He remembers when your family first stumbled into the small town, looking fresh out of a Sears catalog, hauling aged furniture with a thousand stories and stains into the home two houses down from his own.

You were both five at the time, and after his overly friendly and slightly pushy, suburban mother waltzed her way on your porch with a steaming apple pie and a baby on her hip, your families became close friends quickly.

It was written in the stars almost for the two of you to stumble across each other. His older sister was in the year below your older brother and your younger brother was a couple months older than Baby Holly. There was no way you two weren’t going to be in close proximity to one another, you learned this quickly having only been in Hawkins a couple weeks.

The first time Mike was introduced to Steve Harrington was on a warm summer Saturday. Two years after he started trailing behind you like a lost duckling, on the playground, in your backyards, during joint family dinners on Sundays when both of your moms would spend all day making the house smell like roast. Two years after Mike decided you’d be his person in the hellish, purgatorial town that was Hawkins.

Mike waddled up to your porch, the same place his mom stood two years ago, and wrapped his hands against the burgundy door of your home. His bike, training wheels still attached, stood perched behind him as he patiently waited for the familiar, but very frightening, face of your father.

He’d spent all night planning what you two would do today. First you’d bike down to the arcade, then go look for bugs in the woods, then chase the local ice cream truck across town until you two got too tired and retired back to his home to beg his mom to make you guys a Jello cake.

The day would be perfect, especially because it would be just you two.

Except not, because Mike wasn’t staring at the wrinkles on your father’s grumpy face. He wasn’t even staring at your face. He was staring into the foreign but already annoying face of Steve Harrington. He had orange and blue paint all over his clothes and face, like he just left a game of paintball.

Mike’s brows creased immediately. Who was this? Had he knocked on the wrong door? No, he knows he didn’t because he had the silhouette of your house burned onto the backs of his eyelids.

“What’s up, kid?” Steve asked, his own brows arching up.

“Uh— Uhm… This is [Name]’s house, right?” Mike stuttered out. Older kids always intimidated him. He was still scared of your older brother after he jump scared him last Halloween in a Jason Voorhees costume. On purpose.

“Yeah? What’s it to you?” The boy in front of him questioned incredulously, he sounded a bit irritated, his eyes flickering back inside the house every couple of seconds.

He had a hand resting on the frame of the door and half his body still inside, like if he walked onto the porch the house would disappear with everything in it.

Who was this random guy and why was he guarding his best friend’s house like a rabid, rabies infested dog?

“Is that Mikey?” A girlish voice sounded from inside. Steve’s shoulders immediately slumped as he closed his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he glared back at Mike like it was his fault for alerting the beast, before answering, “Who the hell is Mikey?”

“I’m Mikey.” Mike grumbled, “And I’m here to hang out with [Name].”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a smirk etching to his perfect face. He has a specific look in his eyes that Mike couldn’t decipher, but he knew he hated it.

“Ah… So you’re Mike.” Steve said vaguely, turning his ear to listen to the sounds of feet slapping against the wood.

Your steps grew louder until you reached the foyer. As you went to duck under Steve’s arm to get to Mike, the older boy’s large hand came to face palm you and push you backwards.

“Not so fast. The entire point of babysitting is to not let the baby, that I told like eight times to go sit down mind you, out of your sight.” As the word “babysitting” left Steve’s mouth, Mike felt the day’s plans get stepped on by giant, size thirteen ugly reeboks from Hawkins’ Men’s Department Store.

“Babysitting?” Mike nearly screamed, his eyes flickering between you and Steve.

“Yeah, kid. Not everyone’s parents let their seven-year-old run around town on a Saturday morning alone. Buzz off, go kick a ball or something.” And with that, plus the screams of a damned little girl muffled by his palm, Steve shut the door on Mike’s face.

From that day on, Mike decided he hated Steve. He hated his stupid, beautifully sculpted face. He hated his dumb, condescending smirk that just said “I’m older and cooler than you, so take that.”

And he hated the way you’d drone on about him ever since that day.

Mike biked home, knuckles gripping his bike handles so hard they turned white. He threw his bike into the lawn, the same way you’d always do when you came over, and stomped into the house.

That Monday at school, Mike glared over his sandwich for fifteen minutes until you finally caved and said something.

“Why the long face, Mikey?” You questioned, trying to push a stray curl out of your face so you could continue to devour the mac and cheese your mom packed.

“Who was that guy at your house Saturday?” Mike grumbled, not even looking up. He imagined Steve’s face molded out of the white bread of his sandwich. Maybe if he stared long enough, he’d actually burn a whole through Sandwich Steve.

Your eyes lit up at the mention of Steve, a big grin shining on your face. Mike wanted to die.

“Oh, that’s Steve! He’s my brother’s friend who’s now my babysitter. After last week's incident, my mom won’t let my brother babysit me anymore.” You explained with a mouth full of cheesy noodles.

Mike rolled his eyes at his childishness, but a dusted pink arose on his cheeks. You were annoyingly cute and Mike needed to get away from you and the name “Steve.”

“He’s not your babysitter, he’s your kidnapper.” Mike responded.

You giggled, poking his cheek to break his concentration on his sandwich.

“Steve is cute, so I don’t mind. My brother always says he wouldn’t be interested in a baby like me. I think I have a chance.” You sighed dreamily, not noticing the way Mike gapped at your confession.

“Steve is like… forty,” Mike could’ve fallen over and died, again. The girl he’d been crushing on since kindergarten (two years ago) now had been bewitched like the Princess in the movie Nancy forced him to watch a couple weeks ago.

That’s right. Steve was a witch. And he needed to get taken care of.

It had been six years, six years of him silently pining over you, six years of Mike Wheeler watching the way the setting sun hit your skin on bike rides home after the arcade, or hiding under his covers reading the boring history books from his father’s shelf after Ms. Wheeler told you both to go to bed.

Six years of Mike trying to snap you out of Steve Harrington’s spell. And nothing worked.

Mike thought eighth grade would be different. Everything changed in the past year, Will went missing, died, got buried, and was found all in a week. You all found a lost girl in the woods, helped her become a person, and lost her within that same week. Then found her again a year later.

And yet, Mike was no closer to competing with your infatuation on him.

It seemed like everyone in this town was bewitched by Steve. His sister, who’d fallen under Steve’s spell the summer of ‘83 and started to say words like “totally,” and sneaking him into her room during late nights. His parents would coo at the two curled into each other on the couch. Hell, even his little sister made grabby hands at him whenever he strolled into his house for dinner.

It was unbearable. But the worst of all was you.

Your crush on Steve only got worse over the years. Steve no longer babysat you, he entered high school and became preoccupied with Nancy, basketball, and his coronation as “King of Hawkins High.” He grew snappier as he and your brother rose to popularity. Admittedly, you also changed significantly as the years went on, you didn’t follow him and your brother around like a lost puppy anymore and didn’t make googly eyes at him constantly.

But the crush was still there and Mike could see it easily.

Your eyes still trailed his body whenever he was around. You still giggled whenever Nancy would pull you away from the campaign to have “girl talk,” which Mike knew was just a code name for “shit talk Mike, laugh about Stupid Sandwich Steve, and listen to dumb music” time.

Mike didn’t understand what was so good about him. He didn’t brush the hair out of your face when you fell asleep on his pillow during sleepovers. He didn’t pack extra lunch for you because he knew your parents forgot to send you to school with anything. He didn’t watch you like you hung the moon and the stars every night.

Steve Harrington hadn’t been in love with you since you stepped foot in this town, since before he knew what love was. Mike had.

As cheesy as it was, Mike thinks your name was etched on his heart. He thinks he could find the code to loving you in his DNA. Even if you hadn’t moved to Hawkins years ago, Mike thinks he’d still find a way to love you.

“Mikey, are you listening?” Your voice snapped him out of his daze.

You and him were sitting on the floor of his bedroom, knees together sitting in front of each other. The sweet melodies of Cry Baby Baby by The Beatles played out of Mike’s CD player. He couldn’t focus, no way he was listening when you were so beautiful and sitting so close to him.

“Y-Yeah.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

You laughed over the soft voice of John Lennon, “I asked if Steve was still coming over for dinner?”

Oh, right. That’s why Mike zoned out. You two had spent the whole day together, per usual, and were now waiting in his room for his mother to finish the meatloaf. Mrs. Wheeler hated it when you tried to leave before dinner, insisting it was way too late for a little girl such as yourself to be biking home after the street lights came on. Finally, you started to cave and spent most evenings at the Wheeler house. You basically had your own designated spot at the dinner table.

But more recently, after The Witch started hanging around the house because of Nancy, weekend dinners had a new guest.

