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The Indiana winter had blown in full force. Each lawn was covered in a blanket of snow, glittering in the still ever relenting sun. The cold air bites at noses and cheeks making everyone - or at least everyone normal - remember their days running around outside in the freezing cold, hearts floating with the snowflakes. Well, unless you are in those days. In that case there’s nothing to reminisce about.
The heater in Mike’s room makes it easy to forget the cold, though, so this is the only time of year he spends his days with his shades open. That way he can watch the never changing gray sky and cars plowing through the slush. It would be almost cozy with the shade closed, but Mike’s in a crappy mood and he doesn’t want to just relax. He wants to toss his old Star Wars lamp out the window to watch it shatter on the driveway. He wants to pack a bag and leave Hawkins before he loses his mind. He wants to just sleep and sleep until his brain goes numb.
But he can’t do any of that at risk of his parents, and everyone in town, thinking he’s crazier than they already do. (and besides what he really wants is to go back to last summer, get a do-over. he wants to see Will again - and El) So instead he listens to one of the cassettes Eddie told him to buy at full volume, locks his door and stares at the soulless sky.
It’s the perfect combination for his worst feelings. So of course he ends up thinking about Will and El. He’s always thinking about them. Somehow the two of them not being here makes them more important to Mike’s subconscious than if they were standing right in front of him.
He’s already written a letter back to El - he’d done it at the breakfast table the other morning, mind still fogged up by sleep - so his job there is done. But Will…it’s not that Mike doesn’t want to talk to Will, of course he does! They’ve talked on the phone a few times, and even though it’s quiet and awkward and so the opposite of what Mike wants, but he still calls. It’s just that the line is always busy and contrary to popular belief (Max) he can actually stop complaining and do something about his problems. He can’t call Will? Fine, he’ll write instead.
It’s always been his strong suit anyway. When he was younger he wanted to be a writer. Him and Will were going to make comic books together - Will the artist and Mike the storyteller. It would’ve been fun. But his love for it has fizzled out over the years. He can still write a good letter though. Or that’s what he thought.
It’s been four months and seven shoe boxes are already filled with unfinished letters. He should throw them away, but he has the urge to keep them. Tuck them away under his bed next to Will’s old artwork. His mom never looks under there, she claims she’s scared of what she’ll find. It’s safe to keep them there for now.
He should just give up at this point, but Mike doesn’t give up just like that. He wants to write Will a good letter, he really does. As time goes on, though, it feels like sending a letter would be mean. He’s been so radio silent. But so has Will! So then he’s back to the top and staring at an empty sheet of notebook paper.
With a groan Mike drops his pencil to the desk. It clatters and rolls towards the edge and before he can scramble to catch it, it falls to the floor. He groans again. Everything just keeps going wrong. It’s pissing him off.
He reaches down to pick it up but suddenly there’s a bang at his door and he jumps, smacking his head onto his desk. He hisses and drops the pencil again. “Dammit,” he spits out, flipping the pencil off like that’ll do anything. “What! I’m busy!”
“Turn your music down Mike!” Nancy yells through the door, banging on it again, “I’m trying to study.”
“Go away Nancy!” he shouts back, whipping around in his chair to glare at the door.
“I swear to god if you don’t turn it down I’m going to-” she doesn’t get to finish her sentence before Mike is up and swinging the door open. Nancy stands in the doorway open mouthed and fuming. Her eyebrows are pinched in the way they get when she’s at the end of her rope, though Mike already gathered that. “Turn it down,” she demands once she composes herself.
Mike gives her his best annoyed look, “Sure, fine. Whatever.” He reaches over to his dresser and turns the music down. “Now go away.”
“What are you even doing that you need to play your music that loud, god Mike.” Nancy’s gaze, as prying as it’s ever been, travels over Mike’s shoulder towards his desk that’s still covered in crumpled paper. “What are you doing?” she asks again, this time in curiosity.
“Nothing!” Mike flushes and his heart picks up. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong, necessarily, but he feels the need to hide this from his sister anyway.
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re a bad liar. You do know that, right?”
Mike scoffs, “Yeah, jeez. Just go away.” He moves to close the door but Nancy places a hand against it, propping it open. Embarrassingly she’s always been stronger than Mike. Not that it’s hard, but it never seems to work in his favor. She’s clearly not going away. He debates waiting her out for a second, but Nancy doesn’t just give up on things. He has a scar on his elbow to prove that. Begrudgingly Mike lowers his head and tells her, “I’m writing to Will. Or, well, I’m working on it.”
