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Will has never known a life he could call normal. He was met with the burden of knowing at the age of 5.
He remembers how people looked at him with pity his entire life. Some kind girls at school would glance at his poorly sewn hand‑me‑downs with sadness in their eyes, then lean close and whisper to each other. Will would pray his friends never hear them.
They always knew, though. Karen Wheeler would look at him with that same expression when Joyce drove him to their house at night, asking if Will could stay over and murmuring something else to her—words Will was never meant to hear but somehow always knew. She would look at him with that same pity when she handed Mike an ice pack for his poor friend and told him what to do. The same look again when she offered Will a Halloween costume that matches Mike’s, and his mother had to accept just because Will’s eyes lit with excitement, something she so rarely saw in her son, something she herself could not give him. His selfless, tired mother who always smelled like cigarettes and fresh laundry.
He remembers the burning sting on his cheek when his father first struck him. He remembers staying awake through an entire night at six years old, staring at his closet, his books, his toys, his own reflection in the mirror, searching for whatever was wrong with him, whatever made his father hate him, whatever he kept doing wrong. Because apparently everybody knew, Will Byers was born wrong, and it won’t ever change no matter how much he tries.
He remembers the way his mother’s eyes went wide, the way her hands trembled, when his father first hurled those words at him. He did not know what they meant. He would not have known if those words had not followed him into school corridors soon after, never leaving him for the rest of his life.
When it was not pity, it was disgust. He remembers the boys at school watching him with those eyes, telling the teacher they did not want to sit near him. He remembers how they stared at his shoe when it was half torn, and how he was too afraid to tell his father. They looked at it as though it had come from the trash, when in truth it had only ripped because he had been running too hard with Mike the day they went to see their favorite movie—he had tripped and torn it by accident when he fell. All along it was only his happiness that they found so disgusting, he realizes as he grows older.
He remembers drawing his favorite movie characters on the cover page of his first notebook for kindergarten, when he could not ask for one that already had them. He remembers how he tried to hide it when the boy who wanted to be his friend proudly showed his own notebook, bright with every licensed character—afraid he might no longer want to be his friend. He remembers fearing every day that he would leave, that he would find other people, people like himself, people better than Will.
But Will always loved his books. He didn’t want the ones with fancy drawings in them. He loved his own hands. He loved the characters he drew. He loved mixing his colors, loved using the wrong ones when he didn’t have the ones he needed.
His art was a friend—a friend he never had trouble talking to. One he knew would never leave him.
He remembers the time his mother earned a little extra and bought him an expensive comic book he had wanted for so long. He remembers how he cried in the school bathroom after some boys from his class ripped it in half, mocking what he loved to read.
He remembers crying even harder when Mike found him there and pressed his own comic into Will’s hands so he would not have to tell his mom.
His only friend.
He does not exactly remember when he gave his heart into this friend’s hands, but he remembers the sting of it. He remembers how it felt to prove everyone right, how it felt to know he was wrong, broken, different.
He remembers how it felt when he thought that friend finally saw what was wrong with him. How it felt to be completely alone in this world. How it felt to realize he was foolish enough to believe he wouldn’t end up there.
He remembers running for his life from monsters in a place that felt wrong in every way. He remembers hearing people hold his funeral, remembers giving up in a place he once loved so deeply, curling on the cold floor and waiting for death itself, hoping only that it would not hurt too much.
He remembers his own body being used by something evil, remembers the countless innocent lives lost because of it, remembers strangling his own mother with the same hands that had wiped her tears when he was five—before he even understood why she cried so often. The same small hands that only ever wanted to smooth her hair and shield her from every harm in the world.
He remembers lying on his bed in a city so unfamiliar, nothing like home, trying to soothe the ache in his chest as the phone never rang. He told himself that it was just how life works—it hurts and hurts and takes and takes, and Will just seemed to be an easy target. He could never bring himself to blame the people around him.
As he gets older, though, Will understands that it was never about Lenora or Hawkins or wherever he happened to sleep at night. Home didn’t exist. Four walls will never be home to Will. Will Byers doesn’t have a home, and he never will.
Because home was people, sometimes the ones he knew he could never have. Home was their laughter echoing off those four walls. Home was the knock on his door to see if he was hungry. Home was being carried to bed in his brother’s arms when he was pretending to be asleep. Home was running down the stairs to answer the call coming from someone he loved.
And maybe that’s why Will always had it the hardest, the heaviest burden on his shoulders—because he knew how to love. He loved unconditionally, more than anyone else. He loved what he never had and everything he ever did.
It was there in a yellow truck he pressed into a crying girl’s hands. It was in the childish drawing he gave his mother so proudly. It felt like he was giving her a diamond ring, back then. He wanted to give her the whole world, everything his father couldn’t.
His love was in a letter to his brother, written in crooked letters barely a month after he figured out how to write, telling him that he was his real dad and that he would always choose him. It was in a song he memorized for him even though he never actually liked it.
It was in the pack of band-aids he always kept in his bag because his best friend somehow always managed to get new bruises and never carried any. It was in a birthday gift he convinced his mom to buy, sacrificing everything he could have bought for a whole month. It was in the nights when he stayed awake until midnight with his small, tired body just to kiss his mom good night so she would be happy.
It was in a painting he spent weeks working on, cheeks flushed, his heart poured onto the canvas. It was in a rejected hug.
Will didn’t want to love when he was fifteen. He felt like it would be the thing that finally brought him down, the thing that would make him give up when the pain became unbearable.
What Will didn’t know when he was fifteen was that this was his greatest strength. That’s why weak people like his father hated him.