Steve would strut in, sometimes with half dying flowers (that probably wilted away being near him) or a store bought pie he claimed his mom made. He’d shoot a witchy smirk at Mike and ruffle your hair as he passed through to plop into his seat at the table beside Nancy.

Mike hated the way you’d always race to the table to settle into the seat beside Steve. The sight of your eyes locked on Steve all dinner made him want to projectile vomit everywhere.

“I don’t know? Yeah?” Mike’s mood dimmed immediately, it was noticeable. All of a sudden, he just wished you and Stupid Sandwich Steve would just go home. “What does it even matter?”

You blinked, blindsided by Mike’s snappiness, “It matters, Mikey! Do you think I should wait for him to sit beside me, or should I sit beside him first?” You asked. The delusion of a childhood crush clouding your perception of reality, clearly.

“You should sit in your normal spot beside me and Steve can go eat outside or something!” Mike shot up, almost shouting. You leaned back from your spot near him, eyebrows raising at his tone.

Mike stormed out of his room, leaving you gaping like a fish. His presence carried like a thundercloud as he huffed his way into the kitchen. How could you just sit there and talk about Steve when he was right in front of you and in love?

Mike sulked at the kitchen counter until it was time for dinner. Just as he was about to sit down in his regular spot beside Holly’s high chair, his mother stopped him.

“Michael, where’s [Name]? Don’t tell me she left already.” The woman questioned, her eyes scanning the chairs at the table. She realized she was missing a hungry mouth, you.

“Right here, sorry. I was washing up.” You called out, racing towards the dining room. Mike’s mom smiled at your arrival, sitting down beside her husband.

Mike half expected you to walk right past the empty chair next to him and wait for Steve. He wouldn’t blame you, after his outburst he wouldn’t want to sit beside the storm cloud that was Mike Wheeler either.

But Mike has known you long enough to know you lived to break expectations.

You walked in like sunshine, sizzling his clouds of jealousy away and sat right in the spot you grew up sitting in. You stuck out your tongue at Mike immaturely, as if to say “Look who’s doing exactly the opposite of what you thought I’d do.”

Eventually, Steve arrived and sat down next to Nancy across the table from you two. And yet, you didn't even look at him the entirety of dinner. You rolled your eyes when Steve tried to embarrass you by telling a babysitting story, the one where you broke a window with your little brother’s toy hammer.

Mike couldn’t help but smirk in satisfaction at Steve, he felt like he finally won in a competition the older boy didn’t even know he was a part of. Point, Wheeler!

You kept your eyes on Mike the whole night. You kicked each other’s feet under the table like you used to and giggled over inside jokes that his family (and The Witch) wouldn’t understand. For that thirty minutes you all sat at the table, Mike felt he’d finally bested his mortal enemy Steve in something. And that was all that mattered.

It was two weeks until the Snowball Dance. And Mike Wheeler was on a fast track to spending his Friday night watching I love Lucy reruns with his father.

It had been months since that dinner (which Mike’s nerdily dubbed the Great Dinner Battle of ‘84) and things had changed so fast he thought he’d get whiplash.

You and Mike were still best friends, still spending almost every waking hour of the day with each other. Biking together in the mornings, sitting beside each other during class after you promised your teachers you wouldn’t be loud, wasting the rest of the day in his room before eating his mother’s gross dinner.

But what Mike did notice was that you never really mentioned Steve anymore. No more rants about his perfect hair or chiseled face. After him and Nancy broke up, Mike didn't really see much of him. Your brother and Steve grew a part as he was planning on leaving for college while Steve was staying in Hawkins.

Mike wondered if it was only because of his outburst that you stopped talking about him. A pang went off in the bottom of his chest. He didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t talk to him about things, even if they were extremely annoying and insufferable things. Even if he had to spend the rest of his years listening to your crush on another guy, at least he was listening to you at all.

Mike slammed his locker door shut as if to close all his feelings inside it. You skipped up to him, books in hand with a white and blue flier peaking out of your bag.

“We still on for dinner at your place?” You asked, bumping shoulders with him as a greeting.

Mike liked how you always got in his personal space. Always leaning your side onto his or resting your chin on his shoulder. Mike wasn’t so innocent either when it came to your personal space. He’d cage your legs in between his during lunch or curl into your side during late movie nights with the party.

“Of course, my mom would murder me if I came home without you on the back of my bike.” Mike let out a forced laugh, trying to keep his attention on the shiny curls of your hair and not the blue and white flier of doom that beckoned his name like forbidden fruit.

Although you guys, plus the party, spent years trashing on the Snowball dance, calling it a “corny mockery of good music for people whose best years are ages thirteen to fourteen,” Mike found himself drifting off during class thinking about what dress you’d wear if he were to ask you to the dance. He pictured the way you’d pin your hair up, adding little jewels and beads because you thought it was too boring. He wondered if you’d show up in colorful makeup or if you thought that was too “normie.”

Mike wondered when he became so much of a goner.

“Maybe if you stare at it a little harder, you’ll actually burn a hole through the “O” in Snowball.” You snickered.

Mike’s dark eyes snapped up to your face, not realizing he’d been staring at the paper in your bag so long it became noticeable. You had a knowing look on your face, like you had him all figured out. Mike hoped to whatever god listening that you did. It would sure save him some trouble.

“I know what you’re gonna say,” That you knew he dreamed of taking you to the dance since he was nine when he watched his mother curl Nancy’s hair for her eighth grade Snowball? Mike finished your sentence in his head.

“That the Snowball is so super stupid and you can’t believe I’m actually buying into normie propaganda.”

INCORRECT BUZZER!

Mike’s face fell. Somehow, Steve Harrington was to blame for this.

“U-Uh… Yea–” Mike didn’t even get to finish his lie before you cut him off, “I only got it because Lucas is hung up on asking Max to the dance. I told him I’d help, God knows he needs it.”

Even Lucas built up the courage to ask Max to the Snowball, a girl he’s known all of a couple months. Yet, Mike couldn’t even ask you, a girl he’d known practically since the dawn of time, to go. Just how pathetic is he?

“So… You’re planning on third wheeling with them?” Mike asked timidly, eyes bouncing around the halls, silently praying you’d randomly profess that you were waiting for him to get down on one knee and ask for your hand in Snowball date.

He watched a girl and boy, their names he didn’t bother to remember, walking hand in hand down the hallway. They looked to be sixth graders, telling from the boy’s oversized pants and the girl’s green barrettes. Even eleven year olds had dates, and they weren’t even allowed at the dance.

Mike almost blurted out a confession, but he was stopped short again when you interrupted, “I mean, if the cards allow it… But I’m really waiting for a specific someone to ask me.”

Steve Harrington had done it for the final time.

Years. Literal years. Mike had endured the torment of watching the only girl, correction: only person, in this Godforsaken, lame ass town he liked be in love with another guy. Not to mention that the other guy was also getting with his sister, which just felt personal at that point.

Mike was starting to think he and Steve were ants in another life, and Mike stole his breadcrumb during a picnic raid and now he was out to get him in every timeline.

Mike couldn’t bring himself to look you in the face, the humiliation of him even considering that you two could be a thing entirely too much. It was over. Six years of trying to catch your eye just for a second, trying to keep your attention on him for a little while longer. Just to see his truth. Mike realized you were his Steve Harrington. Maybe this was just a mindless crush everyone else around him could tell would go nowhere, except for him.

Except not. Mike Wheeler was no fucking quitter. He didn’t quit on Will when he was missing. He didn’t quit on Eleven when everyone thought she was a monster. And he wasn’t going to quit on this, because by God, he may have lost the battle, but he would not lose the war.

Steve had been having a shit day even before he got verbally accosted by his ex-girlfriend's younger brother. His dad was in his ear about his refusal to go to college, something about he didn’t raise a bum (when in reality, he didn’t raise him at all. You kind of have to be present to do that). He’d been running across Hawkins all day, looking for jobs in preparation for the summer, because the last thing he’d do is be broke while also not going to college. If that was the case, then maybe he’d agree with his father, he really was a bum.

But in the middle of his self pitying, Steve was approached by a mini storm cloud on long legs and wavy bangs that shielded his piercing, prepubescent glare.

“Hey, Steve. We need to talk.” Mike stalked up to him as Steve was getting into his car. An eyebrow lifted, what the hell did tiny Wheeler have to say to him?

His first assumption was something about Nancy, how he’d chew him out about how depressed the girl was at home, how he broke her heart, how he–

“I want you to leave [Name] alone.”

Huh? Was Steve hearing correctly?

“You heard me.” Mike responded, Steve didn’t even realize he was talking out loud.

“[Name]? What’re you talking about, kid?” Steve questioned, leaning his weight on the door of his car. It was too cold to deal with preteen bullshit.

