I saw your green hair Beauty mark next to your mouth There on the subway I nearly had a breakdown

Steve tells himself it’s just another day.

Another shift at work with Robin. Another morning waking up alone, sheets cold where they shouldn’t be. Another cup of coffee that somehow doesn’t taste the same because you didn’t make it.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

Life didn’t end when you walked out of his room that night. Hawkins kept moving. Robin still talked his ear off, debating whether she should make a move on the girl she liked. Dustin still showed up unannounced, treating Steve like his personal chauffeur.

Steve laughs. He works. He sleeps.

And he doesn’t look for you.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

He doesn’t scan the parking lot when he leaves work, to see if – maybe – you showed up to have dinner with him. He doesn’t slow down when he passes your street to see if you’re home. He definitely doesn’t think about how you used to show up at his house without knocking, kicking your shoes off by the door like you belonged there.

He doesn’t miss that.

Steve’s almost convincing himself – until he sees you.

It happens fast. Too fast. One second he’s arguing with Robin about which movie to put in the front display, and the next–

Green.

Not all green. Just streaks, woven through your hair like you dared yourself to do something different and actually followed through.

Steve stops breathing.

You’re laughing, your head tipped back. Eddie Munson is beside you, talking animatedly with his hands, guitar case slung over his shoulder.

You look… good.

Not in the way that hurts his pride. In the way that hurts his chest.

For a second, time does that thing it does in nightmare. Everything slows. Steve swears the sound in the store drops out completely. All he can see is you. The green in your hair. The familiar curve of your smile. Your Converse that catch on the edge of the curb as you walk.

You don’t see him.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Robin follows his line of sight, then freezes. “Oh,” she says softly.

Steve doesn’t answer.

You walk past the window display, still talking, still smiling, disappearing down the street without ever looking back.

Steve exhales like he’s been underwater.

“Holy shit,” Robin mutters.

Steve swallows. “Yeah.”

That night, he dreams of you.

A few weeks later Somebody wore your perfume It almost killed me I had to leave the room

Weeks pass.

Steve tells himself he’s over it. That seeing you was just a shock. Anyone would’ve reacted like that.

So when a girl he met at work invites him over, he says yes.

It’s fine. It’s normal. It’s what people do.

The apartment is unfamiliar. The couch isn’t as comfortable as yours. The hands on him don’t feel wrong, exactly, but they don’t feel right either. His stomach knots in ways he thought he’d left behind.

And then—

Perfume.

It hits him all at once. Sweet vanilla, warm and soft, with something floral underneath. The same scent you used to wear. The one that lingered in his sheets, to his sweaters, to his skin long after you left.  The smell that meant home without him realizing it. The one he swore he’d washed out weeks ago.

His stomach drops.

Memories come flooding back before he can stop them. You, laughing into his shoulder. You curled against him, half-asleep, murmuring nonsense. You, pressed against him in the dark. You, saying his name like it meant something.

The memories hit him like a punch. His vision blurs.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until the name leaves his mouth.

Yours.

The girl freezes.

“What did you just say?”

Steve’s heart starts racing. “I—shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

She pulls away, eyes wide. “That’s not my name.”

“I know,” he says quickly, sitting up. “I’m sorry. I just—”

She’s already grabbing his jacket, throwing it at him.

“I think you should leave,” she says, voice sharp.

Steve catches it against his chest, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, uselessly. The word feels thin. Not enough to explain the way his heart feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

She doesn’t respond. She just crosses her arms.

Steve leaves with his shoes half-tied, the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation.

Outside, the night air is cold. He drags a hand down his face and laughs once, short and broken.

Of course this is how it goes.

Of course the first time he tries to move on, he ends up saying your name.

It's just another day and it's not over 'Til it's over, it's never over It's just another day and it's not over 'Til it's over, it's never over 'Til I don't look for you on the staircase Or wish you thought that we were still soulmates But I'm still counting down all of the days 'Til you're just another girl on the subway

It’s just another day, he tells himself.

But it’s not.

A few days later, Steve’s mother catches up with him, when she’s home for a rare occassion. He knows his mom adored you. She always had a soft spot for you.

“So,” she says casually. “I talked to her.”

Steve stiffens. He doesn’t have to ask who ‘her is. He already knows.

“Yeah?”

“She looks happy.”

He nods. “Good.”

She waits before speaking again. “Do you miss her?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

It’s a lie. Or maybe only part of the truth.

His first instinct is still to tell you when something funny happens. The way he reaches for the phone, almost calling you to come over. He still looks over his shoulder on the staircase, half-expecting to see you there, following him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He thinks about the way you made his house feel quieter when you left. How you knew when to touch his arm to comfort him, when to leave him alone. How you made him feel – stupidly, terrifyingly – safe.

How he misses the little details: how you laughed at dumb jokes no one else got, how beautiful you looked in his favorite sweater that you liked to steal, how adorable you were when you got wrapped up in a book.

You had left a copy of your favorite book on his nightstand, pages dog-eared and messy. It was still there. It was proof that you’d been there.

“Sometimes,” he repeats.

Steve’s mother studies him. “You know,” she says carefully, “you didn’t lose her because she wanted more than you could give.”

He frowns. “What?”

“You lost her because you wouldn’t even try.”

The words land hard, sharp enough to bruise.

“I was just–”, he stops, running a hand through his hair, and sighs. “I didn’t want to screw it up.”

His mom lets out a short laugh. “You still did.”

