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Mike Wheeler is six years old when he learns that Valentine’s Day is serious business.
His teacher, Mrs. Clarke, stands in front of the class holding up a red paper heart.
“On Valentine’s Day,” she says, “you give a card to someone who is really special to you.”
Mike blinks.
Really special.
Not just anyone.
Not just the whole class.
Someone.
Across the carpet, Will Byers is sitting criss-cross, sweater sleeves tugged over his hands. He’s listening very carefully, like he always does when something feels important.
“Today, you can make a box,” Mrs. Clarke continues, “and decorate it however you like. And if you want to, you can ask someone to be your Valentine. At the end of the week you will pick up your box from the back of the class.”
A murmur ripples across the classroom.
Mike doesn’t hear any of it.
He’s staring at Will.
Really special.
Construction paper explodes across the classroom.
Glue sticks roll everywhere. Glitter is declared “use sparingly” and immediately ignored.
Mike builds his box like a fortress.
Straight lines. Solid lid. Functional slot.
Efficient.
Will—
Will builds a castle.
Not just a box.
A castle.
Towers made from paper towel rolls. Tiny cut-out windows. A drawbridge carefully glued into place. He even adds a small blue paper flag at the top.
It’s not loud. Not flashy. But it’s beautiful. And everyone notices.
“Will, that’s so good!”
“How did you make that?”
“Can you help me?”
By lunchtime, there are girls gathered around his desk.
Will’s cheeks are pink.
He ducks his head shyly, but he smiles politely at each of them. He shows them how he cut the windows. He lets someone borrow his scissors. He nods when they compliment the flag.
Mike watches from across the room.
His glue dries untouched.
He doesn’t like how close they’re standing.
He doesn’t like how they’re leaning in. He doesn’t like that Will is smiling at them. He especially doesn’t like that Will looks happy without him.
That afternoon, Mike corners his mom in the kitchen while she’s slicing carrots for dinner.
“Mom?”
“Yes, honey?”
“What does it mean to have someone be your Valentine?”
Karen Wheeler pauses, knife still in hand. She smiles the way moms do when they think a question is adorable.
“Well,” she says gently, “it means that person matters to you. You care about them in a special way.”
Mike frowns. “Like… how?”
Karen considers. “It’s someone who makes you feel happy. Someone you want to sit next to. Someone you feel safe with.”
Mike goes very still.
He thinks about sitting on the bench, shoulder pressed against Will’s because the seat is “too small.” He thinks about how Will always lets him go first when they line up. How Will saves the blue crayons for him because he knows Mike likes to color the sky darker than everyone else.
“How do you know?” Mike asks quietly.
“You just do,” she says, brushing his hair back. “It feels warm.”
Warm.
Mike nods slowly.
“Is it like a friend?” he asks.
“It can be,” she says gently. “Sometimes it’s a friend who’s just… extra special.”
Extra special.
He likes that.
Karen studies him for a moment, clearly curious but choosing not to pry.
“Well?” she asks softly. “Are you thinking about asking someone?”
“Maybe,” Mike mutters.
She smiles knowingly but doesn’t push.
At the table behind him, Ted Wheeler rustles his newspaper.
Karen glances over her shoulder.
“Ted,” she says, light but deliberate. “Why don’t you add to that?”
Ted lowers the paper slowly.
“Add to what?”
“What it means to choose a Valentine.”
Ted blinks at Mike.
Then he folds the newspaper with exaggerated seriousness and sets it aside.
He leans back in his chair.
In the flattest, most unimpressed voice imaginable, he says “Well. Choosing a Valentine is serious business.”
Mike straightens instantly. Karen presses her lips together. Ted continues, deadpan.
“It means sticking together forever.”
Mike’s mouth falls open slightly.
“Forever?” he echoes.
Ted nods once. “That’s right. One Valentine. For life.”
Karen lightly swats his arm. “Oh, stop.”
Ted gestures vaguely toward her without breaking tone. “Now I have to get your mother a Valentine every year. Chocolates. Flowers. The whole thing.”
