June 14, 1990

The pin loosed with time, rattled from its position until its untimely demise, clattering upon polished wood. The paper shifts, a soft scrape against the wall as it dangles from the last surviving pin, bearing the weight of unresolved brush strokes. The incessant clicks of the typewriter cease, curious to the spectacle of motion swaying on the wall before them.

Will’s painting hangs above the desk, ever mockingly present, laughing in the eyes of a lost love. It sways before stilling, acquiescing to the support of the last measly pin jabbed into the wall. It waits, aggravatingly patient for a moment of improbable acceptance.

The clock ticks to the deepest hours, moon hidden beneath summer clouds. The moment lingers before inevitably slipping away, looped in a vicious cycle of regret and refusal to change—forever haunted by the prospect of what he forfeited in fear.

Will Byers.

Unsent letters reside in Mike’s desk, phrases hastily crossed out and rewritten like a break in psychosis. The phone had lingered in his grasp far too many times, dial tone pleading for his surrender, never to request a voice on the other end. Will’s holiday visits in Hawkins never extended to his reach, loyal to the unspoken divide.

They hadn’t spoken in 304 days.

The painting falls.

June 20, 1990

Champagne glasses clink, cheers bounce off the walls, radiating with post-wedding high. The noise echoes, distant and hollow against the ringing in Mike’s ears. Nausea lurches in his stomach, cruel and unforgiving as his knees buckle under the weight of regret. His vision tunnels upon Will, beaming beside Joyce, admiring the undoubtedly beautiful ring adorning her finger, matched by Hopper’s proud grin. He hadn’t seen Will in 310 days.

The noise dims as afternoon deepens into night, groups gathered around tables, plates piled with cheap catering and homemade dishes graciously provided by guests. Lucas and Max sway steady on the dance floor, ballad coursing through the speakers. Dustin rambles a mildly drunk Steve’s ears off, living out the legacy of his college years. Will is— Will?

"Hey," a soft, torturously recognizable voice speaks from beside him, now occupying the seat beside him. Mike’s breath catches in his chest, trapped under the weight of words begging to be spoken.

~It’s been 310 days.~ "Hey," Mike echoed, all air fleeing from his lungs as he watched cautious hazel eyes look back at him. Silence prevails, tense air corrupting the space between. ~I missed you.~ "So- your mom looks happy," Mike offered uselessly, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. "I mean, even Hopper looks happier. For once he didn’t look like he was waiting for me to spontaneously combust," he joked weakly, daring at glance at Will.