Work Text:
“Mike, hurry up please, we’re leaving soon!”
His mother’s voice drifts up the staircase and through the half-open door, behind which Mike has been standing unmoving for at least 10 minutes.
“Yeah!” he calls back automatically. “I’m almost done.”
He still stays where he is and looks around the room. It looks wrong.
It’s still his, of course. It’s the same four walls, the same window overlooking the front yard and the street. But everything that had made it his has been peeled away. He’s packed his entire life into labeled boxes which now sit crammed in the trunk of his parent’s car.
The posters are gone. The bookshelf stands bare, the shelves dusted. His desk hasn’t been this cleared in years. It looks more like a prop than something where he actually used to do his homework or create hundreds of D&D campaigns.
He takes a deep breath and turns around slowly. For the first time since he can remember, he doesn’t have to watch where he’s stepping. There are no piles of clothes on the ground.
The car is already packed. His father insisted on doing it yesterday, so that they can leave on time today. For college.
College has always seemed abstract and distant. It was like something that belonged to older versions of him. It was always supposed to be someday.
But now this someday has become today. And for some reason he still isn't prepared for it. He’d expected it to happen slowly, over time. Instead, he just woke up this morning and suddenly everything is about to change. He has only a few minutes left of the life he's known.
Mike moves toward the window and pushes the curtains aside with his fingers. The sky is bright, the sun is shining. The street outside looks the same as it has every morning of his life. He sees the neighbor's car parked crookedly in their driveway. There’s the maple tree across the road that has already started to shed its leaves.
Nothing out there would suggest that anything is ending.
He turns again and lets his gaze travel along the walls as if he’s trying to memorize each crack in them.
He has spent his entire life here.
He’s celebrated birthdays in this room. He watched the first snow of winter fall outside. He’s had countless arguments with Nancy through the wall. He spent late nights whispering on the walkie with his friends, trying not to wake anyone else.
He steps back to the center of the room and looks down at the floor. He can picture younger versions of himself there, sitting cross-legged, arguing over rules and monsters. His eyes move to a particular spot near the bed, where someone else used to sit, with his knees drawn up and his hands moving over a sketchbook.
Mike’s gaze lingers there without meaning to.
When he finally manages to look away, his eyes rest on the last remaining box in the room.
It sits on the floor next to the desk, not fully closed, because Mike hasn’t decided what to do with it.
He steps toward it, crouches down and rests his hands on either side. He tells himself he will decide now. No more putting it off.
He opens the flaps and finds pieces of his life inside.
On top are D&D notebooks. He picks one up and flips through pages filled with cramped handwriting and uneven maps of dungeons that once felt real. There are monster stats scratched out and rewritten. A folded character sheet slips loose from between the pages, written in careful handwriting he recognizes instantly.
He closes the notebook gently and sets it to the side, so that he can see what else hides inside the box.
There’s a bunch of loose photographs that he’s always planned to put into an album. Now they’re scattered in the box, the corners slightly bent.
There’s one of them on their bikes lined up in the street. Another shows them in the basement, their laughter forever frozen in time. Mike remembers how Jonathan took it when he came to pick up Will. He just got his new camera and insisted we all crammed on the small couch so he could get them all into the frame. They barely managed to sit still for one second, and Jonathan kept complaining about it.
And there’s another one which shows only Will, sitting on a rock in the forest, glancing over his shoulder at the camera with a shy smile.
Mike’s thumb lingers at the edge of that photo before he places it back in the stack.
Underneath are smaller things. There are some ticket stubs from the cinema, old Hellfire flyers they had planned to hand out at school, but never got around to it.
At the very bottom is a rolled up piece of paper.
His chest tightens at the sight of it.
He lifts it carefully, and unrolls it across the desk. He smooths it flat with his palms.
Mike remembers how he’d been stunned when he first saw it. Because it showed a version of him he couldn’t see himself yet.