Mike turns slowly toward his mom.
“You do?”
Karen is trying not to laugh. “Your father is joking.”
Ted shrugs. “It’s a commitment. A forever promise.”
Mike’s brain latches onto the new big word immediately.
Commitment.
“No take-backs,” Ted adds casually, reaching for the remote.
Nancy, doing homework at the table, snorts. “Dad.”
But Mike isn’t laughing.
He’s staring at the table, processing.
Forever. Commitment. No take-backs. He swallows.
“What if,” he says carefully, “you don’t know yet?”
Ted raises an eyebrow. “Don’t know what?”
“If it’s… forever.”
Ted considers this like it’s a question about lawn care.
“Well,” he says evenly, “that’s why you choose carefully, before someone else does.”
Mike looks horrified now. Someone else could ask before him?? Karen sighs. “You are not helping.”
But the damage is done.
Mike nods slowly.
Choose carefully.
His mind fills in images automatically. Will saving him a seat. Will handing him the blue crayon. Will standing a little closer than necessary during thunderstorms.
Warm.
Safe.
Forever.
Nancy watches him quietly now.
“You don’t have to decide anything huge,” she says gently. “It’s just a card.”
Mike nods.
But he doesn’t look convinced.
Because in his six-year-old brain, this is no longer just a card.
This is serious business.
This is choosing carefully.
This is possibly forever.
Later that night, when he sits on his bedroom floor staring at blank red construction paper, Ted’s voice echoes in his head:
It’s a commitment.
No take-backs.
Mike grips his pencil tighter.
Okay. He thinks he knows who. He just has to make sure he does it right.
Before he does, he creeps into Nancy’s room.
She’s sprawled across her bed doing homework, pencil tapping against her lip.
“Nance?”
She sighs dramatically but rolls onto her side. “What.”
“Tell me more about Valentines.”
She groans in annoyance and narrows her eyes. “Didn’t Mom already tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then?”
“She said it’s someone who makes you feel warm.”
Nancy softens a little. “Yeah. That’s true.”
She thinks for a moment, then adds, “It’s also someone you want to share things with. Like… your favorite stuff. Your secrets. The first person you look for in a room.”
Mike swallows.
The first person you look for.
He knows that one.
Nancy smirks. “Why? You gonna ask someone?”
He crosses his arms. “Maybe.”
“Must be a cutie.”
Mike scowls. “You don’t know.”
Nancy laughs. “That means yes.”
He leaves before she can ask more questions.
Mike stares at the red paper like it’s judging him.
Forever.
His dad’s voice plays again in his head:
Serious business.
Sticking together forever.
Choose carefully.
What if Will doesn’t? What if Will looks at the card and thinks—
It’s not good enough.
And if the card isn’t good enough…
Maybe Mike isn’t either. He presses the pencil to the paper.
Will,
Will you be my Valentine?
He looks at it.
The “W” in Will is slightly bigger than the rest of the letters.
He hates it immediately.
What if Will thinks he rushed? What if Will thinks he doesn’t care enough?
He flips the paper over.
Second try.
Slower.
Careful.
His hand shakes a little.
The “e” in Valentine leans sideways.
He stares at it like it’s a fatal flaw.
If this is forever, it can’t have leaning letters.
He erases it. The paper tears.
His chest tightens.
What if forever needs straight lines? What if Will looks at this and realizes Mike isn’t careful enough for something permanent?
He crumples the page.
He tries drawing instead.
A knight.
Because Will loves characters. He draws the sword. It’s crooked.
He presses harder to fix it. Now it’s darker than the rest. Uneven. Not perfect.
Not worthy of forever. He throws it aside. His throat feels tight.
This isn’t about paper anymore. This is about whether Will says yes.
If the card is perfect, maybe Will will see that Mike means it. If the card is perfect, maybe Will won’t laugh. If the card is perfect, maybe Will won’t pick someone else.