“I want you to leave her alone. Stop whatever weird voodoo shit you put on her so I can ask her to the Snowball dance.” Mike continued, looking deadly serious.

“Okay, the more you talk, the more I’m confused.”

“That’s nothing new.” Why was every Wheeler so mean? Steve always thought their mother was pretty sweet, a little stern, but kind enough. He never even saw their dad cognitive enough to question his kindness.

“[Name]’s had a crush on you since second grade, ever since you started babysitting her. And its been torture! I’ve liked her longer, I’ve known her longer, so back off! You probably don’t even know that she changed her favorite color from [favorite color] because when she first moved to Hawkins, her dad spent three days repainting her room that color only for it to be shitty and mesh with the green wallpaper under it. And now it makes her sick to even look at it!” Steve just stood in bewilderment as Mike rambled on and on.

If he didn’t know what was going on before, he definitely didn’t get it now. But two things Steve was sure of is that he isn’t a thing with the kid he used to babysit and he was almost certain you had a crush on Mike. At least that’s what you told him months ago.

“Hey, hey, buddy–”

“Don’t interrupt me! And you definitely don’t know that she still doesn't know how to swim because her brother showed her jaws when she was ten and she’s deathly afraid of water now, and– and…”

“Wheeler!” Steve shouted, catching the attention of Mike and whatever housewife passing by on her grocery run. He was pretty sure the manager was watching him through the store’s windows. Definitely not getting hired now.

“First of all, [Name] is like eight, so I can assure you if there are any feelings there, it’s one-sided on her part.” Steve started, ignoring Mike’s heavy breathing, “And second of all, I did actually know that Jaws story, because I was there when it happened.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but let him continue.

“And third of all, [Name] likes you, kid.” Cue explosion going off in Mike’s brain.

“Wh–HUH?” Mike sputtered, “What’re you even saying?”

“Uh… Yeah. I don’t know how you haven’t seen it. She practically worships the ground you walk on, man. It's kind of gross, honestly. Like watching my mom and dad kiss.” Steve grimaced, thinking about your cheesy and poorly concealed crush on Mike.

“Huh?” Mike simply repeated, his eyes glazing over, “You’re just saying that so I don’t kick your ass!”

Steve had half a mind to not tell Mike anymore because he thought he could kick his ass, but he also was sick of watching you two orbit around each other being painfully oblivious.

“Your little friends have a bet on how long it’ll take one of you to ask the other out. Dustin’s money is on before the summer, and it’ll be [Name] who confesses first. He’s about to be out of five bucks.”

Steve couldn’t even continue exposing you and your friends because Mike hopped on his bike and sent him one last burning glare.

“Thanks, I guess. Whatever. Stay away from Nancy, too.” And with that, Mike peddled away. Steve could’ve swore he heard him mutter “witch” under his breath. Man, those kids were weird.

Mike hadn’t pedaled this fast before in his life. Being a saint wasn’t his calling, it was olympic bike racing. He was sure he’d take home the gold. At least silver with how fast he was going.

After his very informative conversation with Stupid Sandwich Steve, he began to reevaluate you guys’ entire friendship. All the times you’d brush his hair out of his eyes so he could read better, or when you spent weeks planning campaigns with him although he knew you didn’t exactly share his love for DnD, or when you–

“But I’m really waiting for a specific someone to ask me.” your voice played in his head. Over and over and over again. A specific someone.

A specific someone.

Holy shit. Mike was the specific someone! You were waiting for Mike to ask you to the dance! No wonder you looked so dejected that evening and insisted on just going home instead of sleeping over like normal. How could he be such an idiot?

Mike finally made it to your house, throwing his bike on the lawn like he did years ago and ran up to your doorstep. He banged both fists on the door like SWAT. Someone was going to answer this door right now, or else he would–

He nearly punched whoever opened the door in the face, which ended up being your father (who he was still thoroughly afraid of). The older man looked confused, like he didn’t even recognize him.

“Can I help you, kid who’s trying to take my door down?” Your father’s voice boomed like he imagined Zeus’ would.

“Can…” He stopped to catch his breath, “Can I speak with [Name], please sir? It’ll be quick.” He pleaded. If your father said no, Mike may have just cried right on that porch and threw a tantrum.

“For what–” Your father was cut off (what’s with everyone interrupting each other recently? Mike noticed) by your mother, who had your baby brother on her hip with a rag on her other shoulder. Her face lit up upon seeing him.

“I thought I heard your voice, Michael!” She flashed him a pretty smile, Mike liked that you and your mom looked just alike, “C’mon in, [Name]’s right upstairs in her room.”

Your father just scrunched his face. As Mike walked by, he heard your mother whisper, “That’s Ted and Karen’s son, you lard!”

As Mike stepped up the stairs, your mother called out a final time, “Good luck, Mike,” punctuating her statement with a vague wink. Did the entire town already know what he’d been so oblivious to for years?

The dark haired boy didn’t get a chance to knock on your door before you beckoned him to come in.

“How’d you know it was me?” He asked, watching you sit on your bed cutting up fabric, he assumed you were doing some sort of arts and crafts.

“I know your steps. You have heavy feet, it sounds like bigfoot when you walk anywhere.” You didn’t even look up at him, clearly in the craft zone he so rudely interrupted.

“Uh, Okay… Anyways, I have something to tell you.” Mike couldn’t calm his heart down, he didn’t know if it was from biking across town, hurling insults at Steve, or the fear of God your dad put in his heart, “Well, something to ask you.”

“Ask?” Your head snapped up so fast Mike worried you may have sprained something, “You want to ask me something?”

Now that Mike knew about your alleged crush on him, he could see the hopefulness in your eyes. It was the same look you had when you mentioned your specific someone.

Taking a deep breath, Mike began, “I’ve liked you for a long time now, like a really, really long time. I thought it could never say anything because of your crush on Steve. But I realize, I’d been so caught up on that witch,” he ignored your confused look at the word witch, “I couldn’t see what was right in front of me.”

“So, [Name], would you please let me take you to the Snow–”

Mike didn’t even register what happened, it was so quick. One second you were staring up at him from your bed, another second you were throwing yourself in his arms. Face to face, he saw the huge grin that drew lines on your cheeks.

“Yes! Yes, yes yes yes! I do!” You paused, looking embarrassed, “I mean… Yes, you can take me to the dance.”

Mike huffed a laugh of disbelief, “Really? Am I dreaming?”

“No way, lover boy,” You rubbed your cheek against his, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He pulled away slightly, mourning your soft skin against his, “But I thought you liked Stupid Sandw– I mean, Steve Harrington?”

It was your turn to laugh now, you simply looked at him with a smile, “Mike… I haven’t liked Steve Harrington since the sixth grade.”

Mike was wrong. He wasn’t a saint. He was a dunce.

“Huh?” He said dumbly, he couldn’t help but smile at your teasing, shiteating grin.

“Yeah, dunce,” Mike wondered if you could read minds, “I’ve had my sights on a specific someone for a while, I just didn’t realize until he knocked some sense into me before dinner one time. Plus, the Steve thing was total delusion. He’s like forty.”

“Hey, I said that.” He muttered under his breath.

“Now c’mon, help me pick what color I should make my dress for the dance.” You dragged him towards the bed and sat him down, shoving pink fabrics in his face, “There’s coral rose, periwinkle pink, fierce fuschia…”

“These are all the same shade, [Name]...”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

Point, Wheeler!

“Um, yeah. You know The Beatles?” The way he said it, you would’ve thought they were a shitty garage group who only played indie dives and not the biggest band on earth. Still, you were enamoured enough with him to simply nod.

“We have a lot of tapes at home, and I got a player for Christmas. I’ve been doing a lot of listening.” Mike’s eyes widened comically, his brows shooting up beneath his bowl cut. It was as if he’d just woken from a spell, realising you had your own internal life. If you weren’t ten years old and in love with him, you would have thought it was ridiculous.

Without warning, Mike sprang into action, becoming the boy you’d seen him be with his friends. Words spilled from his lips, bright and stumbling as you talked about the albums you’d listened to so far, and which songs were your favourite. This was why you loved him, though it could be hard to remember when he and the boys shunned you. Mike was full of heart and passion, and it was nice to be the centre of his attention for once.

If Mrs Wheeler had any idea that you and Mike were actually in the push and pull of interesting conversation, you were sure she could — and would — have found any excuse to stay out in the garden a few minutes longer. Instead, she was worried her son had abandoned you, and you’d be moping in her beautiful kitchen on a lovely summer’s day.

“Oh!” She said, trying to turn around before Mike could spot her. The damage had been done, though, and Mike was transformed back into the girl-hating preteen he usually was.

“Um, bye,” He said awkwardly, disappearing down into the basement before his mother could even open her mouth to call him back.

