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He was born in 1919 and he was gay.

Everyone in the family knew. It became an unspoken secret. And here’s the part people don't really say about the past: he wasn’t cast out. He wasn’t beaten. He wasn’t disowned.

They loved him. They were a close‑knit family.

What they did instead was play a game called pretend.

They never said it out loud. When the family gathered for holidays, his siblings brought their spouses. Uncle Bill came alone. His partner wasn't invited, of course. They didn't even want to know he had a partner. When children asked why Uncle Bill wasn’t married, the adults smiled and said, “He’s just a bachelor.”

That answer was given to my mother in the 1950s. To my sister in the 1970s. And to me in the 1980s.

People like the Duffer brothers seem to imagine that the past was only made up of violent, cartoonish homophobes. And sadly, there were a lot of those, just like there still are today. But some families were “fine” with gay people—as long as they were quiet. As long as they didn’t ask for the same things. As long as they didn’t bring love to the table.

Uncle Bill was accepted on one condition: He sat alone.

So when a modern show frames a gay boy’s arc as “learning to accept himself without expecting love in return,” that’s not radical. That’s not brave. That’s not new.

That story is over a hundred years old.

It’s the story of being tolerated, not chosen. Of being loved in theory, but denied in practice. Of being welcome—so long as you don’t make anyone uncomfortable.

My Uncle William lived that life a century ago. We don’t need to keep calling it progress.

I know a lot of people on here are young. So take the pain you're feeling now and remember it as you get older. Write your own stories that embrace what this show denied. Write the story you wanted Byler to be. Be the generation that stops telling this tired old story.

I never expected my previous analysis to receive so much love, and I’m truly honored. Over the past few days, I’ve watched the discourse spiral out of control. People are losing their minds, deeply disappointed in the show—especially because the coming-out storyline made them feel offended. And poor Will even referred to the boy he’s loved for years as a former “crush.” 

What makes it even worse is that after Will falls into a trance, Mike suddenly stops touching him. He becomes distant, strange—off. Many people have taken this shift as a signal that the Byler storyline is officially over.

Guys, you are completely wrong.

The more furious and frantic everyone becomes, the deeper you fall into the Duffer brothers’ trap.

When I finished Vol. 2 for the first time, I also experienced a brief moment of mental blankness—thinking, this is absolutely not the narrative I was expecting. But it only took one night. Once I calmed down and looked at all these “abnormal” signals from the perspective of a creator, I got literal goosebumps. The Duffers are extraordinary storytellers.

In the following analysis, I will continue in the same style as my previous piece, using fundamental theories of dramatic and textual construction to uncover the hidden narratives embedded in the Duffers’ script. These hidden narratives are deeply tied to Mike’s character. Once you recognize them, you will have unshakable faith in Byler.

I will also explain why the Duffers ultimately chose to have Will come out publicly, rather than in a private moment, and why we were deliberately denied a one-on-one, heart-to-heart scene.

So let’s stop being consumed by frustration and anger. Let’s calm down and prepare ourselves for the ending that’s coming. I can say this with absolute certainty: we are going to get what we want.

First, let’s talk about the line that ignited so much audience outrage “I had a crush.”

This，has been interpreted as official confirmation that Will has accepted Mike as not his true love. But please, guys—remember this: the narrative perspective of this monologue has always been Will’s. What we are hearing is what this boy believes, not what constitutes objective truth.

Think about mystery or detective films. The first character presented as a prime suspect is never the real culprit. The characters within the story may believe he’s guilty, but we as the audience know better. This is a classic narrative device—limited character perspective.

Now, imagine you are Will.

You fall in love with your best friend, while he’s kissing a girl. Your friends and family all know they’re together, and that girl becomes like a sister to you. When they break up, he’s devastated. You comfort him. You hear him say “I love you” to her. Your heart nearly shatters, yet you’re still happy for them.

Deep down, you know he will never love you back.

You long for his love, but you’re also ashamed of the uncontrollable, secret feelings buried inside you. Sometimes you can’t help but wonder—his tenderness, his care, your moments of intimacy—could they mean that he feels something too?

