#christams

You were back—fuck—and you had no idea how to be you here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The car slowed in front of your parents’ house, tires crunching softly over frozen snow that had already been packed down by previous movements.

The porch lantern was on yet, casting a warm yellow halo over the blue afternoon light, and the windows glowed from the inside like a gingerbread house out of a fairy postcard.

Your dad pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You watched outside, the sudden silence ringing in your ears.

He cleared his throat and glanced at you, one hand still resting on the steering wheel.

“I’m really glad to see you,” he muttered, rough as a bear who doesn't know he's adorable.

You chuckled, reaching for the door handle, already a little uncomfortable.

“Dad, you came to Houston for Halloween. Remember?”

He nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Yeah, thank you! I’m just saying it’s different when you’re… here. At home. Finally.”

That made you still, the door ajar.

You looked at him, really looked—the lines around his eyes, the same old jacket you’d known since high school, the hushed steadiness that had never changed no matter how far you went.

“I… didn’t vanish,” you said softly, almost scared, sorry.

“I know,” he replied right away. “You could never do that. You just… built your life somewhere else.”

You nodded once, biting your bottom lip, throat tight, and stepped out before you could think about it again.

A cold wind slapped you, sharp and clean, tingling at your cheeks as your boots hit the snow.

You wrapped yourself in your wool coat, grabbed your bag, summoned your sense of balance, and finally took a step forward as the front door of the house flew open.

“There she is! My little girl!”

Your mother barely gave you time to step on the porch before she was on you, arms wrapping tight around your neck, the scent of her perfume and flour and something sweet enveloping you all at once.

“You’re freezing,” she scolded, immediately smoothing your hair back from your face. “Of course you are, you’ve always been bad with winter. Did you eat? Of course you didn’t eat. You look thinner—are you thinner? You’re thinner. I told your father—”

“Mom,” you warned, fingers already numb. “I literally just got here!”

“I know, I know,” she said, hands warm on your cheeks, eyes shining. “I’m just happy. Come inside before you turn into an icicle.”

The house already smelled like Christmas and sparkled like an official exhibition of lights and candles.

Something was cooking in the oven—sugar, butter, cream, cinnamon.

You left damp marks on the carpet as you were practically dragged towards the living room, your father obediently following behind you with your suitcase in tow.

The warmth wrapped around you immediately, familiar and almost overwhelming.

“Oh my God, you're here! Thanks Jesus!” your mother breathed, hands clasped together like she was witnessing a miracle.

“She’s been here for thirty seconds,” your dad said calmly, taking your coat. “Try not to scare her back onto the next flight.”

“I am not scaring her! Sorry if I'm happy to see our only daughter,” she snapped, studying you with a critical eye.

“You look pale. Are you pale? You’re pale. Are you taking your vitamins? Don't forget you're anemic—”

You rolled your eyes as all the observations were made, questions asked and answers given.

At some point and without even knowing how, you found yourself holding a cup of hot chocolate with a mountain of whipped cream and colored sprinkles, while your mom continued her general monologue on the latest neighborhood gossip.

Eventually—and mercifully—she waved a hand toward the stairs.

“You look tired. Are you tired? You’re tired. Go, unpack. Or don’t unpack. Do you want to take a bath? I bought some salts wonderful for—”

Your father gave you a meaningful look, getting up to carry your suitcase to your room, and you got the signal instantly.

“Oh, just… go look around. Dinner won’t be ready for another hour. I’ll call you.”

You only nodded and carried yourself upstairs, the floorboards creaking exactly the way you remembered.

"Forgive her, she's as excited as a child in front of Santa Claus," your father whispered to you, leaving the door at the end of the corridor slightly open for you.

Your room.

You approached slowly and pushed it, finding the light switch without fail.

Nothing had changed—but everything had.

The single bed was the same. The posters on the walls, quite faded now, corners peeling just a little.

Your old desk near the dresser, chair tucked in like you’d just gotten up to grab a snack and planned on coming right back to study.