If the card is perfect—
Maybe Will will choose him. He curls forward, elbows on his knees.
What if Will says no?
The thought lands heavy.
What if Will doesn’t want forever?
What if he only wants this year?
What if he wants someone who draws better knights?
Mike swallows hard. He imagines handing the card over. Will opening it. A pause. A polite smile. “Sorry.”
His stomach twists.
He grabs another sheet of paper, determined.
It has to be perfect.
He writes slower than he ever has before.
Careful. Careful. Careful.
He presses lightly so the letters don’t look angry.
He draws a small heart in the corner.
Still crooked.
He almost tears it up again.
Then he stops.
He looks at it.
It isn’t perfect.
But it looks like him.
And Will—
Will has never laughed at his drawings.
Will always compliments Mike’s drawings even the ones with uneven dragons. Even though Will is clearly better than him. Will once said the crooked spaceship looked “cool because it’s moving.”
Mike’s breathing slows.
What if perfect doesn’t mean flawless? What if perfect means true?
He reads the words again:
Will,
You are the first person I look for.
Will you be my Valentine?
— Love, Mike
His chest feels warm again.
If Will says no…
It won’t be because the heart is crooked. It won’t be because the letters lean. It will just mean… Will doesn’t feel it the same way.
And that hurts.
But it isn’t something glitter could fix.
He presses his hand flat over the card.
Softly, like a promise, he whispers, “I choose carefully.”
And for the first time all evening, he doesn’t reach for another sheet of paper.
Mike does not sleep well.
He keeps the card under his pillow like it might escape.
Every time he closes his eyes, he imagines handing it to Will.
Sometimes Will smiles.
Sometimes Will looks confused.
Once, in a particularly horrifying version, Will says, “I already asked Lucas.”
Mike wakes up sweating.
By morning, the card feels heavier than it did last night.
He carries it in the front pocket of his backpack.
He checks on it three times before math.
Still there.
He checks again during reading.
Still there.
At one point, he thinks maybe it would be safer if he just gave Will a normal class Valentine instead. One with a dinosaur that says “You’re T-RRIFIC!”
That would be fine.
Normal.
Safe.
Mrs. Clarke claps her hands. “Recess!”
Mike’s stomach drops.
This is it.
This is when he always talks to Will alone. By the swings. By the fence. Anywhere that isn’t loud.
He feels the card pressing against his folder like it knows what’s coming.
Will is already standing up, smiling at him.
“Race you?” Will says.
Mike nods automatically.
They run outside.
Mike loses.
He always loses.
Will laughs, breath puffing in the cold air.
“Beat ya,” he teases gently.
Mike laughs too.
And then—
The card.
It’s in his bag.
He can feel it like it’s glowing.
Say it, he tells himself.
Now.
“Hey,” he says.
Will tilts his head. “Yeah?”
The wind lifts Will’s hair again. The sun makes his eyes look greener than usual. There’s dirt on his knee from when he tripped yesterday.
Mike’s heart starts pounding.
This is stupid.
What if Will doesn’t feel warm? What if he laughs? What if he thinks it’s weird?
A girl and Lucas are yelling by the monkey bars. Some girls from class are talking about candy hearts.
This is not private enough.
This is not dramatic enough.
This is not—
He suddenly feels six years old in the worst way.
“Never mind,” Mike blurts.
Will blinks. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Will studies him.
Mike hates that Will is good at that. Noticing.
“You were gonna say something,” Will says.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Mike crosses his arms.
His face feels hot.
Will steps closer. “Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Did I do something?”
“No!”
Will looks genuinely worried now.
And that’s worse.
Because the last thing Mike wants is for Will to think he’s upset with him.
He pulls at the zipper of his backpack.
Just give it.
Just—
His fingers brush the card.
His heart leaps into his throat.
Too fast.
Too scary.
He yanks his hand back like it burned him.
“I just forgot,” he says quickly. “I forgot what I was gonna say.”
Will’s shoulders relax.
“Oh,” he says softly.