Back then, Will had told Mike El had commissioned it. That she had asked him to draw it for Mike. And Mike had believed him, because there had been no reason to doubt it. El had always seen him like that.
But later, when things were a little less messy, he thanked her for it. She had looked at him confused and asked what he was talking about. She hadn’t known Will had drawn a painting. And she certainly hadn't asked him to do it.
His fingers hover over the painted heart.
The painting had changed him. Or at least the way he saw himself. Suddenly he actually felt the strength and confidence that Will had portrayed in the painting.
Will gave him the idea that maybe Mike is the one holding everything together.
And he lied about it.
Mike stares at the painting now as if it might finally explain itself. He’s wanted to ask Will so many times. Why did you say it was from El?
But every time the question rose, something had interrupted it. There’d been distractions and eventually a silence too thick to cut through.
There are a lot of things he wishes he’d asked.
They come back to him at night and he tries to edit his own lines, rewriting entire conversations that already happened.
And now everything is different. He might never get an answer.
He is still looking at the painting when he hears small footsteps in the hallway.
They hesitate outside his door before there's a soft knock on the wood.
“Mike?”
He doesn’t have time to answer before the door pushes fully open and Holly slips inside. She pauses just past the threshold, like she isn’t sure whether this room still belongs to him or already to someone else.
“Oh,” she says quietly, taking in the bare walls. “It looks weird.”
“Yeah,” he replies, rolling the painting halfway closed. “I guess.”
She steps farther in, turning slowly in a small circle. Without his mess cluttering the space, she seems smaller in it.
“I’ll miss you,” she says matter-of-factly. She doesn't try to make it sound dramatic.
“I’ll visit,” Mike answers quickly. Too quickly. “I’ll come home all the time.”
Holly watches him for a moment in that steady way kids do when they’re trying to decide if you’re telling the truth.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” she says with a shrug. “You’re gonna have, like… a lot to do. College stuff. And you're going to find new friends. You'll have a whole new life.”
The words shouldn’t sting, but they do.
“I’ll still come home,” he insists, softer this time.
She shrugs again, like it doesn’t really matter either way.
Her gaze drifts to the desk.
“What’s that?”
“Just a painting," he answers, shrugging his shoulders. But she seems intrigued.
"Can I see?"
He hesitates only a second before nodding slowly.
She moves closer and stands right next to him in front of the desk. Holly's eyes widen slightly at the sight of it.
“Whoa,” she breathes. “That’s cool.”
Mike watches her taking it in.
“The armor’s awesome,” she says. “And the sword. And the heart thing.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “Yes, it is.”
“Who did it?”
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Will.”
Holly nods immediately, like that makes perfect sense. “He’s always been super talented.”
Mike swallows. “Yeah," is all he manages to say.
Holly smooths the edge of the paper carefully, almost reverently, looking back up at him, her head tilted slightly.
“Did you say goodbye to him yet?”
The question hits so sudden and unexpected, that for a moment he can only blink at her.
“What?”
“To Will,” she clarifies, like it’s obvious. “Did you say goodbye?”
His fingers curl slightly at his sides.
“No,” he says after a beat. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
He lets out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just… not really a big fan of goodbyes.”
That sounds casual enough, he figures.
Holly studies him, considering.
“But you might not be back here for a while,” she says. “You should probably do it.”
He looks away from her, toward the window instead.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“You guys were always best friends,” she adds, like it’s something that requires no debate.
Were.
The word lodges somewhere uncomfortable inside him.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “We were.”
Holly doesn’t seem to notice the shift in his tone. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t know what to do with it.
She steps back toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame.
“Mom’s gonna lose it if you’re not downstairs soon,” she warns. “So hurry up.”
He nods.
“Okay.”
She gives him one last look, then disappears into the hallway. Her footsteps fade down the stairs.
Mike stays where he is.
The room feels even emptier now, like it briefly held something warm and then just slipped away again.
Did you say goodbye to him yet?