“Sorry, honey,” She said, squeezing your shoulder, “One day he’ll wake up and see what’s in front of him.”

You didn’t really know what that meant. At ten, having a crush didn’t mean much. You certainly didn’t want to kiss a boy; that was gross. A boyfriend was nowhere in your cards, and wouldn’t be for a long time, so Mrs Wheeler didn’t really make sense to you. You just smiled at her, carrying out a plate of snacks and trying to ignore the giddiness you felt at being seen by Mike.

Not much changed for a very long time. You still weren’t really allowed to hang out with the boys, but at least Mike had started smiling at you when you passed each other in your house or at school. He’d be in high school next year, though, and you wouldn’t see him nearly as much, so you enjoyed what you could get.

A few times, when he wasn’t around his friends and your brother, Mike even stopped to talk to you.

“Hey,” He said, walking into your house unannounced and unaccompanied. It was standard procedure by now with any of the boys, but Mike was rarely alone. Still, you startled easily, slamming your water bottle down next to a comic you’d stolen from your brother’s room while he was out. Mike eyed it with interest.

“Hi, Mike!” You fixed your hair unconsciously, hoping it wasn’t a total mess from last period gym. “Um, what are you listening to?”

Mike looked down at his Walkman, clicking pause and sliding the headphones off his ears.

“It’s Foreigner, Agent Provocateur. Came out last year. Have you listened to it?” You shook your head, embarrassed and feeling as young as he probably viewed you as.

“But I listened to the last one. I love Juke Box Hero.” Mike nodded like you’d passed a test, and relief flooded your body. It was almost insulting that he had this much power over you.

“Girls usually like Waiting for a Girl like You,” He said with an air of disgust, like he couldn’t believe a love song would be the most popular of the album. You tried not to react and reveal it was one of your favourites, shrugging casually.

“Yeah, well.”

After a beat of silence, Mike clicked open his player, carefully removing the tape. You watched in mild interest as he fished the cover out of his backpack, closing it up. He tossed it onto your mattress, both of you watching it bounce softly. You noticed painfully that he didn’t hand it to you, not risking any physical contact. You wondered if girls still had cooties for fourteen-year-old boys. Then, like an afterthought, he said,

“Borrow it. I’ve already listened to it, like, six times. I think you’ll like it.” You smiled widely, beaming up at your brother’s best friend.

“Thanks, Mike! That’s really nice.” Mike shrugged like it was no big deal, and you supposed for him it wasn’t. While you saw it as a magical offering, an olive branch between him and you, he probably saw it as trying to make a teenage girl less lame in his eyes.

“I think they’re coming to Indiana in a few months. Sixteen plus, though, which sucks.”

Conversation came surprisingly easy between you, Mike gradually moving past your doorframe and toward where you were sitting cross-legged on top of your covers. It was mostly about music, but had started drifting to other topics, school, friends, your brother.

Just when it was getting good and you were talking like you were true peers, the front door opened, and the rest of the boys barrelled in. Mike jumped back at once, making a sad excuse to leave and disappearing down to your brother’s bedroom.

You slumped into the headboard, letting out a mournful sigh. You loved your family, you really did, but there were times when you wished you were untangled from the party’s web. If you hadn’t been at inter-family gatherings since you were in diapers, would Mike think of you differently? Would he think you were pretty? If you were from a different, random Hawkins family, maybe you and Mike could go on dates, browsing record shops as you held hands, bickering over the best albums of the year.

Late that night, once the boys had all left and the house was still, you slipped your headphones on. Lying in your bed with your eyes closed, you soaked in the album like it was gospel. The first time you listened to I Want to Know What Love Is, it felt like he’d written it just for you, every word hitting you straight in the heart. It was exactly what you wanted from Mike. You needed him to show you how to be loved.

A dramatic thought, but consistent with the general experience of being thirteen, when everything felt like the most important thing in the world. You probably listened to the album three times in full that night.

A few months later, May, after Mike had turned fifteen, he approached you at school for the very first time. Maybe it was the promise of moving into high school and leaving behind Hawkins Middle, Mike drew nearer across the hallway with purpose, so unlike how he usually interacted with you. None of his friends were with him, which might have contributed, and he even wore a small smile as he stood in front of you.

You tried to slam your locker when you noticed him, but your best friend Sally — well aware of your crush — caught it and saved you the embarrassment.

“Hey, Mike,” You said softly, shifting your weight between your feet as your friends all watched on. Your books were clutched tight against your chest.

“Heard you had a big weekend.” His smile was subtle but definitely there, almost impressed. You brightened at the unspoken praise, tossing a piece of hair over your shoulder.

“Yeah, it was fun.” You were playing coy and all your friends knew it, trying to bat your lashes without him noticing. You hoped you were coming off as sexy, but at thirteen, it was probably closer to awkward. At least you’d gotten your braces off in February and so had your smile back.

“How’d you do it?” Mike sounded genuinely interested in what you had to say, not even embarrassed to be speaking to four thirteen-year-olds.

“It was easy.” It wasn’t, you were shit-scared the entire time. “I took the bus up to Indianapolis, used my allowance on a motel room and told the guy at the stadium I was sixteen. Put on some eyeliner, pushed up my tits and he let me through no problem. Wanna see?” You turned back to your locker, fishing out the Polaroids you and Sally had taken.

Mike examined it, a light blush dusting his cheekbones. Nobody mentioned it. To be fair, you looked hot. The venue for the Foreigner concert was 16+ in the city, but you’d fallen head over heels for the album Mike had lent you and had to see them live, no matter what.

So, you and Sally had lied about staying over at each other’s houses, got the Saturday morning bus up to Indianapolis, rented a tiny motel where you slept in the same bed, and made yourselves look as grown-up as possible to get into the concert. It really was easy; you didn’t even bring an ID. All you needed to do was look up at the bouncer like you wanted to fuck him, arms pressed to your side to push your boobs up to your chin in a flimsy black boob tube, and he let you right through. Disgusting? Yes, but it got you what you wanted, so you weren’t complaining.

“That’s really cool.” Mike sounded genuinely impressed, handing the polaroids back to you. You couldn’t stop grinning. Validation from your older, cooler crush, who actually wasn’t very cool at all, filled you with a joy matched only by seeing Foreigner live in a big city.

“Thanks, Mike. I mean, it’s really all because of you, right?” You watched Mike stall, stumbling through a forced-casual shrug.

“Maybe. I wasn’t faking my way into adult venues, though. Anyway, I, um, heard about that story and thought you might want another tape to listen to.” He brandished it from his pocket, looking around like someone was going to catch him doing a drug deal. Mick Jagger’s She’s The Boss sat in your hands. You’d never even heard of it.

“It was released a few months ago — this guy’s first album. I like something a bit heavier, but I thought you might like it. Plus, after your adventure, it seems fitting.” The boss. You grinned, wishing you could hug Mike like you wanted to, but that would completely scare him off, and any groundwork you’d been laying your entire life would be utterly wasted. Instead, you schooled your features to be calm and collected, slipping the tape into the front pocket of your backpack.

“Thanks, Mike. I’ll give it a listen.”

A strange silence fell between you two, not awkward, but unsure. Your friends had long since wandered off, trying to give you the best chance with the man of your dreams, but you didn’t know what the protocol with him was. Despite years of pining, you and Mike really hadn’t actually spoken very much.

Luckily, the bell gave you both an exit, pulling you to your next classes.

“I’ll see you,” You smiled softly, hopefully flirtatiously, but you really hadn’t had enough time to figure yourself out yet. It seemed to fluster Mike all the same, all awkward limbs and stiff nodding as he mumbled out something that sounded like a goodbye before he was taking off down the hallway.

In Mr Clarke’s science class, he couldn’t explain to any of his friends why he was so jittery.

That summer, Mike got a girlfriend, El. She came out of absolutely nowhere and Mike was obsessed with her. He was never over at your house anymore, apparently spending every spare minute with her, making out as the boys all liked to tease him. You always stayed quiet. Inside you burned white hot jealousy.

How could some girl come in and scoop him up out of nowhere? You’d liked him for so long, your entire life, and you were beaten out by a quiet girl who didn’t even seem to like the same music as him! The worst part of it all, though, was that you liked her. El was really nice, and pretty, and always included you without thought, unlike the boys.

Nevertheless, the tapes were forgotten about, and Mike hardly spoke to you at all for months.

Unfortunately, you didn’t get any space from the Wheelers. All of your families were still friends, and all of the same gatherings continued to happen. How were you ever supposed to get over him when he was at your house every other week? And he wasn’t cruel; in fact, El seemed to make him more social. They’d stop as a couple in your doorway and ask how your summer readings were going, and later your homework when school went back and they were still bloody dating. Plus, he was in high school and you were still in eighth, just turned fourteen, so you didn’t even get to catch glimpses of him on campus anymore.