You cautiously reach out to test the waters.

Emotion hits like a soda can dropped to the ground—the carbonation violently exploding—but you desperately try to suppress it.

So you convince yourself that all those tiny fragments of affection you feel are simply because he sees you as a close friend. Because you know he will never love you back.

He is just your Tammy.

And you will never have him.

So Will tries to let this boy go. He genuinely convinces himself that he and Mike are fundamentally different people—that Mike could never become his boyfriend.

When you truly look at the world through Will’s eyes, you begin to understand that when he says “he was my Tammy,”even though it breaks our hearts, it is completely loyal to character POV. It is not an objective definition of reality.

I even think that later on, they might have Robin teasing Will with something like,

“Well, looks like he’s actually your Vickie,”

as a direct callback to the line “he was my Tammy.” Because the story has already told us: Will is wrong about this.

I also want to point out something from the very beginning of Episode 5. After Will and Mike hug, and Will blames himself because the kids have all been taken by Vecna, he says:

“It’s too late. I failed.”

This line is almost identical to what Adora says to Catra (if you’ve read my previous post).

I believe this is a very, very explicit parallel, deliberately signaling both a mirrored character relationship and the direction the final battle will take.

After the coming-out moment, Will rejoins the group. He believes that by making his secret public, fear will no longer have power over him.

But this, too, is a narrative misdirection.

Because in that confession, Will tells his second lie about Mike.

Even after coming out, he still hides the truth—that he is deeply, painfully in love with Mike. He does not want Mike to know.

The Duffers have mentioned that Mike may have “clocked” that he could be Will’s crush in that moment. And honestly, Mike’s reaction alone already tells us enough. You can see his mind racing. He is processing fast. He is beginning to understand that Will has feelings for him.

But Will’s lie interferes with that understanding.

So what Mike experiences in that moment isn’t clarity—it’s confusion.

At the same time, he is finally starting to feel what Will have felt all along: watching him kiss El, standing beside him, supporting their relationship, swallowing every ounce of his own pain.

And god—if you really sit with it—I’m willing to bet Mike hates his past self right now. The version of himself who once said, “It’s not my fault if you don’t like girls.” That internalized homophobia. That fear.

He isn’t Mike the Brave. He’s just a terrified boy who has never allowed himself to face the truth.

And his head—his heart—is about to explode.

We can clearly see that the directors deliberately constructed a large amount of physical contact between Mike and Will—right up until their hug at the beginning of Episode 5.

After that moment, Will falls into a trance. And just as deliberately, Mike stops touching him.

This contrast is not accidental.

It is a carefully designed visual break, meant to serve a future narrative turn.

When I first came to this conclusion, people on social media were still reacting emotionally—insisting that Mike was simply standing there doing nothing, and that this was a failure of writing and character direction.

But I’m relieved to say that as I’m writing this analysis, I’ve already seen people begin to calm down and recognize that Mike’s behavior carries intention and meaning.

Some analyses have pointed out that in the conversation between Max and Holly, right before each of them runs toward their own exit, Max’s dialogue subtly rewrites an established rule of the show. It suggests that music isn’t the only thing capable of pulling someone out of a trance—touch (presence), companionship, and things in real life that deeply matter to you, things that form genuine emotional connections, can do the same.

I believe we can now be fairly certain that both the disappearance of Mike’s physical contact and the introduction of this expanded “awakening” rule are tied to a specific moment in the story’s climax.

But what I want to focus on here is the narrative logic behind Mike’s behavior.

Some people say that Mike simply stops caring—that he just stands there, detached—and this angers many viewers precisely because the episode opens with such a tender hug between him and Will.

But if you watch carefully, you’ll notice something else.

After Will loses consciousness, Mike falls into deep distress. It’s just not immediately visible—because Mike is someone who has learned to hide his vulnerability and his true emotions.