The question doesn’t feel so innocent anymore. It's started to stir something inside of him he can't shake off instantly.
Should I go? The thought rises before he can stop it. He imagines it for a second - how he'd walk there, standing with too many words and not getting any of them out. He imagines trying to explain everything that he hasn't been able to explain for months now.
What would he even say? I’m sorry? For what, exactly?
For not noticing sooner.
For noticing and pretending he didn’t.
For choosing the easier thing to say instead of the right one.
The list feels endless when he lets himself think about it. He could probably write a whole book about it.
But then he tells himself it wouldn’t change anything.
Saying goodbye now doesn’t undo everything that happened. It doesn't magically rewind time and bring them back to the basement, to when everything was still simple and uncomplicated.
He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. Saying it won't change a thing. He's still leaving, college is still happening. The future is waiting for him.
He lets out a slow breath and looks back at the desk. The painting sits there like quiet proof of something he never fully understood.
He knows he messed up. And the worst part is, that he didn't just do it once. He did it a hundred times, in small ways, but still. He did it in hesitating, in choosing comfort over honesty.
He might have waited too long. And if that’s true, showing up now with apologies and confessions won’t do any good.
The thought won’t leave him alone, though.
You guys were always best friends.
He moves to the bed and lets himself sink down on the stripped mattress. His hands hang loosely between his knees. The room feels too quiet.
And then the memory comes back. He doesn't really try to stop it.
It's late or at least the sky has darkened so much that it looks like it. The air smells like rain and dust, a scent that has been clinging to Hawkins for days now. Mike has just stepped outside of The Squawk, while everyone else remains inside, still arguing about the plan.
He needed a moment alone, just for himself. He knows they might be facing the end of the world and still, the only thing he can really think about is what Will said in there.
He keeps seeing his face, how he couldn't hold back the tears eventually. There was fear in his eyes, but there was also pride, small and easy to overlook. But Mike saw it, because he knows him better than most.
"Mike?"
The voice startles Mike so much he actually flinches. He turns around and sees Will stepping outside, the door closing softly behind him.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to…," he trails off and Mike can see how his hands are fiddling with the hem of his shirt. A telltale sign that he's nervous.
"Can we talk?" Will eventually says, instead of finishing his initial sentence. His voice is careful. Mike just nods.
Will doesn’t look at him at first. In fact he looks everywhere but directly at Mike. He looks down at his hands, to the darkened sky or over the field stretching out in front of The Squawk.
"I just… wanted you to know you're really important to me," he says quietly and Mike can't help but frown at that. He huffs out a laugh, even though he doesn't really feel like it.
"Yeah, I know. You're important to me too."
But that's not what Will meant. And Mike realizes this a second too late.
Will finally looks at him, and there's something fragile in his expression. As if he's about to hand Mike something he fears Mike could shatter with just one wrong word.
"What I said in there… I feel like I should be completely honest with you. I mentioned someone I had a crush on, and… I don't know, maybe I should've spoken to you first, but… it all happened so fast and… it's you, Mike. You are the person I had that crush on."
Once it's out, nothing happens. One would expect a dramatic shift in the air. But the only thing that happens is something inside Mike jolting sharply, like he's missed a step on the stairs.
He stares at Will.
“What?”
The word comes out too sharp. This time it's Will who flinches, almost imperceptibly so. But Mike sees it anyway.
“I just… I thought you should know. Because…” He shakes his head, aborting whatever explanation he’s had prepared. “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to have it all out in the open. No more secrets."
A huge part of Mike struggles with the whole situation. It's absurd, really. They're about to walk into another nightmare, they all know that. Neither of them knows if they'll make it out alive. And this is what Will chooses to say to him just before it starts.
Mike feels heat rush to his face, not from anger exactly, from something he can't really place himself. Maybe fear, or confusion. Maybe it's both, mixed with the sudden, disorienting realization that he has missed something that was happening right in front of him.
“Why would you tell me that now?” he asks, taking a step back.