Your life was absolute torture.

Mike and El finally broke up a whole year later. You wouldn’t say you were pleased, necessarily, you were actually very fond of her, and you always wanted Mike to be happy, but you couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that sparked in your heart when you heard.

You didn’t reach out first, you couldn’t. You wouldn’t be the desperate younger sister running to your brother’s friend the moment he was single. So you quashed your feelings, friendly and welcoming whenever Mike came over or you saw him in the halls of Hawkins High now that you were a freshman, returning to a constant background presence in his life as you’d grown well accustomed to throughout your fifteen years.

Nothing happened for a long time. For a year after Mike and El broke up, you felt completely invisible. The boys let you hang around more often now since Lucas was dating Max and El remained part of the friend group, but you weren’t a party member. Your brother made sure you knew that.

It was one of those times when they let you hang around that something started again. The whole party, plus you, were hanging out in the Wheeler’s basement, sprawled across the room as you entertained yourselves through a boring day of winter break where it was too cold to even venture outside. Nobody reached for their homework.

Max and El were playing chess, or Max was trying to teach her how, Will was drawing, and Mike, Dustin, and Lucas were rotating through a two-player video game at the TV, creating most of the noise in the room. You were lying on the floor next to the stereo, paging through a comic you’d found stuffed among some old toys, assuming it was Mike’s once upon a time.

Music was playing out the stereo, but you didn’t recognise it and the tape cover was nowhere to be seen.

“What is this? I really like it,” You asked when Mike was booted to spectator in the game, drawing his attention from the TV. He didn’t reply for just a second too long, looking at you in amusement, like he’d forgotten he’d ever spoken to you about music. It irritated you that he could just toss you aside for any girl that caught his eye, but simultaneously felt shy under his gaze, like it was important.

“The album is Paranoid. Black Sabbath,” He started before being cut off by the boys.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know Black Sabbath!” Lucas called as Dustin egged him on, even Will looking at you like you were seriously uneducated.

“Hey,” Mike said, harsher than you imagined he meant, “It’s not her fault. Rat Salad is an instrumental feature; it’s not like they’re playing it on the radio.” You tried not to fluster as he defended you, choosing to flip your brother off instead.

“Also, didn’t this come out in, like, the sixties? Sorry I wasn’t born yet.”

“Seventy,” Mike corrected you quietly, under his breath so your brother wouldn’t make fun of you for that too.

By the time you were all done bickering, the final song on the album had finished so Mike stood to change it, placing the tape carefully back into its cover.

“Here,” He said, holding it out to where you sat on his floor, “Borrow it. It’s good music.”

“Thanks, Mike.” Your arm lifted to take it, your fingers brushing as you made the exchange. Your eyes snapped up to his to find him already looking, alarm clear on his face. You wondered briefly if he felt the same electric sparks when you touched.

Mike didn’t give much indication, coughing pointedly as he jumped back on the couch behind Dustin’s spot on the floor, far away from you. You held the tape in wonder, turning it over in your hands. When you got up to put it in your bag, you locked eyes with Max, and you knew at once she was staring into your soul. You prayed she wouldn’t tell.

After that day in Mike’s basement, you’d come to a sort of silent agreement. Usually on a Friday, if he passed you in the halls or you were at each other’s house, he’d lend you a tape, just tucking it in your hands or your schoolbag, or one magical time, into the back pocket of your jeans. You’d been flustered the whole rest of the day.

Your duty was to listen to the tape over the weekend, always in its entirety with your headphones on for the most pure experience. You took it as seriously as a paid job, dedicating anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour to fully appreciate whatever music Mike had bestowed upon you.

Then, on Monday morning or as soon as possible after, you’d return the tape to him some way or another, with the addition of a cut-up Post-it note featuring your star rating.

The best part, though, didn’t happen weekly. Maybe once a month, depending on how busy Mike was, he’d get to your house early when he was supposed to be hanging out with your brother and you’d discuss the albums he’d shared with you. It was the highlight of your month. Mike, usually serious and temperamental, was almost always joyful and passionate when you got into the albums, gushing and gesticulating like he used to when he was little.

You listened with rapt attention, and you were sure your gaze was the same as when you were ten. Mike was seventeen and cool and felt like it. He talked down to you not in the way that he thought you were stupid, but in the way that he loved having an audience to educate. He’d capture your attention as long as you’d pay it, channelling his DM skills to monologue about some of the best albums on earth. Plus, Mike listened to you. Really listened. He’d evolved to sitting on the edge of your bed, nodding along as you shared your volume of thoughts like he really valued your opinions.

The more you did it, the more comfortable you became with each other. What had started as a serious discussion of the merits of different albums devolved into both of you pouring out every feeling you had about them, singing lines you liked or didn’t, freer to criticise as you got to know each other better.

You even thought Mike was beginning to like you. Not as a girlfriend or anything, obviously not, but as an actual friend and not an extension of your brother. He asked about school and your friends when you’d exhausted the albums, complaining about the junior workload.

After a while, you could feel him be more himself around you. You didn’t know how funny Mike Wheeler was until you were fifteen years old, and honestly, you were glad it was a new discovery, because it would have ruined your whole childhood if you’d had to add that to his list of crush-worthy qualities.

He’d started lingering, too. The first few times he’d been to your bedroom, he was anxious, usually pacing or right on the very edge of your mattress, not making himself comfortable in case the rest of the party arrived to catch him. He’d be out of your room the second the front door opened, usually without a goodbye.

Later, though, Mike would sit comfortably on top of your blanket, lounging like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. And when he knew his friends would be arriving, he stood but made no move to leave the room, continuing to chat.

When the rest of the party stopped by your room, staring in bewilderment at the sight of the two of you together, Mike didn’t make a big deal of it.

“Oh, hey guys, we were just talking. Did you know she has Mayberry for bio?”

You and your brother were too busy making aggressive eye contact with each other to respond, true familial competitiveness coming out over Mike Wheeler. When you were done your silent battle, Mike was already looking at you.

“Later,” He said, waving awkwardly. What enamoured you most was his small smile, secret and just for you. Like you were in on a joke together that no one else knew about.

It was a year before you were brave enough to suggest a tape back. It happened just before Mike started his senior year; you were going into tenth. You actually didn’t know why you were at home alone together, you supposed the rest of the party must have had plans and you were the backup.

Nevertheless, there you were, lying side by side on your floor, bodies sinking into the carpet. In the background played Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon album, something both you and Mike considered perfect.

When the tape came to an end, neither of you shied away from the silence, summer crickets underscoring your peace.

“Have you ever listened to the Bat Out Of Hell album?” You asked, voice sounding surprisingly loud after minutes of nothing. Mike looked over at you, eyebrows conveying all of his feelings: disbelief, interest, admiration? You liked it. He finally shook his head no.

“Oh my God, Mike, it’s awesome. It was supposed to be for this, like, rock musical about Peter Pan, but it never happened so he just released it as a normal album, and it’s ridiculous but also kinda good? I don’t know,” You trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

“Put it on,” Mike said lightly, and you hurried before he could back out, popping in the tape.

You laid back down next to him, the distance between you almost imperceptibly less.

“Why is it really good and kinda terrible?” He laughed, his body shaking from the floor. You joined him, only stopping to sing along to your favourite guitar solo in the titular song. When it ended, you looked over at Mike, aware of what you’d just done, but he was looking at you like it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen.

You didn’t test it, looking back up at the ceiling to enjoy the rest of the album. Your grin didn’t leave your face for the whole album.

When the final song had finished and the tape stalled, you hesitated in getting up, wanting to live in this perfect moment forever.

“Fuck, I should get home. My mom’s been freaking out because senior year is starting,” Mike groaned, reluctantly pushing himself up to a sitting position. You took the hint, hopping up to put the tape back in its case. “Hey, where’d you learn all that stuff about the album?”

You looked back, and time stopped for Mike. In a serendipitous moment, a slowly setting sun filtered through your open window, bathing you in golden light. You were smiling at him, blinding from his spot on the carpet as everything seemed to move in slow motion. The moment snapped back into real life and he struggled to catch up with what you were saying.

“— the guy at the record store told me! Went on a whole tangent about it. Sold me the first two tapes, but apparently there’s a third he couldn’t get his hands on. I’ll lend it to you!”

Any romance movie slow-mo was long gone and Mike was consumed with fear. He was on his feet and out of your room before you knew what was happening, the distinct feeling that you’d done something wrong creeping through your limbs.

You hurried to follow him out, grabbing the tape on the way.