The only times Mike has ever fully shown his vulnerability are both connected to Will:

when Will’s fake body is discovered in Season 1 and Karen hugs him,

and at the end of Season 3, when Mike looks back at Will’s house before leaving,  When he got home, he was so sad comforted by Karen.

Mike’s vulnerability has always been tied to Will.

After Will collapses, He doesn’t know what to do. And beneath that confusion is overwhelming guilt.

When Will managed to kill three Demodogs, Mike was so proud of him—so exhilarated—that when they tried to use Will’s abilities again, he forgot that doing so would put Will in danger.

Joyce later blames herself, telling Hopper that it was her idea.

And it’s clear that Mike is thinking the same thing.

He encouraged Will to be the sorcerer.

And now, internally, he’s blaming himself.

Will told him that he is the heart of the team.

But when Will is truly in danger, Mike can do nothing. He has no powers. He can only rely on El.

So what kind of “heart” is he, really?

When I rewatched Episode 6, a line suddenly stood out to me. Holly is crying to Max and says that Mike encouraged her—but that she isn’t a hero. She just stood there and did nothing.

That line hit me hard, because I realized it functions as a parallel line—a projection of Mike’s own inner state.

Even after Will wakes up, you can see this conflict continue.

When Mike enters the room while Will is talking with Joyce, his gaze is hesitant, uncertain. His voice is gentle, restrained—careful.

And once again, he uses Will voice.

If you understand this character emotionally, you understand why he acts the way he does.

Finn is a good actor, but many people struggle to read his performance. Because of that, he’s received a lot of criticism—and Mike’s character has become controversial as well.

That genuinely makes me sad.

Mike carries an enormous emotional weight. His inner world is dense, conflicted, and restrained.

And I truly believe that after the final episode, many people will finally see him.

Finally, I want to talk about the coming-out scene.

Like many people, I never expected Will’s coming out to happen this way. In my imagination, it would have been a very private conversation—perhaps with his mother, or his brother, or maybe his closest friends. But definitely not with half of Hawkins sitting in front of him, including people he barely even knows. Honestly, that scenario is painfully awkward.

We now know that the original version of the script was an intimate conversation between Will and Joyce. After filming it, however, the creators felt unsatisfied, revised the script a week later, and returned to reshoot the episode. I find this incredibly interesting.

Noah Schnapp and Winona Ryder are both highly professional actors. I have no doubt that if that original scene were shown on its own, it would have been beautiful—private, tender, and emotionally efficient in terms of audience resonance. In fact, it would probably have been the best possible choice purely from an emotional standpoint.

But the Duffer Brothers didn’t choose it.

And that’s because this coming-out storyline is deeply, structurally connected to the final main plot.

In my previous analysis, I described how I believe Episode 8 might unfold (if you haven’t read it yet). This coming-out scene is actually an emotional shift of perspective—it transfers Will’s emotional narrative onto Mike. In the final climax, Mike’s character high point will be an emotional avalanche, and Will’s confession is one of the crucial snowflakes that triggers it.

When Mike finally has the courage to admit his love, the old narrative order—the version of Mike constructed through years of misdirection and limited perspective—will completely collapse.

So how will Mike’s avalanche happen? What will we see next?

When writing a protagonist, we usually don’t portray them in isolation. Instead, we use surrounding characters as emotional mirrors to connect the audience to the protagonist. If the camera focuses only on the protagonist, the storytelling risks becoming self-indulgent emotionality.

I believe Mike’s emotional avalanche will be witnessed by many people.

Imagine this: If Will’s coming out had been a private moment with his mother, then at the story’s climax, the other characters would have no context for Mike’s breakdown. They would only see him suddenly screaming “I love you—I’ve always loved you” at a fallen boy, in utter despair, with no narrative justification. The surrounding characters would be unable to emotionally process that moment, because it would violate narrative legitimacy.

Based on this logic, the staging of Will’s coming-out scene shifts from serving emotional naturalism to serving structural optimization. The choice to move from private knowledge to collective knowledge isn’t arbitrary—it exists to guarantee the emotional impact of the climax.

From a screenwriting perspective, this choice is reasonable—and arguably the best one.