Will’s shoulders tighten.
“I don’t know. I just thought… I didn’t want to keep lying.”
Lying.
Mike’s mind snags on that word. He thinks about the painting. How El told him she had nothing to do with it, which meant Will had lied to him in that van. And he has to think about the way Will has been looking at him for months now. The unreadable expression Mike couldn't quite figure out all this time.
“You don’t have to-” Mike starts, then stops. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. He feels cornered by something he doesn’t understand.
“You know I’m with El,” he says instead, defensively. He can feel an invisible wall come up between them.
Will nods quickly. “I know. I know that. I’m not… This isn't me asking for anything."
But to Mike it still feels like it. Why else would he say it? He understands why Will had to say it back in there, how he thought he needed to get it out, so Vecna couldn't use it against him anymore. But this has nothing to do with Vecna. It's about Mike and Mike doesn't know how to deal with it.
“You could’ve just… not said anything. That's not the same as lying,” Mike says, and the moment the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could pull them back.
Will’s body stiffens as he looks down to his hands, fingers twisting the hem of his shirt.
“I know,” he says quietly.
There’s so much Mike could've said then.
He could've said thank you for telling me.
He could've said I’m sorry if I ever made you feel confused.
He could've said you’re my best friend and I don’t want to lose you.
Instead, he says another thing he wishes he could take back.
“This just makes things weird,” he mutters.
The silence that follows is heavy and filled with the things Mike should've said instead.
Will nods again, but something has already shifted behind his eyes. As if a part of him is already withdrawing from this conversation and from Mike.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says.
Mike crosses his arms, hating how exposed he suddenly feels. He hates that he doesn't know how to fix this. This doesn't have an easy solution. Suddenly climbing up into the sky into another dimension seems like a walk in the park in comparison to this.
“We should probably go back inside,” he says finally. Because that's the only way he can make this stop. It's an exit, not a resolution to the actual problem.
Will doesn’t argue. He just nods.
They walk back inside side by side, but there’s a space between them that hasn't been there before. It's thin. And Mike already knows it's permanent.
Mike opens his eyes, and his bedroom comes back into focus around him. He presses the palms of his hands against his face and takes a deep breath. As if that alone could make the guilt go away again.
He's felt it ever since that night and it only grew stronger with each passing day. Every time he avoided another conversation with Will, the regret weighed harder on his shoulders.
He knows that his reaction was bad. It was the worst, actually.
Will wasn't asking for anything, wasn't demanding anything from him. He just wanted the truth to simply exist between them. And Mike made it about himself because he was afraid of how it would change things.
Once he's managed to shake off the memory, he gets up from the bed and heads for his desk, where the box and the painting are still waiting.
He puts the painting carefully into the box, then seals it shut with tape. He's decided to take it with him after all. He isn't ready to leave these versions of himself behind yet.
He picks the box up and leaves his room without looking back again.
His parents are already waiting outside. His father is checking the trunk again, making sure everything is secured. His mother turns around when she notices him stepping through the front door.
Her eyes land on the box in his arms, then travel up to his face and something in her expression crumples just slightly.
"Oh," she says, pressing a hand to her chest. "I can't believe this."
"Mom, please," he mutters, rolling his eyes because he already knows what's coming next.
But she ignores him and then she's already there, wrapping her arms awkwardly around him and the box he's still carrying. The hug is tight and for a moment he can't breathe properly.
“My second baby,” she says into his shirt, her voice already thick. “I can’t believe you’re leaving.”
“I’m not moving across the world,” he says, attempting a shrug. “It’s just college.”
“That’s exactly what I said when Nancy left,” she replies, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “And look how fast everything changes.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. Because she is right.
He gently disentangles himself, stepping back. “We should probably go,” he says. “We don’t want to be late.”
She studies him for a moment, like she’s trying to memorize something about his face. Then she nods slowly.
“Is there anywhere you’d like to stop?” she asks, her tone softening. “Before we leave Hawkins? Any place you want to see one more time?”
