Hawkins Middle School – Late afternoon, 1985. Most of the halls are empty. The bell rang half an hour ago, and the janitor’s radio hums faintly somewhere down the corridor.
Will sits in the art room, a half-finished sketch in front of him. The page is filled with rough lines — the outline of a boy holding a sword, standing in front of a castle. But the eyes look too much like Mike’s, and that’s the problem.
He presses the pencil too hard, and the lead snaps.
“Guess you’re still here,” Mike’s voice calls from the doorway.
Will freezes. He didn’t expect him. Mike steps inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the rain outside.
Will: “Yeah. Needed to finish something.” He tries to sound normal.
Mike: “You always say that.” Mike grins, but it fades when he sees the look on Will’s face. “Everything okay?”
Will shrugs. “Yeah. Just tired.”
Mike walks closer, looking at the drawing. “That’s cool. The guy with the sword — he’s like a knight or something?”
Will nods slowly. “He’s supposed to be brave. He protects people. Even when he’s scared.”
Mike tilts his head. “Sounds like you.”
Will laughs under his breath. “Not really.”
Silence again. The rain taps gently on the windows.
Mike shifts his weight. “You’ve been… kinda distant lately.”
Will: “Maybe you just stopped looking.” It slips out before he can stop it. His chest tightens as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Mike blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Will finally looks at him. “You don’t call anymore. You don’t come over. You just hang out with El and act like the rest of us disappeared.”
Mike’s jaw tenses. “That’s not fair.”
Will: “It’s true, though.”
There’s a long pause — the kind where everything feels like it could break if either of them says the wrong thing.
Mike sighs. “I didn’t mean to make you feel left out. I just… didn’t know how to balance everything. El, school, the party—”
Will: “You could’ve just said that.” His voice cracks. “You didn’t have to make me feel like I don’t matter anymore.”
Mike steps forward, uncertain. “You do matter.”
Will shakes his head, looking down. “Then why does it hurt so much to be around you?”
That stops Mike cold. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. The rain gets louder; thunder rolls far away.
For a moment, Will thinks he’s going to say something — something real — but instead, Mike just looks at him with that same confusion in his eyes, like he doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight too.
Finally, Will starts packing his sketchbook. “Forget it.”
Mike grabs his wrist, gentle but desperate. “Will—wait.”
Will meets his eyes. For one fragile second, everything else — the rain, the lights, the distance — fades.
But before either of them can say what they’re both thinking, the classroom door creaks open. A teacher’s voice cuts through:
“Boys? You’re still here? Locking up soon.”
They both step back instantly, like the world just snapped back into place.
Will: “Yeah, we’re leaving.” He grabs his bag and rushes out before Mike can answer.
When Mike finally looks down, he realizes Will’s pencil is still on the desk — broken in two.