Moreover, from a psychological standpoint, Will choosing to face the thing he fears most, rather than allowing Vecna to control him and hurt his friends, is an act of immense courage.

The audience’s discomfort comes from behavioral empathy: we project ourselves into the coming-out scenario and recognize that revealing such a personal secret in front of unfamiliar people feels deeply unsafe. That discomfort is real.

At the same time, the show doesn’t visualize Vecna’s illusion here, so while we engage in behavioral empathy, we fail to fully achieve character empathy.

The scene feels insufficiently private and lacking intimacy because Will’s emotional density is diluted.

If Will were milk poured into his mother’s coffee, it would become a smooth latte.

But pour that same milk into a cup the size of half of Hawkins, and it barely changes anything at all.

Now Will has confessed his secret to everyone. And when the avalanche finally happens, everyone will understand: This kind, lovely boy has always been deeply in love with his friend. To protect everyone, he selflessly chose to make his secret public, burying his love in silence.

And in that moment, they will also realize something else—that smalltown boy he loved all along had been quietly loving him too, just as deeply. His love overcame fear and evil.

Is there anything more moving than that?

I believe that in the final episode, we as the audience will be emotionally synchronized with these supporting characters’ perspectives—especially considering that Byler’s emotional foreshadowing has existed across five entire seasons, yet so many people have still failed to see it.

What the Duffer Brothers are attempting is incredibly difficult—and extraordinary.

As we get closer and closer to the final episode, my belief that Byler endgame has only grown stronger.

I’m beyond excited. It’s really going to happen.

Just thinking about it makes me overwhelmingly emotional. 

Please look forward to the finale.

Thank you to everyone who commented on and shared my first post—it truly meant a lot to me. I’m sorry I couldn’t reply to everyone.

Your opinion is valid but if you want to complain or make this about Mike, please do it in your own post.

Will feels othered not just because he's gay but because he's shy and sensitive and self-conscious of how he comes across or his actions are interpreted. So the way that distance has built between him and other people is not through self-isolation like Max or abrasiveness like Dustin but by continuing to erase parts of himself, giving away his D&D set and his art, making himself smaller and smaller until he's that quiet kid in the background no one notices.

It serves as a bookend to the last moment before he got his first seizure this season when he didn't go along on the crawl because it would be too dangerous. Will doesn't come out because Vecna threatens him. He could have chosen to stay behind and stayed safe, but he wants to be there with his friends when they fight him.

And the truth is, staying behind during the crawl didn't keep him safe either. Just like how Vecna found a way to Max when she left the fighting to her friends, or when she thought she was safe in the cave.

So many of Will's experiences have been public and against his will, and this was him choosing to be open because he wants to be part of the group, he wants to be seen and known by these people who all found connection with each other because he went missing and who are now going off into battle on his anniversary. He is at the center of it all yet he also exists on the periphery.

And his coming out is informed by him seeing someone as cool as Robin being gay, knowing that someone like Steve can be accepting, and hearing from Max that even Vecna is afraid of something. He doesn't want to sit things out anymore, he doesn't want to be ruled by fear.

Where Henry tries to maintain control by lying and using children, Will chooses to be vulnerable and open so that he can be part of the group because he wants to be. A group of people who are all there out of choice. Does his story matter to everyone there? Maybe not but it matters to him that he gets to tell it to everyone.

No, the person you’ve been in love with since before you understood what love was, your best friend of 11 years is not a fucking school crush.

Will was downgrading it because he’s not gonna say “I’m in love with Mike” in front of all these people, especially not when he doesn’t know for sure Mike feels the same way. We’ve seen Will’s growing confidence about being with Mike in vol 1. Robin’s Tammy speech might’ve shaken that confidence and that’s what seeing in Will’s “they’re not like me”.

But have we seen the way Mike looks at him during this scene? How conflicted he looks? It’s probably his “Will might like me back” realization moment.

I don’t have byler doubt. I do have doubt about how it’s gonna be executed so quickly, but they’re probably saving their biggest plot twist right until the end.