Mike sits on the edge of the Wheeler basement couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might explain something if he looks long enough.

No one says Eleven is dead. They say missing. Lost in the Upside Down. Like that makes it better.

It doesn’t.

He hasn’t argued with anyone about it. Mike doesn’t have the energy. Arguing would mean accepting the possibility, and he refuses to do that. If he lets himself believe she’s gone, then she really is.

You find him there hours later. He doesn’t look up when you stop in front of him.

“They’re planning a memorial” he says quietly. “I’m not going. She’s not dead. She can’t…”

You sit beside him letting him talk.

“She promised she’d come back,” he continues, voice tight. “She always does.” His fingers curl into his sleeves. “So I’m not saying goodbye to someone who might still be out there.”