Steve huffs out a breath. He doesn’t argue. There’s no point. There’s no excuses. Just the quiet weight of knowing she’s out there, and he let it happen.

Made you the villain Evil for just moving on I see your shadow I see it even with the lights off I made a promise if in four months This feeling ain't gone Well, fuck this city I'm moving to Saskatchewan

Later that week, Dustin finds him staring across the street, into the windows of a restaurant.

“She’s on a date,” Steve mutters, disbelief thick in his voice.

Dustin follows his gaze. “Yeah.”

“With that guy?”

“Jack Thompson,” Dustin says. “Total douche. I heard that he-”

Steve’s jaw tightens, tuning out Dustin mid-sentence. “She’s really on a date.”

Dustin looks at him. “What did you expect?”

Steve bristles. “I … I don’t know.”

“Did you ever take her out on a date?”

The question hits harder than Steve expects.

“I—” He stops. Swallows. Thinks. “Not really.”

Dustin shrugs. “Then why do you care now?”

Steve doesn’t have an answer.

He watches you laugh at something Jack says, the way your shoulders shake slightly, green streaks catching the light with every motion. He watches you tuck your hair behind your ear without thinking, an unconscious gesture he knows all too well.

You look… lighter. Happier.

And that realization makes his stomach twist in a way that nothing else has. Not the argument with Robin, not the nights lying awake, not the failed attempts to convince himself it was fine.

Steve looks down at his hands. “I just thought,” he says slowly, “that we had time.”

Dustin snorts. “Yeah. She didn’t.”

Steve swallows. His chest tightens, the ache of seeing her move on still raw.  He feels the weight of all the days he wasted, all the moments he could’ve said something, done something, and didn’t. He can’t stay here, pretending it’s fine. Not in Hawkins. Not anywhere.

He glances across the street one last time, catching your laughter again. The sight sears into him, both beautiful and unbearable. Your eyes light up mid-laugh. The little tilt of your chin that he remembers wanting to kiss.

For the first time, he lets himself admit it: he’s not okay.

She's got, she's got a way She's got a way, she's got a way And she got, she got away She got away, she got away

Steve starts seeing you everywhere after that.

Not really you, just echoes. Someone wearing green at the grocery store. Someone whose laugh mirrors yours in the aisle. A familiar perfume drifting past him in line at the movies. It brings back all of the memories he had tried to lock away.

Every time, his heart jumps before his brain catches up.

Every time, it isn’t you.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. That you’re just another girl now. Another face in Hawkins.

But some nights, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, he realizes the truth hits harder than anger ever did.

You didn’t leave to hurt him.

You left because you finally stopped waiting for him to choose you.

One night, after work, Robin finally corners him, sitting on the hood of his car, legs swinging casually.

“I wanna know the truth,” she says quietly. “What actually happened.”

Robin watches him closely, noting the way he exhales before answering, the tight set of his shoulders, his hands twitching at his sides. She can tell he’s holding something heavy, something he’s carried alone for far too long. The silence between them hums, loaded with everything left unsaid.

“You were scared,” she adds. It’s not a question.

Steve exhales. A flash of her laughing in his kitchen, late nights on the couch, your hand brushing against his. Why did he never tell her how he felt? The weight of every day he stayed silent, every moment he didn’t act, presses down on him, and guilt curls in his stomach.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Of what?”

He exhales slowly. “Getting hurt again.”

Nancy’s name hangs between them, unspoken but heavy.

“It was easier,” he admits, “to keep things… undefined.”

Robin’s voice softens. “She loved you, Steve.”

She was right for him. Always had been. Funny, smart, steady in a way that Steve never let himself be. It hurt, seeing him stumble past what could have been, watching him let fear win. Robin wishes he’d seen it sooner.

He nods again. “I know.”

God, he needed her. He’d been scared, yeah, but it was obvious to everyone around him, that she made him better.

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

That’s how he ends up on your doorstep.

Steve walks the block slowly, each step a mix of dread and hope. His hands are shoved into his pockets, knuckles white. Thinking of seeing you so happy the other day makes him question if he’s about to mess this up again. Am I only ruining this for her? Again?

He stops at the curb, swallowing, trying to convince himself it’s okay, that he can do this. His heart hammers, and he imagines turning back, retreating to the safety of his empty house. But he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and steps forward, one foot in front of the other, until he’s at the door.

The porch light flicks on when he knocks. His heart pounds like it’s trying to escape.

You open the door. Green hair. Familiar eyes. Surprised expression.

“Steve?”

“I—yeah,” he says. “Hi.”

There’s a long pause.

“What are you doing here?”, you ask.

You’re not mad, just careful, waiting. Arms loosely crossed, watching him with a mix of curiosity and caution, as if bracing yourself for whatever he’s about to say.

“I’m not here to ask you back,” he says quickly. “I just… I just needed to say I’m sorry. For everything. For being scared. For hurting you. For acting like I could keep you without choosing you.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he adds. “I just wanted you to know… you mattered. You still do.”

You look at him for a long moment. Then you step aside.

“Come in,” you say quietly.

And as he crosses the threshold, Steve notices everything. The smell of your apartment, faintly carrying the perfume he’ll always remember, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the stack of books you still need to read. Every small detail reminds him of the life he missed, of how present you had been in every quiet, ordinary moment.

He exhales. Relief. Nervousness. Hope.

And for the first time since you left, Steve feels like maybe, just maybe, it’s not over yet.