You closed the door and stepped further inside, fingers brushing over familiar surfaces—wood, fabric, the edge of a bookshelf full of novels you could read in the dark.

It felt like walking into a preserved version of yourself, sealed away and waiting for your return.

The only window drew you in, like it always had.

You crossed the room and exhaled before pulling the thin floral curtain aside.

Outside, the yard was blanketed in snow, pure and undisturbed, the soil hushed beneath it.

The street beyond looked smaller somehow and on the horizon the sun had almost set.

The cherry tree, grown with you, was black and bare like a sleeping skeleton.

You’d spent so many nights at this window—watching, waiting, thinking.

Dreaming of feeling alive again.

Now you stood there, ten years later, with a life that was full—maybe too much?—heart heavy with the strange knowledge that you had left, changed… and brought all of it back with you.

You let the curtain fall back into place, but not the memories.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dinner turned out to be a surprise in the most Hawkins way possible.

You were still upstairs, almost finished unpacking while thinking about a particularly messy chapter you needed to revise—even though you were supposedly on forced vacation—when you heard voices downstairs that didn’t belong to your parents.

Laughter—loud, overlapping, familiar.

You paused, fingers curled around an oversized sweater—your go-to comfort piece over the years.

Someone knocked something over, a chorus of friendly insults immediately followed.

Then, Robin’s laugh cut through everything else.

You froze, smiling from ear to ear.

“Sweetie! Come down, we have guests!”

“Hey, watch it up there, Rapunzel!”

Steve teasing voice.

You chuckled, left the sweater on the bed and ran downstairs.

The living room looked like a festive battlefield.

Coats draped over chairs, snow-damp scarves and hats hanging off the banister, cheerful and carefree chatter.

You stopped at the end of the stairs, taking a secret moment to admire what was before you. Your friends, your parents.

Your family.

God, how you had missed them.

“So… who murdered what and how?”

Robin jolted up from the arm of the couch, Vickie beside her turned to look at you with a sweet smile.

“Okay, we'll play Clue later, you nerd. Now let me hug you!”

Robin crossed the room in three long steps, arms wrapping around you so tight it knocked the air from your lungs.

“Oh my God—you’re real. I was starting to think my brain made you up to cope with my shitty adolescence.”

You laughed, startled and warm all at once, hugging her back just as fiercely.

“Hello to you too, lovely bride.”

Vickie kissed your cheeks.

“It’s really good to see you. Thanks for coming, your best friend was driving me nuts with all the possible scenarios where you bailing out at the last minute.”

You looked around, theatrically offended.

"What do you think I am, excuse me?!”

Steve stepped forward with open arms, his hair perfectly styled in the fashion of the moment.

"A very busy, famous and extremely rich editor,” he said, pulling back to inspect you like a proud older brother. “Look at you, all fancy and out-of-town.”

You met him halfway in a solid hug.

“You didn't get anything right, Harrington.”

Nancy embraced you last, calm and steady, eyes lingering on your face like she was taking mental notes.

“Welcome home,” she smiled.

The last word landed strangely in your chest, but suddenly your mother distracted you by marching into the living room with a tray laden with glasses of eggnog in precarious balance.

Dinner blurred into something chaotic and cozy.

Plates passed around.

Someone—Steve—spilled gravy.

Your mom hovered like a general overseeing a successful operation, while your dad refilled glasses with red wine specially brought from Italy.

Most of the conversation revolved around the reason why you were there in the first place: Robin and Vickie’s upcoming private wedding ceremony—opening times, decorations, details…the perpetual argument about whether snow was romantic or a logistical nightmare.

Robin talked a lot with her hands, red in face, Vickie finished sentences when her girlfriend got lost in useless turns of phrase.

Nancy asked thoughtful questions—as always—while Steve interrupted often, usually to ask about food.

“You are eating right now, yet your thoughts are constantly on food,” Robin joked, pointing at him with her fork.

He shrugged.

