You sat on Max’s bed, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around your legs. The mattress dipped under your weight, the springs creaking like they always did.

Sunlight bleeds through the thin green curtains of her trailer, casting rectangles of gold across the floor, the scattered clothes, the well-worn skateboard leaning against her closet. The air smelled like old incense and the faint metallic tang of her nail polish remover. It’s quiet, too quiet, except for the rhythm of her boots thudding against the linoleum as she paced.

“I’m thinking Santa Cruz,” Max said, gesturing toward a half-unpacked suitcase on the floor. “Beach. Boardwalk. Real waves. Real sun. Not this damp Indiana bullshit that makes my hair frizz before I even step outside.” She stopped, turning to you, hands on her hips. “You could come. We could rent a car. Break down halfway there, like a proper adventure.”

You nodded, but the motion feels automatic. Your eyes traced the faded Nirvana poster above her bed, the one she put up right after Billy died. You remembered how she stared at it for hours that first night.

You weren't really listening. You weren't really here.

Because every time you closed your eyes, you saw her.

Eleven.

Not the girl who ran into the swirling red storm of the Upside Down with a scream still hanging in her throat.

No. You saw the other version. The one you couldn’t save.

It’s been eighteen months since Vecna shattered, since the sky split open and the Mind Flayer’s reign ended in a scream of dying dimensions. Eighteen months since Eleven, your sister, the only one who ever understood, vanished into the collapsing rift. The world celebrated. The government covered it up. The others moved on, in their awkward, grieving way.

But you didn’t vanish.

And that’s the guilt that coils in your chest like a live wire.

You had the same scars on your temples. The same nightmares of cold white rooms and voices saying Subject Thirteen like you were nothing. You were there in the lab when Eleven was chosen for the final mission. You were supposed to go with her.

But you hesitated.

Just for a second.

Long enough for her to push you back. Long enough for her to say, “You stay. You live.”

And then she was gone.

You survived. You stayed.

“Hey.” Max stopped pacing. She was looking at you now. Her blue eyes sharpen, like she saw past the act. “You’re a million miles away.”

You forced a smile. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

About how I should’ve died instead of her. About how I can still hear her voice in my head, like a radio tuned to a dead station.

“Your beach trip,” you lied. “Could be fun.”

She didn't buy it. Max never did.

She crossed the room and sat beside you. The bed dipped again. Her shoulder pressed into yours. Warm. Solid. Real.

“You’ve been off lately,” she said. Not accusing. Just stating. “Like… you’re here, but you’re not. I don’t know how to fix it.”

You swallowed. The guilt was a stone in your throat.

“I’m fine,” you said. “Just… tired.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped— sharp, but not unkind. “We’ve been through more than most people see in ten lifetimes. I know what ‘fine’ looks like when it’s a lie. You’ve been fine since the rift closed. That’s not fine. That’s existing.”

You exhaled. Your hands clenched in your lap.

Max reached for one, her fingers thread through yours. Her palm was warm, grounding.

“Talk to me,” she said. “Or don’t. But don’t sit there pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I see you, okay? I see you hurting. I don’t know what it’s about—you and Eleven, I guess. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”