“Mike!” You yelled, skipping the last three steps to follow him out the door. He didn’t look at you as he tried to pick up his bike despite his obvious distraction.

“Sorry,” He didn’t look at you, “I just remembered my mom wanted me to go get some things for dinner, and now she’ll be mad and I was really trying to be nicer to her, and —”

“Mike,” You laughed softly, watching him swing his leg over the bike seat, “I was just gonna lend you a tape.” You slipped it into the breast pocket of his button-up summer shirt, not mentioning the way his whole face went red, waving happily as he pedalled off into the dusk.

Mike’s legs burned with the force of his pedalling. He had no end goal in mind, everything he told you a total lie. He didn’t need to go to the store for his mom, he just needed to get as far away from you as possible. Mike Wheeler could not be seeing his best friend’s little sister in glowing lights and romantic slow motion, that was the most off-limits thing in the world. He’d be actually murdered.

He rode for hours, lost in conflicted thought as he tried to shake any non-platonic images of you from his mind. It was so inappropriate, he could be booted from the party! He had to keep things completely friendly with you.

The only issue was that you’d started lending him tapes back. So once a week, Mike got another little insight into your brain, into your life. The problem with this, was that he thought you were really fucking cool. After a life spent listening to other people’s tapes that you could get your hands on, you’d started to be able to afford to explore your own taste. Mike thought it was unbelievably cool.

When he visited for his monthly-ish album discussion parties, he watched your collection grow, stacking up nearly an entire wall. Not to mention the albums from the rest of your family that you’d stored across the house. A special glow illuminated his chest when he spotted tapes he’d lent you over the years, meaning you liked them so much you’d gone out to buy them after returning them.

And so the agreement continued all through the year, swapping tapes and finding secret times to meet up to discuss your favourite albums.

It was a sacred ritual. Every weekend, just as you did when you were thirteen that very first time, you set aside thirty to sixty minutes to lay above your covers, eyes closed and headphones on as you absorbed the music Mike gave you. Most weeks, it was the best hour of the whole seven days.

Unbeknownst to you, Mike was beginning to feel the same way about it. At first, the tapes were nothing to him. He was just lending them out and you always returned them quickly and in good condition, why should he think anything about it?

Then you started talking about them, and Mike started to see you in a brand new light — even aside from that one terrifying moment over the summer. No longer were you just a younger sister of the party, annoying and desperate to be included, but you were a real person with interesting thoughts and opinions on the same music he loved.

It was ridiculous, really, that he’d developed a crush on his best friend’s younger sister because of her music taste. But that wasn’t really the truth, anyway, was it? The truth was, Mike liked that you were passionate and opinionated, and were still the same girl that snuck out to the city to go see concerts, though now you could get in 16+ venues without any tricks (the bouncer’s face was priceless when you showed him your real ID for the first time).

He liked that you weren’t afraid to disagree with him, pushing back at his album analysis so that he really had to think about it. He liked that you didn’t mind when he was moody, content to sit in silence, a new or old album playing between you.

It was terrifying. Totally off limits, a little bit taboo, nothing about it made sense. Mike hated it, but also couldn’t bring himself to stop your secret ritual.

Mike had to go to college. You’d been dreading it since he got his acceptance letter. He wasn’t going far, not across the country or anything, but far enough that he wouldn’t be coming home to visit.

It wasn’t like you could do anything about it. You just held on to the albums and the passing conversations while you still could.

“Are we still gonna talk about music when you’re gone?” You asked, fiddling with your next tape, pointedly not looking at him. “Or are you gonna forget all about me when you meet college girls who know cooler albums.” You finally loaded the cassette into the player, Starship’s Love Among the Cannibals. You didn’t think Mike was going to love it, but it had been released two weeks ago and you’d been saving it to listen to together.

Mike laughed behind you, and the smile grew back on your face.

“C’mon, you think I’m gonna find someone else who wants to give up hours of their time to listen to albums front to back with me?” You bit your lip to hold back the wide grin which threatened to break out, settling in on your carpet next to him.

The album was just under an hour long, and you two sat in mostly silence for the entire duration, with the exception of the occasional “Nice!” or “Love that riff.” The summer was sweltering around you, but on the floor it didn’t feel as unbearable.

In the middle of the titular song, you’d thrown your hands up to emphasise your point and how much you loved a note the singer hit. When your point was finished you let your arms drop, going rigid when your fingers brushed Mike’s on the floor. You didn’t dare look at him for fear of his reaction, but you didn’t want to move and draw attention to it.

To your surprise, Mike didn’t pull away. When the song changed and a new beat started, his fingers twitched, interlocking with yours as if you wouldn’t notice. Of course you did, you’d been tuned into Mike Wheeler’s personal radio station since the day you gained consciousness, logging his movements to feed your crush. Holding hands with him was something you had only dreamed about, seeming so far away until it was actually happening.

Neither of you moved for the last half of the album, like if you did the illusion would shatter. You were honestly scared it would. The final song of the record, I’ll Be There, started playing, slow and gentle. It was different from much of the album, more of a heartfelt ballad, despite the continued use of synth and electric guitar.

As Mickey Thomas gave it his all on “I’ll be there for you,” Mike turned to look at you. You felt it, gaze heavy on you as your mind ran through every possibility. You couldn’t find any eventuality bad enough to stop you from tilting your head right to look at him.

Softly, slowly, Mike said your name. Your heart skipped three beats in a row.

“Mike?”

By the end of the first chorus, Mike was kissing you, propped up on one elbow so he was hovering above half your body. You didn’t hesitate to return it, back arching off the plush carpet to help him out.

Mike’s lips were softer than you expected, slotting against yours like they were made for each other. He tasted of slurpee and kissed like he was trying to devour you, huge hand cupping your cheek. It was messy and intense and everything you’d dreamt of since you were old enough to find kissing appealing. In a fit of bravery, you pulled him all the way on top of you, knotting your fingers in his hair and tangling your legs with his.

For the remaining four minutes of the five-minute ballad you kissed him, giving everything you had like some bid to convince him you were good enough. If you were judging by the hardness pressing against your thigh, you’d say you were doing a pretty good job.

When the tape clicked characteristically and the room fell silent, Mike pulled away. In the span of a single second, a thousand emotions ran over his face. Dazed pleasure morphed into realisation into horror, and Mike jumped off you, landing three feet away on his ass.

“Mike?” You pushed yourself up onto your forearms, admittedly dazed and confused.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” He muttered, standing and pacing before you could process it. “Fuck, they’re gonna be so mad at me.” Them being the party, of course. Your brow furrowed.

“Mike,” You said again, clearer this time. Mike paid you little attention, lost in his own spiral.

“I can’t believe I just did that, that’s completely against the rules.”

“Mike!”

“They’re gonna kick me out of the party, not to mention your brother will never talk to me again, and —”

“Mike!” You yelled, standing to face him. Mike’s mouth fell shut, looking at you like he’d almost forgotten you were even in the room with him. “Don’t I get any say in this? Or does it not matter what I feel?”

Mike didn’t say anything. You rolled your eyes, taking a step toward him.

“Mike, you kissed me. Big deal. I liked it, isn’t that a little more important?”

“But I shouldn’t have! You’re a sibling of a party member, you’re sixteen—”

“And you’re only just eighteen! It’s not like you’re a pedophile.” Mike winced.

“Look, it was all a mistake. You’re too young, you’re my best friend’s little sister, I’m about to go off to college! It shouldn’t have happened.” He wouldn’t look at you, and that hurt more than anything he could have said.

“You really mean that?” You asked after a long pause, long enough to blink back the tears that burned hot at your lashes. Mike nodded once. “Fine. I think you should go, Mike.”

Mike deflated, like he could hardly believe what had just happened, but picked up his bag to leave anyway. You followed him to the door only to be a good host, because your mother had raised you right. He took a few steps out onto the path then looked back, and for one blissful moment you could pretend he was going to take it all back, that everything could go back to that dream come true.

“I hate to ask it… Can you please not tell your brother?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Mike gave you a pained smile, as if anything he could do right now could come off as remotely polite, and took off down the street on his bike.

You slammed the door as hard as you could, unbothered if Mike heard it, and slid down it, tears falling freely once you were completely alone. Your childhood crush, the love of your life thus far, had ripped out your heart and stomped it into the ground over some petty childhood rules. Why did he kiss you, then, if he wouldn’t even savour the bliss for a minute? Why play with your feelings? Everything you’d ever known about Mike Wheeler was called into question.

When your brother got home he found you on your bed, eyes still wet and rimmed with red as you clutched the tape player close to your chest, Songs of Leonard Cohen playing from start to end, the most melancholy album you had on hand.

“You good?” He asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” You croaked, eyes trained on the ceiling so he wouldn’t see the truth, “Absolutely nothing.”