And then — because he’s Will — he shrugs and smiles anyway.
“Okay.”
Okay.
That should make Mike feel relieved. Instead, something twists inside him. He almost didn’t say anything. He almost walked away.
He almost let it stay folded under math worksheets forever.
Will starts walking toward the swings again.
Mike watches him go.
The first person I look for.
Nancy’s words echo in his head.
Will turns back halfway there.
“Are you coming?”
He says it like it’s obvious.
Like of course Mike is coming.
Like of course they go together.
That warm feeling floods back into Mike’s chest so suddenly it makes his eyes sting.
He reaches into his backpack.
This time, he doesn’t pull his hand away. He pets the card gently.
“Will,” he calls.
Will turns fully.
Mike walks toward him.
Each step feels like jumping off the swing at the very top.
He stops right in front of him.
His voice wobbles just a little.
“Wait.”
And this time—
He doesn’t say never mind.
“Will.”
“Mike,” Will says, smiling immediately. He always does that — like Mike arriving is the best part of his day.
Mike’s stomach flips.
“Do you know what Valentine’s Day is?” Mike asks.
Will nods. “You give cards.”
“Yeah, but also…” Mike kicks at the dirt. “You can ask someone to be your Valentine.”
Will blinks. “Oh.”
Silence.
The wind picks up. Will’s hair falls in his eyes. Mike reaches out without thinking and pushes it back.
Will doesn’t move away.
“Mrs. Clarke said it’s someone really special,” Mike continues. “Like someone who makes you feel warm.”
Will’s cheeks turn pink.
“Oh.”
“And Nancy said it’s the first person you look for in a room.”
Will looks down at his sneakers.
Mike doesn’t know why his heart is beating so fast. He’s never asked something like this before. It feels like stepping off the swing at the very top.
“Will,” he says.
Will looks up.
And there it is.
That feeling.
Warm. Safe. Like the world shrinks to just the two of them.
“Valentines day is tomorrow Will,” Mike says again, steadier this time. “Will you be my Valentine?”
Will stares at him.
For a second, Mike thinks maybe he did it wrong. Maybe you’re supposed to bring more candy. Or more cards. Or say it differently.
Then Will’s face breaks into the brightest smile Mike has ever seen.
“Yeah,” Will says, almost whispering. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Mike repeats.
“Yeah,” Will says, a little firmer. “Okay.”
Something settles inside Mike’s chest.
Warm.
But they walk back toward the school building side by side, shoulders bumping.
When they line up to go inside, Mike doesn’t have to look for Will.
He’s already there.
And when they sit down on the carpet, Will scoots just a little closer than usual.
Neither of them knows yet what any of it means.
Mrs. Clarke sets the decorated Valentine boxes along the back counter.
“Remember,” she says cheerfully, “drop your cards in quietly so we don’t hurt anyone’s feelings.”
Quietly.
That’s important.
Will doesn’t notice when the first card slips into his castle. He’s at his desk, carefully helping someone else glue one last heart onto their box.
He doesn’t see the pink envelope go in. Or the red one. Or the glitter one.
Across the room—
Mike sees everything.
He sees Anna walk up and smile shyly before sliding a card into the slot.
He sees Lauren practically skip over.
He sees someone from the other first-grade class come in with their teacher and drop one in too.
From another class.
His stomach twists. Why are they giving him so many? Why are they smiling like that?
Will doesn’t even see them.
He just keeps working and reading, soft and unaware.
Mike stands up.
Slowly.
Casually.
He pretends to adjust his own box.
When no one is looking—
He reaches into Will’s slot.
One. Two. Three.
He slides them into his own lunchbox.
Fast.
His heart pounds. No one notices. He tells himself it’s fine.
Will didn’t even see them. It won’t matter.
It keeps happening.
All morning. Girls from their class. Girls from the other first-grade class.
One second grader who whispers something before dropping hers in.
Each time—
Mike waits.
Snatches.
Hides.