Will grows older and older, and it’s a long, rocky road, but somewhere along the way he realizes the truth. He looks at himself in the mirror and sees himself—really sees himself—for the first time ever.
He sees the younger version of himself still curled up somewhere inside his body, still scared, still cold and alone. He reaches out, pulls him into his arms, and starts with the bruises on his arms first. The easiest to heal.
He soothes the pain with his bigger, but still gentle hands and tells him there is no one left to hurt him anymore. He tells him that his hands will only ever ache from holding a brush for hours without a break, lets him know there will always be someone to take care of them when they hurt.
He reaches for the big, scared eyes next. The same hazel ones he still sees in the mirror every day, looking bigger and glassier in the younger boy’s face. He runs a finger over his eyelids, and tells him that he will never have to cry alone again. He will cry—that’s how life goes—but there will always be a shoulder to lean on, someone to bring him a glass of water, someone to wash his face and tuck him in when it all feels like too much. He will never have to hide under a blanket again.
The harder part comes next. He reaches for the tiny, fragile heart beating fast under his palm. And he finally tells him that it’s okay to love. That he shouldn’t be ashamed, that he should carry it with pride for as long as he can. That it’s a gift—to love purely, to feel as deeply as he does.
He looks at his twelve-year-old self, still carrying that little bowl cut he hated so much back then, and smiles at him.
One day you will heal. One day life will pay you back for everything it took from you. And one day, no one will be able to touch you unless you want them to. One day you’ll be able to make your own choices, far away from all the evil in the world.
One day the back of your neck will be covered in kisses instead of all the trauma you carry there. The touch won’t make you flinch this time, it won’t be as cold as ice. It’ll be warm and sweet. It’ll be a small gesture that tells you everything you’ve been longing to hear. And it will be your choice.
Everything you keep hidden inside you—one day people will learn it. As terrifying as it sounds, they will love you more for it. They will shield you from everything, and that’s when you’ll finally have a home that stays with you, permanent and warm no matter where you go.
One day your voice won’t shake as you stand up for yourself. Your eyes will be hard and sure. Because you will know that you matter, and always will.
One day you’ll buy your mom that diamond ring. It’ll be bought with your own money. You will be the one making her cry this time—only out of happiness. You’ll notice the way her face grows older with each passing day, but you’ll learn to love the wrinkles around her eyes. They won’t make you feel scared and sad anymore. You’ll learn to see them as proof of all the years you got to live together, something she carries proudly.
You’ll come home to find a quiet murmur coming from the kitchen instead of raised voices and broken glasses. The one in the kitchen breaks things sometimes too, but you two laugh it off because he’s just a clumsy dork instead of a violent man.
That someone you love so much will come home with flowers every other week for no particular reason. He will hand you something small and say it reminded him of you, and suddenly the whole world will feel like it’s yours. He will try to learn how to cook your favorite food, and you’ll pretend to love it every time no matter how it tastes, because it was never about the taste for you.
He will walk you places even when he doesn’t have to, simply because he wants to. He will go feral when you get sick just like your mom would—trying every recipe, skipping school just to look after you. But somehow, he will never make you feel like a burden.
He will love you so much, and you will love him just as much. You’ll show it in every way you want to. You’ll receive far more than a half-owed hug and a sacrificed painting.
There will be a family. A real one. Someone who makes your mother smile, someone who lifts the weight off your brother’s shoulders so he can chase his own dreams, and someone who supports you no matter what. You will call him whenever you feel like a small, clueless kid, and he will always be there to guide you.
The memories of those old birthdays you spent waiting for your father to remember, just to give you a smile that reaches his eyes that are the same color as yours, will fade eventually—as you wake up to gifts and balloons and the laughter of your friends filling the house on every March 22 without a skip.
You have your father’s eyes, but his will never shine the way yours do. You will never see him in your reflection as you stare at the mirror; instead, you’ll see the boy Joyce would go to hell for, the boy who will always be Jonathan’s best friend, the boy who always makes Mike a better person, as he puts it himself.
Long story short, one day Will Byers, you will heal. You will be okay.
Once he reaches out a hand to that small, frightened version of himself—the one still waiting to be rescued—and tells him that, it feels like oxygen finally fills his lungs properly for the first time in his life.
His hazel eyes somehow start looking greener, brighter. His friends keep telling him he looks lighter, happier. His smile reaches his eyes, and the smallest wrinkles begin to form around them. And he loves it. Loves seeing the proof written across his face.
He doesn’t remember the last time he had a nightmare. He just sleeps for hours until he is woken by a kiss on his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch. He never does.
He never leaves his art behind. It’s everywhere in his life—on the walls of their apartment, on the body of the person he loves.
He becomes a teacher. An art teacher.
He loves seeing kids who remind him of that younger version of himself—just as passionate as he once was—looking up at him and saying they want to be just like him when they grow up.
But it’s never only about art. Will sees them. Really sees them. Because he looks. He pays attention to their brush strokes, the colors they use, the way their shoulders curl inward, and all the things he spent years recognizing in himself.
Because he wants to be there for a kid like he once was—someone lost and scared. He wants to pull them out of the darkness just like his old friend from Hawkins, Robin Buckley, did years ago.
And he simply tries, knowing he is enough as he is.
Life gets better, eventually, even if the road was rocky and painful. It always makes Will think of flowers. They lose their leaves and their color in the winter, but they always know they’ll get them back in spring. When the harsh winter hits them, they’re already preparing for the spring that will come—the chance to bloom again and again and again.
One day they lose all their leaves and return to the earth, becoming the life something else needs.
Will loves flowers.
Maybe that’s why Mike always brings him bouquets.
Maybe that’s why Will always dries them and keeps them safe inside a book.