Chapter Text
The morning light crept through the blinds of Mike Wheeler’s kitchen like it was trying to sneak past him. The clock on the wall said 7:42. The toaster clicked; the coffee maker hissed. It was another quiet morning in a life that had become almost too predictable.
“Dad! You’re burning the Eggos again!” Ellie’s voice carried from down the hall — a tone of teenage impatience and affection mixed into one.
Mike blinked, snapped out of his daze, and quickly popped the waffles out before they turned into charcoal. “They’re supposed to be crispy!” he called back, pretending confidence he didn’t feel.
Willow entered the kitchen, her twin sister right behind her. They were thirteen now — full of energy, opinions, and some strange ability to make Mike feel like time had sprinted ahead without asking permission. Willow’s dark hair curled the same way his had when he was her age, and Ellie had her mom’s eyes — soft brown, always watching, always curious.
He handed them each a plate, watching as they bickered over syrup. Sometimes, when they were laughing like this, he forgot that anything had ever gone wrong. He forgot about the nights the house was too big, too quiet; the phone calls with their mom that ended with polite silences and sighs instead of love.
It had been three years since the divorce. They’d tried — really tried — but it was like forcing two magnets with the same pole together. His ex-wife, Hannah, was kind, patient, and everything he thought he should’ve wanted. But Mike had always known, somewhere deep down, that he’d been giving her a version of himself that wasn’t whole.
And lately, that truth had been creeping into his dreams again — in flashes of laughter from long ago, a soft voice, brown eyes, and a California sunset that never quite left his heart.
“Dad,” Willow said, breaking him out of it, “can you take us to the concert on Saturday?”
Mike blinked. “Concert?”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Yes, Dad, concert. You promised if we saved up our allowance, we could go.”
He frowned, sipping his coffee. “Who’s playing?”
“Chappell Roan,” they said at the same time, like it was obvious.
Mike tilted his head. “Who?”
Willow laughed. “Dad, she’s, like, the coolest artist ever. You’ve definitely heard her before. You just don’t know you have.”
“I’m an old man, remember?” he teased, trying to mask how out of touch he felt. “I only listen to the classics. The Smiths. Bowie. You know, actual music.”
Ellie groaned. “Chappell Roan is actual music! Please, Dad? We have front-row seats!”
“Front row?” he asked, half-impressed, half-worried. “How did you even—?”
“Mom helped,” Willow said quickly. “She said you’d go with us because she couldn’t come.”
Mike sighed, running a hand through his still-messy curls. He caught his reflection in the toaster — a bit of tiredness that wasn’t just from lack of sleep. He’d spent years pretending he was fine, that the ache was just nostalgia. But lately, he’d been realizing something worse — it wasn’t just nostalgia. It was something missing. Someone.
“Alright,” he said finally, setting down his mug. “Fine. I’ll go. But you two owe me big time.”
Ellie threw her arms up. “Yes!”
Willow grinned. “You’re gonna love her, Dad. She’s amazing. Like, she writes about real stuff. Feelings and heartbreak and… people figuring out who they are.”
Something in Mike’s chest tightened at that. “Yeah,” he said softly, “sounds familiar.”
Saturday came too soon.
Mike stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his jacket. He still looked like the same guy, but older — more grounded, maybe. The twins were bouncing around the living room, dressed in sparkly outfits that made them look like they’d walked out of a music video.
He smiled watching them. It was moments like these that reminded him why he tried so hard to be present. They deserved everything — a dad who showed up, who listened, who didn’t let the ghosts of his past steal what time he had with them.
As they drove into the city, the radio played softly. Ellie was talking about the concert, and Willow was scrolling through a playlist. Every now and then, a lyric from one of Chappell’s songs played through the car speakers — something about unspoken love, about leaving and coming back, about growing up too fast. Mike didn’t know her, but he felt the weight behind those words.
He thought about the letters he never sent. The phone calls he never made. The conversation he never had with Will Byers.
The last time they’d seen each other had been awkward. It was years ago — Lucas and Max’s wedding. Will had already started working in art design, and Mike was still pretending everything in his life was fine. They’d talked for maybe ten minutes. And Mike remembered the way Will’s eyes lingered on him for just a second longer than they should have, like he was still waiting for an answer that had never come.
Then life happened. Marriage. Kids. Work. Silence.
Now, driving toward the noise and lights of a concert he didn’t even want to attend, Mike couldn’t help but wonder what Will was doing. If he’d ever settled down. If he’d ever stopped painting.
The venue came into view — neon signs, crowds of fans dressed in glitter, laughter filling the air.
“Come on, Dad!” Willow said, grabbing his hand as they made their way inside. The music was already starting to pulse through the floor.
Mike smiled, letting himself get swept up in the excitement. Maybe this was good. Maybe he needed something loud and new to shake the static out of his head.
The stage lights dimmed. Screams filled the air. And Mike, standing in a sea of color and chaos, had no idea that tonight, the static in his chest was about to become something electric again.