His backpack starts to bulge. He stuffs them deeper. Under his math folder. Inside his jacket sleeves.
Between library books.
At one point, the zipper won’t close. He presses his knee against it and forces it shut.
His breathing gets tight.
What if someone checks?
What if Mrs. Clarke asks why his bag is so full?
What if one of the girls asks Will if he got her card?
What if—
What if Will notices?
He glances across the room.
Will is smiling shyly as someone compliments his castle.
He has no idea.
Mike tells himself it’s fine. He’s protecting something. He’s making sure it stays special.
Party of Two.
He’s just… enforcing it. When it’s finally time to pass out boxes, Mrs. Clarke lets them collect them from the counter.
Will walks up carefully.
Mike watches from his seat, pulse racing.
Will lifts his castle. It’s light. Too light. Will tilts it slightly.
He frowns.
Opens the lid. Empty. Completely empty.
Mike’s stomach drops like he’s fallen off the swing at the very top.
Will blinks. He closes the lid quickly, like maybe no one else noticed.
But Mike did.
Will walks back to his desk quietly.
He doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t complain.
Doesn’t ask.
He just sets the box down gently and stares at the tiny paper flag.
All those compliments.
All those smiles.
And no one chose him.
That’s what he thinks.
Across the room, Mike’s backpack is practically bursting. Envelopes are crammed into every pocket.
One is sticking out the side. He shoves it deeper. His hands are shaking now.
He didn’t mean—
He didn’t think—
He thought it would feel better.
It doesn’t.
It feels wrong. There’s an ugly feeling in his chest that won’t go away.
Will deserved to see them.
Even if he didn’t want them. Even if he only wanted one. Mike glances at him again.
Will’s eyes look shiny.
But he doesn’t cry.
He just closes the lid of his empty castle and holds it in his lap.
That’s worse.
Mike’s chest tightens painfully.
His backpack feels like it weighs a million pounds.
The zipper strains.
He can feel the corners of envelopes digging into his side.
There are so many.
Even girls from the other class.
Even girls he doesn’t know.
They all chose Will.
And Will thinks no one did.
The bell rings for dismissal.
Chairs scrape. Parents gather at the door. Will picks up his empty box carefully.
Mike stands frozen.
He could keep them. He could pretend this never happened. He could protect forever.
Will lifts his castle box. He opens it one more time.
Still empty.
He doesn’t understand.
Girls smiled at him today. They said his box was nice. One of them even said, “I’ll bring something tomorrow.”
He didn’t see anyone put anything in.
He must’ve imagined it.
He closes the lid quietly.
Mike’s backpack is straining at the seams. He can barely get it over his shoulder. He avoids looking at Will.
They walk out together.
Side by side like always. They wait for Joyce to pick them up for their play date that evening.
Mike tries to act normal.
“So,” he says, too casual. “How was your day?”
Will nods once.
“Okay.”
Mike glances at him. Will is staring straight ahead. His grip on the box is tight.
Too tight.
Mike’s stomach turns.
“You get a lot?” Mike asks.
Will shrugs. The motion is small.
“No.”
The word is quiet. Too quiet. They stop near the sidewalk.
Mike turns to face him.
“What do you mean no?”
Will looks down at the castle box. He opens it slowly.
Empty. Mike’s chest caves in.
“Oh.”
Will presses his lips together. He tries to smile.
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I think maybe people forgot.”
His voice wobbles at the end.
Just slightly. Mike sees it. He steps closer.
“You didn’t see anyone put any in?”
Will shakes his head.
“No.”
His eyes are glassy now. He blinks once. Twice. Then—
One tear slips free. Quiet. Slow. He doesn’t make a sound. He doesn’t sniffle.
He just keeps looking at the empty box like maybe it’ll change if he waits long enough.
Another tear follows.
He wipes it away quickly with the heel of his hand.
“I think maybe they just liked the box,” he whispers. “Not me.”
That does it.
Mike feels something break inside his chest.
He didn’t mean for this.
He didn’t think—
He thought it would protect something.