The question hangs in the air between them. His grip tightens slightly around the box.
There are places. Of course there are. The town center. The quarry. The mall. A dozen small, unremarkable corners of town that feel bigger than they are because of who stood in them beside him.
And one house he hasn’t walked up to in weeks.
He shakes his head before the thought can take root.
“No,” he says. “I just want to leave.”
The words come out with a finality he didn't know he had in him.
His mother’s smile is small and sad at the edges, like she hears more in that answer than he intends to give. But she doesn't press fortunately.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Then let’s go.”
Mike nods and adjusts the box in his arms, stepping toward the car and his father, who eyes the box with an annoyed glance.
"Another one?"
"It's the last one, I promise."
His father lets out a frustrated sigh, then takes the box from him and tries to make space for it in the trunk.
He climbs into the backseat beside Holly, who's already absorbed in the book she's brought for the drive. His father starts the engine and the car slowly pulls out of the driveway. Mike doesn't watch the house getting smaller in the rearview mirror.
Hawkins slides past, as they drive down the familiar streets. He rests his forehead lightly against the cool glass of the backseat window.
He always knew that leaving wouldn't be easy. He expected that the nostalgia would hit him the moment they left.
What he didn't expect is the thought that comes next. He suddenly realizes that coming back might be even worse. Right now, leaving means that there's a distance, a clean break. He's got a future waiting for him somewhere else.
Coming back means facing everything exactly as it is, as he left it.
The car rolls past the elementary school. The playground swings move slightly in the wind, chains creaking faintly. He remembers standing there with Will years ago, arguing about whose turn it was.
They pass the arcade, dark now, shutters down. He can imagine them inside it anyway, feeding quarters into the machines until their eyes hurt from the bright lights. Will grinning when he finally beats his own high score.
Every memory that follows unfolds the same way.
Will is there. He's in every single memory Mike has about this town, about his childhood, about his entire life.
It’s always the two of them in the frame in his head.
Mike swallows.
He wonders if he’s actually going to come back here soon. Maybe college will swallow him whole and reshape him into someone who only visits on important occasions, more out of obligation and less because he actually wants to.
He told Holly he’ll come back all the time. He’s not sure if he can actually stick to it.
The car slows at a red light near the center of town. The familiar storefronts line the street. He tries to focus on them and less on the thing that's twisting his stomach tighter and tighter.
He can’t leave it like this.
The thought hits him so suddenly it steals his breath.
He sees Will’s face the last time they talked. He imagines driving out of Hawkins without fixing it, without at least trying.
If he leaves like this, the words will follow him. They’ll sit in lecture halls with him. They’ll echo in dorm rooms at night. They’ll crawl into every new beginning he tries to build. He won’t be able to move on like this.
He looks outside again and realizes where they are.
“Dad,” he says suddenly.
His father grunts from the front seat. “What?”
“Can you stop?”
There’s a beat of silence.
“For what?” Ted asks, irritation already threading through his voice as the light turns green.
“Just… pull over. Please.”
Karen turns slightly in her seat, looking back at him. She sees something in his face, because she doesn’t try to argue with him about them being late if they don't hit the highway soon.
Ted sighs heavily but signals anyway, pulling the car toward the curb near the edge of town. They come to a stop.
“Well?” his father asks. “What do you want here?”
Mike’s heart is pounding now, loud enough he’s sure they can hear it.
“I need to say goodbye,” he says.
Ted frowns. “You already said goodbye to your friends.”
Mike doesn’t answer, because that's not what this is. But his father wouldn't understand it anyway.
He reaches for the door handle.
“Mike-” his father starts, exasperated, but Mike is already stepping out of the car.
The air outside feels cooler than before. A faint breeze moves through the trees surrounding him. He closes the car door behind him without looking back.
He knows exactly where he’s going. And for the first time all morning, he doesn’t hesitate.
The cemetery rises ahead of him, quiet and still beneath the blue sky.