“It's not my fault you decided to entrust the catering to Enzo. I mean... I have to make sure his lasagna is on the menu!”

You laughed easily, smiling without having to force it; listened more than you spoke, nodding and intervening at the right moments.

It felt good.

Really good.

Eventually, after dessert, your parents retreated toward the kitchen, on a mission to load the new dishwasher to maximum capacity.

The lights were dimmer now, the house quieter, the conversation calmer.

Robin grew still and silent.

It was subtle, but you noticed.

She picked at the edge of a napkin, jaw working like she was chewing on something she didn’t want to swallow.

Vickie glanced at her, then at you, understanding flickering across her face.

Steve leaned back against the chair, suddenly very interested in the fake crystal chandelier.

Nancy shifted slightly closer to him.

Robin exhaled.

“So…” she said, too casually. “You’re really back.”

You met her gaze. “Yeah. For a bit.”

“A long bit,” Steve added, smiling. “Your mom’s already planning your entire reintegration into society.”

You chuckled. “I noticed. She is like that, but I plan to return to Houston after New Year's.”

Robin nodded once, like she was confirming something to herself. Then she looked at you again, eyes sharp and soft all at once.

“There’s something I must tell you,” she said.

Vickie placed a hand over Robin’s knee—not stopping her. Just grounding her.

Your stomach tightened, your pulse spiked.

“There’s no need for you—”

“Of course I do,” Robin cut in gently. “Because I promised myself a long time ago I wouldn’t do that thing where I try to protect you by pretending reality isn’t happening.”

You waited, intertwining your fingers under the tablecloth and squeezing them.

“He knows you’re here,” she said quietly.

Everyone looked at you.

You felt the words settle somewhere behind your ribs, heavy and precise.

You didn’t ask who—didn't need to.

Steve cleared his throat.

“It's not that we want to meddle in your business. It just seemed absurd not to tell him and—”

“It's okay—” hurried, “I should have expected it,” you whispered, as if this was information you could just file away.

As if your heart hadn’t started misbehaving.

Robin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’m telling you this so you won't freak out. Or have a heart attack. Or do anything you don’t want to… since he will be at the party too.”

You huffed a raw, humorless half laugh. “That’s very kind of you.”

Vickie fidgeted in her seat and you felt like a little piece of shit.

“Look, it's okay. Really. He’s your friend too, he deserves to be there to celebrate your love.”

Nancy looked at you like a proud sister, even though she was the one you were least confident with.

Your best friend studied your face attentively and you let her.

You didn't have to lie, not with her, just like she didn't have to sugarcoat it for you.

Silence stretched for a long moment.

The Christmas trees’ lights blinked rhythmically, on and off, like they were breathing with you.

“Just—I don’t really need to talk to him,” you said. “I’m not here for that.”

Robin nodded, a little knowing smile on her lips.

“Okay. You don't have to do anything. Just be there, near me. Please.”

You reached between the glasses, taking her hand.

Steve looked suspiciously emotional, eyes a little too bright. "Always. As always.”

When it was time for goodnight, with the solemn promise that you would go shopping the next day to choose your bridesmaid dress, Robin held you in a tight hug.

"I just want you to know something,” she whispered near your ear, “he’s not the same. And he missed you.”

You met her eyes and adjusted her colorful collar tighter.

“Me too. Both.”

Robin smiled at that.

Not wide.

Not triumphant.

“I’m so proud of you.”

No one had said his name.

They didn’t have to, but it echoed in your head all the same.

Eddie.

Eddie.

Eddie.

Eddie…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning found you in the parking lot of the only supermarket Hawkins had ever really needed—the small, slightly worn one downtown, run by Joyce Hopper since you were a little girl greedy for lollipops.

Your breath fogged in faint, little clouds as you stepped out of your dads’ car and tugged your coat tighter around yourself, tired face half hidden by a crochet scarf.

You hadn’t slept much.

Your body had been heavy with sleep, but your mind had refused to follow.

In the absolute silence of the snowy night, the house had felt too full of echoes.