“Yeah no kidding. What’s wrong with the ones on your desk?” Her voice softens slightly but the edge remains. He’s really not getting out of this.
“I just don’t like them. I’m trying to write him a good letter, alright? Is that so weird,” Mike snaps out the last part. It spews from his lips before he can even think about it.
Nancy doesn’t even budge. “It’s Will. He’ll like anything you write. You’re overthinking this, Mike.”
“Why are you acting like it’s so weird! This is normal. We’re just- it’s just.” His shoulders sag and he lets go of the door, letting Nancy push it the rest of the way open. “I don’t know. Would you just let me write?” He avoids her leaden gaze. “Please,” he tacks on for good measure.
Nancy sighs and steps past Mike. He watches her (somehow still perfectly white) socks pass by tentatively. He turns around. She doesn’t pick up any of the discarded letters, thankfully. She barely even spares them a glance. Instead she grabs his pencil and his pad of paper and goes to sit down on the edge of his bed. She gives him a look like ‘come here you idiot’ so he does.
Mike fidgets at a lack of something to do but he forces himself to take the pad of paper as Nancy offers it to him. “Just write what you’re feeling,” she says, tapping a finger on the first line. “Don’t think, write. If you want to write Will a good letter then it should be from the heart.”
He doesn’t move to take the pencil as she offers it to him. This almost feels like a pitying conversation, but he’s so desperate to actually write a damn letter that he stays sitting there. Shoulder to shoulder with the sister he hasn’t understood since he was eleven, or maybe even younger than that. “What, you’re not going to tell me what to write?” he bites back sarcastically, but only after a telling moment of silence.
“No,” Nancy says, not missing a beat, “it can’t be from your heart if it isn’t your own words. So write, Mike. I know you can.”
“Do you?” he mutters. He takes the pencil. Nancy stands up and brushes her pants off. “You’re leaving?”
“Do you want me to stay?”
Mike looks up at her as she speaks. The distance between them hangs so heavily over their heads that he’s not sure she’ll stay if he says yes. He doesn’t even know if he wants her to stay. He’s not sure what he wants at all, even less so than normal. They’re siblings, but that’s all they’ve ever had, especially once Nancy grew up. And yes, they’ve fought the potential end of the world together. But somehow, Mike realizes, he knows nothing about the girl standing just a few steps away from him, her eyes clouded by uncertainty.
He can’t bring himself to say anything more. Nancy gives him a nod and breezes out the door, shutting it tightly but gently behind her. Her calming presence still coats the room and it wills Mike to walk back over to his desk and push the crumpled pieces of paper to the floor. They fall and roll away, a couple hitting his wall gently. He slaps down the notepad and throws himself into the chair.
Okay. Don’t think. Just write.
He can do that. He can try. If Nancy believes in him enough to give him that advice he has to at least give it a shot.
What he ends up with is…
Dear Will,
It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I think that’s my fault. I guess that’s on the both of us. I miss you. Hawkins isn’t the same without you here. I feel like I see you wherever I go. Whenever I pass by the arcade I remember that it would be your turn next, if we could all go again. Sometimes when I look over at the middle school in the morning I can hear the sound of your Mom’s car pulling in. You know that sound it makes when you push down on the breaks. This is weird to say but I think about you a lot. I miss you every day. We should write more. I don’t know why I haven’t yet.
Love,
Mike Wheeler
P.s. Why is your line always busy?
He reads it again.
He crumples it into a ball and throws it to the floor.
Somehow that one’s worse than the others. Even though, strangely, it felt more genuine. Nancy’s advice was good. It’s just not good for Mike and Will. He needs to go about this in a different way. That he knows. The list of what he knows is short these days.
He does know how to smooth out paper and exactly where to reach under his bed without looking so that he can snag the old shoe box. It’s already full to the top. He’ll have to go find an old one of Nancy’s at this rate. It’s not like he’s going to stop writing.
He glances out the window as he slumps back down in the chair. It’s begun to flurry. The little pinpricks of white flutter down. The sun’s peeking out from behind the clouds and the flakes catch in the golden light. It’s beautiful.
Mike pulls the shades down. He’s in the mood to go hide in the basement until his Mom calls him up for dinner. He’s done enough thinking for today, and he hasn’t even started his homework.