ago. Thinking about summer. About what I’ll do after high school. About vague things that aren’t very concrete yet. Or even small, meaningless details, like reorganizing my room, moving furniture around, making space for something I don’t even know what to do with yet.
Before, all of that felt pointless, almost indecent. Like pretending nothing had happened. Like looking too far ahead was a kind of betrayal. Like searching for something else meant abandoning what I’d lost.
Now I’m trying to tell myself that moving forward doesn’t necessarily mean forgetting. That I can look, hesitate, get things wrong, without having all the answers right away. If El saw me hesitating to live, she’d probably call me an idiot. She never liked it when I stayed still for too long. I can picture her rolling her eyes, sighing, then giving me a small push to make me move already.
I’ve also started noticing the effort you make.
The way you’re there without pushing, without asking too many questions—just enough for me to know I can count on you. You don’t always say much, but you stay. You’re present. And I think that’s what I needed most while I was trying to figure things out.
The others are here too, of course. Dustin, Lucas, Max… their support means a lot. I wouldn’t get through this without them.
But with you, it’s different. It always has been, even before all of this. I can’t really explain why. Maybe because we never needed to know exactly what we were doing. Maybe because we’ve always moved forward side by side, even when we weren’t looking in the same direction.
It reassures me more than I want to admit to know that this bond is still there, even a little damaged, even after everything we’ve been through. It reminds me that even if I don’t know yet what I’m looking for, I’m not doing it completely alone.
I’m starting to come out of my shell a little. Not all at once, and not very gracefully either. But I’m trying to reach out, even if it’s awkward. Most of the time, it comes down to a look, a “thank you” said a little too fast, like I’m afraid of saying too much.
I still don’t know exactly where I’m going, or what I’m supposed to find along the way. But I’m moving forward. And for now, I think that’s enough.
Mike
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