His gaze wanders over the rows of gravestones that stretch across the grass in uneven lines. The world feels weirdly muted here, like sound doesn't exist in this place.
This is where he meant to come, he knows that. But moving forward gets harder with each step. For a second he actually considers turning back. He could get into the car and let the moment pass like every other moment he let pass.
But he doesn’t. He forces his legs to keep moving.
He passes gravestones without reading the names. The dates blur together. The grass is damp, clinging faintly to the edges of his sneakers.
He knows the way by heart, even though he hadn't been back here again after the funeral.
The path curves slightly to the right, toward a row near the back where the trees offer thin shade. And then he’s there.
He stops and for a moment it feels like his heart is also stopping.
The stone in front of him isn’t large. It isn’t elaborate. It sits quietly among the others, unremarkable to anyone who doesn’t know the name carved into it.
Mike stares at it like it might change if he looks long enough.
He forces himself to read it.
Will Byers
1971 – 1987
The numbers blur for a second before snapping painfully back into focus.
The worst part is the small hyphen. The insignificant line between two years. It reduces a life to a dash, to something that could somehow fit between numbers.
Sixteen years.
That’s all it takes to sum it up, to measure everything Will ever was. Every drawing, every laugh, every late-night campaign, every quiet look, every word left unsaid has come down to this grey stone in the middle of other grey stones.
Mike feels something in his chest cave inward.
It’s not fair.
The thought feels almost childish in its simplicity.
It’s not fair that the world keeps moving. That cars drive past the cemetery without slowing. That colleges open their doors. That life stretches forward for everyone else while Will’s stops at a hyphen.
Mike steps closer.
He tries to picture Will anywhere but here. This is no place for someone like him.
But the stone remains.
For a long time, he just stands there. He tells himself to breathe, and reminds himself he came here to say something.
“I-” His voice cracks immediately, and he presses a hand over his mouth, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself somehow.
“I’m sorry,” he tries again, softer this time. “I’m so sorry.”
The apology spills out unevenly, while he tries to force air into his lungs. His shoulders shake before he can stop them, and suddenly the restraint he’s been holding onto all morning splinters apart.
“I should’ve said it before,” he chokes. “I should’ve said everything before.”
The tears come without permission, hot and blinding. He wipes at them angrily, but they keep falling anyway, dripping onto the grass at his feet.
“I keep thinking about that night,” he says, his voice trembling. “About what you told me. About how you looked at me like you were waiting for something. And I just stood there. I didn’t know what to do.”
He lets out a broken laugh that dissolves into another sob.
“So I didn’t do anything. I just stood there and made it weird and acted like it was a problem that you told me. Like you were wrong for saying it.”
The words echo faintly in the quiet cemetery.
“But you weren’t wrong,” he says fiercely, shaking his head. “You weren’t. I just didn’t know how to deal with it. I didn’t know how to deal with you looking at me like that and realizing I’d missed it the whole time.”
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to force the memory of Will's eyes away. The moment Mike knew he'd broken something.
“We won,” he says after a moment, his voice breaking again. “That’s what everyone says. That we won. That it’s over.”
His breath stutters.
“It doesn’t feel like that for me. My world ended that day. Not Vecna's, not the Upside Down. Mine."
The wind picks up slightly, brushing past him.
He swallows hard, staring down at the name carved into the stone.
“Everything’s still here. The town. The house. My family. The future. All of it. But it’s not the same. It’s never going to be the same without you.”
His chest aches like someone has reached into it and squeezed down on his heart.
“I know I messed up,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’ve been replaying it every day since. Every stupid word. Every time I could’ve asked you about the painting. Every time I could’ve just said something honest instead of something safe.”
His voice trembles.
“When you told me I was your crush… I didn’t know what that meant for me. I didn’t know if I could give you what you wanted. I didn’t know if I felt it the same way.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“And I was scared. Not of you, but of everything changing. Of losing what we had if I said the wrong thing. So I chose not to deal with it at all. I just let it sit there between us. I told myself there would be time. That we’d figure it out later.”