Too many old, familiar sounds in the gloom.

Pipes gurgling.

Floorboards cracking.

The cuckoo clock you never liked.

Your parents’ hushed voices behind closed doors—still the same, still together after forty years.

But mostly, Robin hunted your vision every time you tried to close your eyes.

You’d lain awake replaying the conversation in the living room—her restless eyes, the tone, the way she had watched you like she always did when things were fragile.

‘He knows you are here,’ and you immediately acted like a selfish bitch.

You hadn’t asked anything else, hadn't even thought about it—just had done what you always did best: stayed very still and waited for the feeling to settle on its own.

You hated how it took just over two hours for Hawkins to prove to you that in reality nothing had changed in ten years.

You were still stupidly in love and he had a truly worrying power over you—even without him knowing it.

You hated the way you had Vickie looking at you—not as someone who was actually a danger for the most beautiful day of her life, but as a sweet, helpless little girl unable to move on.

Even after a decade.

After all those miles.

The sacrifices.

The compromises.

The awareness had settled inside you, heavy and dull, like something that refused to remain on the bottom of your soul.

When you came downstairs early that morning, dark circles under your eyes and hair still a mess, the kitchen was warm and bright—but something was off.

Your mother was humming while flipping pancakes, your father reading the paper, the coffee was almost ready—and then, came the realization that the only blend in the house was decaf.

Decaf.

You stared at the jar like it had personally betrayed you.

“Caffeine makes your heart race, sweetie. And it makes you nervous. You should cut it out too.”

Your father's indignant grunt answered for you.

So here you were, half an hour later, standing under fluorescent lights that buzzed softly, a red plastic basket containing exactly one thing: the growing sense that coming back home was already messing with your circadian rhythm.

The supermarket smelled like detergent, cardboard and something vaguely caramelized from the fresh bakery.

A cheap sound system overhead played Christmas songs you didn’t remember liking this much.

A couple of aisles down, a child laughed.

Somewhere else, a cart squeaked rhythmically, unbothered by anyone’s inner turmoil.

You headed straight for the coffee aisle, hoping that in the last ten years they hadn't decided to move it.

Thankfully, no.

The shelves were mostly full, rows of unfamiliar brands lined up like soldiers—but your eyes went immediately to the empty spot.

“Oh—fuck me.”

Your gaze fell higher, on the top shelf, where the last remaining box of the coffee you actually drank sat alone, slightly crooked and dented, just out of reach.

“Of course…” you muttered, hands on your hips, staring at it like this was a personal challenge Hawkins had unfairly decided to throw your way.

You tried once, stretching on your toes, fingers grazing cardboard but not quite making contact.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you growled under your breath, glancing around for an employee or a step stool or divine intervention—anything.

Nothing.

No one.

You exhaled through your nose, already annoyed, and tried again—a little ridiculous now, arm fully extended, lips pressed together in concentration, the pajama top riding up your wrist under the coat.

That was when the air shifted.

It was inexplicable.

Not a sound, not really.

Just a change in pressure, a presence—like someone had stepped into your gravitational space.

You felt warmth at your back, close but not quite touching.

Then, a scent reached you—leather, smoke, aftershave. Something deeper beneath it, familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your mind could place it.

Your brain didn't catch up on time.

A forearm appeared above your head, solid and unmistakably real, covered in purple fabric that rode up slightly at the wrist, revealing colorful ink and intricate designs.

Tattoos wrapped around defined muscle—lines and shadows you didn’t recognize and yet somehow knew.

Ringed fingers closed easily around the box, steady and unhesitating.

The coffee slid free from the shelf.

Your heart slammed once, hard, like it was trying to get ahead of you.

You didn’t turn.

You didn’t breathe.

For a single, suspended second, the universe narrowed to that single moment in space, the weight of ten years pressing in from all sides.

Then, a voice—his voice—lower than you remembered, closer than you were ready for, spoke softly just near your ear.

“Hi, sweetheart. It’s good to see you."