Mike felt so stupid. He was stupid. He just couldn’t tell which was more stupid, kissing you in the first place or letting you go. If he were a braver man, Mike would have followed his heart. He would have kissed you to Starship then held you close, telling you exactly how glad he was that you’d chosen him to pay attention to all those years ago, that your albums were the highlight of his year. If he were braver, Mike would have told your brother, begging him for a chance to do things right by you.

But Mike wasn’t brave, wasn’t a man of action. So he ran, and worse, begged you to keep his secret like a little boy who’d eaten candy past his bedtime. He knew he’d fucked up, but he couldn’t go back on it now. Besides, if your brother ever learned what he’d done, Mike would never be allowed near you again.

You didn’t talk to Mike before he went off for college. You only went to his going-away party because it was a joint one for all of his friends, but you shrugged off his attempt at small talk. If Mike didn’t want you in the way he’d pursued, he wasn’t getting you at all.

You only stepped into his space when Karen begged for a photo of you both, you could never say no to her. She must have sensed the tension because she’d faltered, but ultimately bossed you into an adequate pose. Mike was pressed right up against you, hand firmly around your waist.

Your body was in complete confusion. After so many years of pining, you were practically programmed to crave physical affection from Mike, and feeling his body against yours was so comforting it made you want to cry. The other part of you was fighting tears for the opposite reason, being so close to him brought every negative feeling of the last week to the forefront of your mind.

Click.

“Michael, honey, you’re supposed to look at the camera,” Mrs Wheeler teased. Mike was looking at you. Why was Mike looking at you? What reason could he possibly have for looking at you? He’d made his feelings abundantly clear. You both settled, smiling pleasantly — if completely fake — at the camera.

Click.

You moved to leave, untangling yourself from his arms when Karen stopped you.

“Please, just one more! Honey, can you kiss her cheek?” Both yours and Mike’s heads snapped back toward Mrs Wheeler and the camera, panic clear on your faces.

“Mom!” Mike snapped, putting distance between you two. Your heart dropped into your toes, feeling him smash it into the ground all over again.

“Michael,” She scolded, tone stern, “Nobody is looking at you. You’ve known her your whole life, you guys used to swim naked in the pool together when you were babies!” You were sure you looked as distraught as Mike did, and he muttered something that sounded like ‘fine’, if only to get his mom to stop talking.

Carefully, hesitantly, you fell back into each other. Mike’s hand wrapped around your body, resting on your hip where your jeans hugged the skin, his body warm against your own. Painfully slow, he leant down to oblige his mother. Because he was so tall, the kiss landed closer to your cheekbone than the actual cheek, but the sensation still took your breath away. His lips were still soft like the day he kissed you, a painful reminder of what you’d lost. In the last second, you remembered to plaster on a smile for Mrs Wheeler, dropping it after the click.

Mrs Wheeler beamed, wiggling the camera before running off to capture more memories. You tried to follow her lead, wriggling out of Mike’s hold, but he captured your wrist before you could make a break for it.

“Listen,” He said, “I’m really sorry about how everything went down. I was a dick. Can I… Can I still send you albums, when I’m at college?” You thought for a moment. What the fuck were you supposed to say to that?

“No one’s stopping you,” You said, the bitterness definitely seeping through, “Enjoy college, Mike.” You didn’t stay to get his response, walking off through the crowd.

Later, when you and your family were finally leaving the party, Mrs Wheeler approached you.

“I’m sorry about Michael,” She said, soft enough that none of your relatives could eavesdrop, “I don’t know what happened between you two, but I know it’ll work out and you’ll find your way back to each other. One day he’ll wake up and realise what was always right in front of him.”

“Thanks, Mrs Wheeler,” You replied, reciprocating her tight squeeze, “I hope so.”

You didn’t speak to Mike Wheeler for an entire year. He mailed a few tapes in the first months, never with notes, and you never replied. You wished you could say you didn’t listen to them, threw them straight in the trash, but of course you didn’t. Just like when you were thirteen years old, you’d pop them into your player, slide your headphones on, and listen to the whole thing in one sitting with your eyes closed.

They were different from the tapes he’d recommended throughout your adolescence. Clearly, he’d made new friends in college, expanded his horizons. Instead of the rock or pop-rock records from his high school days, Mike sent grungier, indie records that reflected the start of the nineties.

First it was Heaven or Las Vegas by the Cocteau Twins. You admittedly felt really cool to have already owned it. Then The La’s self-titled album. After that, Hold Me Up by the Goo Goo Dolls. The final album to be sent was The Screaming Trees’ Change Has Come.

You listened to every one, though you would never tell him. You didn’t write back, which probably explained why they stopped coming. What would you say? You couldn’t just ignore everything that happened and go back to naively reviewing records, so you didn’t. It made you angry, fuming that Mike could just go on like everything was fine, like he didn’t shatter your heart into a thousand pieces in the span of a single minute.

Mike didn’t come home for his winter break, citing too much work before finals. That was fine, you thought. Better, even, because you could still be angry without feeling silly about it. If Mike had come home totally blasé about your history whilst you were still grieving, it would have been completely humiliating.

When he didn’t come home for spring break either, you were well and truly over him. Mike Wheeler didn’t occupy any room in your head. You filled your schedule with school commitments, parties, and boys who were nothing like Mike. You snuck out on the weekends, killing brain cells in warehouses or fields or anywhere else there was abundant alcohol and sweaty bodies, waking up next to people who weren’t afraid to kiss you more than once. None of them stayed till the end of an album.

You missed him again in the summer. You had an older cousin up in New York who gave you an internship the summer before your senior year, and you spent three months away from your tape collection and the memories they held. It helped. While Mike was back in Hawkins, you were running around the greatest city in the world, forgetting he ever held space in your heart.

When you got home, you were actually over him. In the real way, not in the fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of way. Men much older than him, who took you to clubs you shouldn’t have been allowed into and loved you in penthouses more expensive than the Hawkins mall, imparted wisdom on you, that Mike was an immature boy. His rejection wasn’t mean-spirited; it was just a representation of him being torn between child and adulthood, between friends and romances. Something like that, anyway. Enough for you to forgive Mike Wheeler for breaking your heart when you were sixteen.

By the time you were eighteen, halfway through your senior year, you felt like an entirely new person. You still loved your albums, but less obsessively. They weren’t a coping mechanism anymore, it was just something you loved. If Mike Wheeler walked through your door, you were sure you wouldn’t feel anything.

Your theory was tested in January, a few days after the new year. The party had gone on a trip together, but were spending the very final days of winter break with their respective families.

You were in your bedroom, getting ready to go out with some friends. You’d adapted well to the nineties in a slinky slip dress with sheer stockings for the cold, perfecting a dark smokey eye in your vanity mirror. Alanis Morissette’s debut album played at a low volume.

“Hi,” A voice said behind you. You stood on instinct, face morphing into surprise when you realised it was none other than Mike Wheeler himself.

For a long moment, it seemed like you were both frozen in time. Mike had no idea how you were going to react to seeing him after all this time, and he was scared of all of it.

And then you smiled. Not pained, not forced, not fake. You really smiled at him. You were coming closer. Oh God, why were you coming closer? When you wrapped your arms around his neck, Mike simply could not believe it, waiting just a second too long before wrapping his own tentatively around your middle.

The hug wasn’t long by any shot, just friendly. Like two people who had known each other for almost two decades and hadn’t seen each other in a long time. Mike couldn’t help but catalogue every sensation. The silk beneath his fingers, the warmth of your skin, the sweet smell of your perfume. Different than he remembered.

When you pulled away you were still smiling, and Mike felt like he was in a parallel universe where nothing had ever gone wrong between you. Your hands lingered, trailing softly down his shoulders to his chest, there were still only inches between you.

“It’s so nice to see you,” You said, and Mike really believed you meant it. “Do you have a few? Come in, tell me all about college!”

He settled on the edge of your mattress, nervous like the first few times you’d talked about music.

“It’s cool, I guess…” He told you about his roommate, his classes, the DND campaign he’d joined on campus. It was light, easy, almost like nothing had ever happened between you. You remained in the plush seat at your vanity, blending out the excessive amount of black eyeshadow you’d packed onto your lids, occasionally making eye contact through the mirror. He faltered every time, the feeling strangely domestic. Fuck.

Mike wanted to apologise, but he had no idea where to start or what he could say. It was so long ago, but being back here made it feel like only a matter of days or weeks. His eyes caught on your pile of tapes, Heaven or Las Vegas sitting on the top.

“You kept them?” You knew at once what he was talking about and let out a small sigh. You’d been hoping it would go unspoken, at least today. Give you and Mike some time to reconnect innocently at first. You stayed in your seat, hoping he didn’t notice the way your shoulders tensed.