Instead—
He made Will feel like nobody likes him.
Mike drops his backpack to the pavement. It lands heavy. Too heavy.
The zipper strains. He opens it. Envelopes spill out. Pink. Red. Glitter.
So many.
Will looks up.
Confused.
Mike’s voice shakes.
“I took them.”
Will blinks through tears.
“What?”
“I took them,” Mike repeats, panic flooding in now. “All of them. I didn’t want them to give you any. So I— I took them when you weren’t looking.”
Will stares at the pile on the sidewalk.
Then at Mike.
“You took all of them?” he asks softly.
Mike nods miserably.
“Even the ones from the other class,” he admits.
Will looks at the stack again. “Other class?…”
There are a lot. More than Mike’s. More than most kids’.
He looks back at his empty castle.
Then at Mike.
Mike’s heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear anything else.
“Yup. I took them,” he blurts again, bracing himself. “All of them.”
He waits for it.
Anger. Yelling. A betrayed look. Will just stares at the pile.
Then at Mike.
“You… took them?” he repeats, not angry. Just confused.
Mike nods rapidly. “I didn’t want them to be in your box. I didn’t want you to think— I didn’t want you to—”
He’s spiraling. Words tangling.
Will’s brows knit together.
“Why?”
Mike swallows hard.
“Because I wanted mine to be the only one,” he admits in a rush. “The only special one.”
The confession hangs there.
Heavy.
Serious.
Mike braces for it again.
But instead—
Will blinks.
Then—
He laughs.
It’s soft at first. Surprised. Then a little louder.
“You are so extra,” Will says, wiping at the tear tracks still on his cheeks.
Mike freezes.
“What?”
Will steps closer and nudges his shoulder.
“You’re my Valentine,” Will says like it’s obvious. “You didn’t have to steal them.”
Mike’s face is burning.
“I just—”
“It’s okay,” Will says gently.
He crouches down and gathers a few of the envelopes. He doesn’t look dazzled by them. Just mildly curious.
“I didn’t even see them put these in,” he says. “I thought nobody did, even you.”
Mike winces.
“I’m sorry.”
“I was waiting to see if you put one in.”
Mike’s chest caves in. He hurriedly pulls out one last envelope.
Red. Careful. Neat handwriting. He holds it close to his chest.
“I did,” he says.
Will looks up at him, then he finally smiles as big as he did yesterday.
“You could’ve just asked,” Will says.
“Asked what?”
“If you were still the only special one.”
Mike’s heart makes a concerning flip. He’ll be sure to ask Nance about that later.
“And?” he asks quietly.
Will bumps his shoulder again.
“Duh.”
Mike lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
The tension melts out of him all at once.
He hands over red envelope. The neat one. The careful one. He holds it out.
“This one’s different,” he says softly.
Will takes it.
He notices the straight letters immediately.
“You wrote really neat.”
“I had to redo it over and over,” Mike admits, still pink in the face. “To make sure.”
“To make sure what?”
“That you’d be my Valentine.”
Will’s smile softens.
“I already was,” he says.
He opens the card. Reads. His cheeks turn a little pink too.
“You’re the first person I look for,” he reads aloud quietly.
He looks up.
“You are too.”
Mike’s stomach flips.
For a second, they just stand there in the cool afternoon air, surrounded by scattered envelopes.
Then Will does something unexpected.
He leans in. Quick. Soft.
And presses a small kiss to Mike’s cheek. It’s over in less than a second. But it might as well be fireworks.
Mike’s brain stops working. His entire face floods red instantly. He's Will pulls back, just as pink.
“Now it’s extra official,” he says shyly.
Mike touches his cheek like it might still be glowing.
“You— you kissed me,” he stammers.
Will shrugs, trying to act casual and failing.
“Valentines do that sometimes.”
Mike smiles. Slow. Wide. Relieved. Not mad.
Not mad at all.
He nudges Will back.
“Okay,” he says softly.
Party of Two.
And this time, no stealing required.