Later.
The word feels cruel now. Something that will never come, no matter how hard he's wishing for it.
“And then you were gone,” he whispers.
The finality of it crushes the last bit of air from his lungs.
“And I regret it every day. I regret not trying. I regret not asking more questions. I regret not telling you how much you matter to me.”
His voice drops, as he tries to wipe the tears from his eyes. It's a lost cause, because the next ones are already coming, spilling hot down his cheeks.
“I don’t know if I could’ve reciprocated it the way you wanted,” he admits. “I don’t know if I would’ve been able to be what you needed. But I hate that I never got the chance to try.”
The admission leaves him shaking and he clenches his hands at his sides to control the tremor.
“I hate that you thought you had to lie about the painting. That you thought you couldn’t just say it was from you. Like I wouldn’t have wanted that.”
He steps closer to the grave, close enough that his shoes press against the edge of the stone. As if the proximity could somehow bridge the distance that stands between them now.
“You gave me so much,” he says softly. “You made me feel brave when I wasn’t. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”
His voice breaks completely.
“I love you.”
The words hang in the air between him and the stone. It’s the first time he's said them out loud, and actually meant it.
“I don’t know if it’s the way you wanted me to,” he continues. “I don’t know if it’s the way you hoped for. But I love you. I always have. I just didn’t understand what that meant until it was too late.”
He reaches out, his fingers hovering for a second before resting gently against the cold surface of the gravestone.
“I love you,” he says again, softer now. “And I always will.”
The cemetery remains quiet around him. He stands there for another few minutes, and suddenly he feels much lighter, because the words are no longer trapped inside his chest.
He said them out loud, so now they exist. Even if he is the only one who heard them.
His hand lingers on the top edge of the gravestone for a second longer before he lets it fall to his side.
“I’ll come back,” he says quietly. It's a promise he intends to keep.
Then he turns and walks back the way he came. The path through the cemetery feels shorter now. He passes the same rows of stones, the same quiet stretch of grass, until the iron gates appear again at the edge of the road.
The car is still there.
His father stands beside it now, arms folded, staring stubbornly toward the far end of the street like something extremely interesting might appear there if he waits long enough.
His mother is leaning against the passenger door. The moment she sees Mike approaching, her posture shifts slightly. Her expression softens with sympathy immediately.
She doesn’t say anything, and Mike is grateful for that. He isn't sure he'd be able to speak right now anyway.
He slides into the seat beside Holly, who watches him with open curiosity. Then a small smile appears on her lips. It looks almost proud.
“Did it feel good to say goodbye?” she asks.
Mike draws in a slow breath.
For a moment he thinks about the stone. About the numbers carved into it. About the hyphen he stared at for what felt like hours.
He thinks about the words he finally said, even if he said them too late.
Then he looks at Holly and actually manages a faint smile in return.
“It wasn’t really a goodbye,” he clarifies.
She tilts her head, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“No?”
He shakes his head slightly.
“Not if I’m going to come back.”
The words feel steady this time. Because this time he actually means it.
In his mind, a promise takes shape. He will not just come back. He will go back to the cemetery each time. And he'll tell Will all about the life he's building.
He’ll come back after his first semester and tell him about his classes, and the people he meets who don’t know anything about Hawkins.
He’ll come back after graduation and tell him what happens next. After every milestone, every moment that should have had Will standing beside him.
And he'll tell him about the days when missing him hurts so badly he can barely breathe.
Because even if none of it brings Will back, Mike doesn’t want the story of them to end with a hyphen carved in stone.
What they had deserves more than that.
His father starts the car again and as Mike rests his back against the seat, the car moves forward, leaving the cemetery behind.
And as Hawkins begins to slip past the window again, Mike keeps his promise quietly in his chest.
He will come back.
After all, Will has always been the one who listens best.