“Of course I did, Mike.”

“You never said anything. Never wrote back.”

“What was I supposed to say?” You stood, taking a few steps toward him so you wouldn’t raise your voice. Nothing good would come if your brother walked in now. “I was angry, Mike. Heartbroken. I’ve had a crush on you my entire life, and then you finally kiss me and call it a mistake not even thirty seconds later. I was crushed. I couldn’t just pretend that I was okay while you were off in college sending me albums you got from older, prettier girls.”

Though you were only inches apart, you could have mistaken the distance for miles. Hurt flashed across Mike’s face, but you didn’t feel particularly bad. Everything you said was true.

When Mike looked at you, you felt truly seen. He’d always had a talent for that, ever since that day when he learned you listened to The Beatles. That skill had evidently never left, and you shied away from his gaze in case he could truly read every thought and feeling racing through your body. Gently, he took your bicep in his hand, thumb rubbing the exposed skin there.

“I was so immature — stupid. I was so worried about what everyone else would think, what your brother would think, that I wasn’t thinking about how I was treating you and making you feel. I’m so, so sorry I ever hurt you, and I wish I could take it back.”

Hearing it out loud from Mike healed something in you that you didn’t know was broken. You had truly forgiven him, but hearing how sorry he actually sounded, it restored some of the fondness you’d always had for him.

“What would you take back?” You asked, barely above a murmur. Mike cocked his head, confused. “What would you take back? Kissing me or breaking my heart?” You needed him to say it.

Mike’s smile was tight, pained, but not like his feelings were hurt. More bittersweet, like he was indulging in nostalgia. You couldn’t read it, but Mike was running through a lifetime of memories. Of you pushing back against his opinions, challenging him as an equal. Of you tagging along when his friends would let you, teasing the party members with a sharp tongue despite being younger. Of you kissing him back without hesitation, tasting like ice pops and lip gloss. His answer was clear.

“Breaking your heart,” He whispered, “Always.” The hand on your bicep trailed down to interlock your fingers loosely, giving you the opportunity to pull away. You didn’t, taking a tiny step toward him. The album had stopped by now, and you were bathed in silence.

“Mike…” His neck was already bent, breath fanning your face. It smelled of mint, no doubt from the bowl kept on your kitchen counter. Mike echoed your own name, barely audible as he looked down at your lips through lidded eyes, the glossy red wine colour on your lips glinting invitingly.

You were just pushing yourself up on your tiptoes to kiss him when a horn blasted outside your window, both of you jumping apart as if getting caught doing something bad. Sally was picking you up for the party. Looking at Mike, you dreaded finding what you did when you were sixteen; regret, panic, despair. Instead, he just laughed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. The relief was incomparable. Together, you dissolved into embarrassed giggles, but the air in your room was light.

“I have to go,” You said finally, picking up your small beaded purse and throwing in a few touch-up makeup products. Mike nodded, stumbling out something about your brother being home soon, anyway.

As you parted ways in the corridor with a stiff hug and embarrassed goodbyes, you looked back at where Mike was entering your brother’s bedroom.

“Hey,” You said and Mike turned without hesitation. “Maybe you can lend me more tapes, while you’re at college?”

He nodded, face breaking into a wide grin, something you’d always loved about him. When it was genuine, his smile took up most of his face like a beacon of joy.

The first tape came three days after Mike returned to college, meaning he probably sent it as soon as he got back. The thought made you smile. It was Smashing Pumpkins’ Gish. You really liked it, and not only because Mike sent it to you.

For the first time since he’d been to college, you wrote Mike back. A long letter filled with thoughts about the album and your favourite parts. When you ran out of that, you started talking about your own life, about senior year and how much you were looking forward to graduating, and about how you were considering applying to his school. Not because Mike went there, because it had the best course for you. Anything else was just a bonus. At the bottom of the envelope, you included Teenage Fanclub’s Bandwagonesque.

The correspondence only increased over the semester, letters coming every few days. Your mother certainly noticed but never said anything, the unopened envelopes always somehow ending up in your bedroom when you came home from school.

Each time, the letters became a little less album-focused and a little more personal. Secrets were spilled and confessions shared in the pages of letters you’d trade every week, a tape added to each one. You were really, really fucked.

Mike couldn’t make it home for your graduation. You’d been brave and specifically invited him in a letter, hoping you hadn’t misread any of his signs or what you thought was flirting via the written word. He’d written back extremely apologetic, but he had an exam the same day and couldn’t miss it. Of course you understood, but a part of you still ached that he wouldn’t be there for such an important day.

The morning of the event, you were busy getting ready at your vanity, Mike’s latest tape — Radiohead’s debut Drill, playing. Obviously it was a third listen, the first being in your ritualistic method.

You called for whoever was knocking at your door to come in, smiling at your mom. Wordlessly, she held up a plain envelope, the handwriting on which you’d memorised over the last four months. It was frankly embarrassing, how fast you were up and out of your seat. grabbing the letter with both hands. Your mom didn’t say anything, just shooting you a far-too-knowing smile as she left you to read it in peace.

You tipped the contents out on your vanity amongst the makeup you’d just been using. Usually, you’d read the letter first, but the tape caught your eye. It didn’t look like the usual album Mike sent.

On one side, it just read your name in familiar scrawl, accompanied by a single heart. Shaky, unsure. On the other, a track list was stuck to it. Mike had never made you a mixtape before, you’d never had one made for you.

Flipping it over to see the tracks on the tape, you had to blink back tears to save the mascara you’d just applied.

Across the Universe - The Beatles

I Want To Know What Love Is - Foreigner

She’s The Boss - Mick Jagger

I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That) - Meatloaf

I’ll Be There - Starship

Crush - The Smashing Pumpkins

It was short, only the length of an EP, but the message was clear. Mike liked you. Mike Wheeler liked you! As if your day couldn’t get any better. You couldn’t stop smiling, not even when you had to sit through hours of your peers walking across a shitty stage at the town hall in the sweltering early summer heat.

You couldn’t believe he remembered it all. That all those tiny moments you thought you were exaggerating or reading too much into meant the same to Mike, too. All those years you thought had been wasted… they were all worth it.

You didn’t bother writing back that evening when you returned from the senior party, a little bit tipsy and emotional. Nothing you could say would be good enough.

Four days later, Mike was due to arrive home with the rest of the party. You couldn’t wait, the pounding in your chest had only gotten louder as the hours counted down. All of the families had gathered at the Wheelers' to greet the boys, a summer feast awaiting in the backyard.

You couldn’t wait with everyone else, pretending you were completely fine when every one of your limbs was shaking in anticipation. So you moved to the front yard, sitting atop the hood of the Wheelers’ family car.

The boys all pulled up in the same car, so they must have done an overly convoluted route that was typical for the friend group. You were beaming the second they came around the corner, waiting impatiently for the brown Ford to come to a complete stop.

All four doors opened at once, but you only had one interest. Skipping past your brother’s open arms, you launched yourself into Mike’s embrace, ready and waiting as he kissed you hard.

Years, lifetimes, of built-up longing and tension were expressed in the one kiss, your lips moving against each other like it was their only purpose. Mike tasted of soda and candy, poorly masked by mint gum. His arms wrapped completely around you, pulling you flush to him. You had both hands on his jaw, foot popping of its own accord.

Finally, after multiple awkward throat clears from the party, you pulled away, beaming brighter than the sun.

“Congrats on graduating,” Mike said, voice breathy and dazed as he held you.

“Thanks for the mixtape,” You replied, running your fingers through his hair gently. “Hi, guys.” You turned to greet the others, hugging your brother even when his arms didn’t work, too shocked to function.

Mike found his way to your side as soon as you finished saying hello, intertwining his fingers with yours.

You turned to head out to the back, eyes widening when Mrs Wheeler stood in the front doorway, leaning against the frame. She just smiled, greeting the boys like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Later, when the Wheeler’s garden was alive with chaos and moving parts, countless family members bustling about, Mrs Wheeler approached you.

Refilling your lemonade, she squeezed your shoulder maternally.

“I knew he’d wake up one of these days and realise what was right in front of him.” She just winked and walked away, no doubt to tell your mom about what she’d seen.

An hour later, once the excitement of the arrival had died down, Mike approached you again, arms settling over your collarbones as he stood behind you. You looked away from your conversation with Erica and up at him, unable to keep your smile from forming.

“Do you wanna go listen to an album?” He asked, pressing a kiss to your hair. You nodded without thought, letting him lead you into the house.

“Is that a code for something?” Erica yelled, disgusted and unimpressed as always.

“Nope!” You grinned, skipping along behind Mike.