#hits different

You’d gotten into a stupid fight when things started heating up in the Upside Down. He had been overprotective. You’d seen it as he didn't believe in you. He’d seen it as his way of showing his care. You brought it up and things exploded.

You thought he didn’t trust you. He told you it wasn’t that. You had pushed him and he got defensive. Then came the dreaded “Maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.” 

After those words were out, you couldn’t take them back. No matter how hard you wished to. No matter how much you didn’t mean them. 

Silence.

It’s not like you wanted things to end. You were both afraid of what was going on beneath Hawkins. Afraid of losing each other.

Despite it, that was the end. 

You left his house with tears running down your face. You’d spent years walking into that house like it was yours. You never thought you’d walk out of it alone.

You walked home alone through the rain, water drenching your clothes, the droplets soaking in and running deep like your feelings. It felt like a miracle when the familiar car of your best friend, Robin, rolled up beside you.

Obviously you were soaked. It’s April. It's always raining. 

But she could tell you were crying. She knew something had happened. She wasn’t ever the best with social cues. Not in kindergarten, not in elementary school, not in middle school, and not in high school. But she knows you like the back of her hand.

The headlights slowed beside you. The car door flew open before you could pretend you were fine.

“Okay,” she said carefully, taking in your soaked clothes and shaking hands. “What happened?”

You tried to swallow it down. You really did. You didn’t want her to hear the tremble in your voice.You didn’t want her to know just how terrible you felt right now.

“It’s over.”

The words sounded wrong out loud. Too small for what they meant.

Robin blinked. She knew you meant Steve. “Over like… over over?”

You nodded.

She didn’t ask anything else.

Just stepped closer, hand on your back as she gently guided you towards the passenger seat. “Get in. You look like a drowned Victorian child.”

Despite everything, a broken laugh escaped you. She had a way of making you feel better.

She cranked the heat the second the door shut, tossing her jacket over your shoulders.

For a few blocks, neither of you said anything.

She turned toward your street. It made you sick.

Thinking of having to face the memories of Steve that lingered on every surface of your house felt like a prison sentence. You can’t do it.

“Don’t,” you said.

Robin glanced over. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t take me home.”

She hesitated. This wasn’t good and she knew it.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So where are we going?”

You stared out the windshield, rain blurring the world into something unrecognizable.

“Somewhere loud.”

Robin made a face. “That’s never a good sentence.”

“I need a bar. Or a party.”

She laughed once — short and disbelieving. “You are seventeen, I’m not taking you to a bar.”

“Robin, I said a bar or a party. I know Laurens having one tonight.”

The way you said it made her grip the steering wheel tighter.

She sighed. She didn’t think it was a good idea, but who was she to refuse you this? You just broke up with your boyfriend of multiple years. Clearly, an escape is needed.

“Lauren’s house is already going to be a disaster,” she muttered. “You crying in a corner might actually improve the vibe.”

You let out a weak huff of laughter, staring at your hands twisted in your lap.

“I don’t want to cry,” you said quietly. “I just… I don’t want to think.”

Robin’s jaw tightened at that. She understood more than you realized.

“Okay,” she said finally, giving in and flicking on her blinker and turning away from your street. “We go for an hour. You get loud music. You get bad punch. And the second you start spiraling, I’m dragging you out.”

You nodded, even though you both knew she’d stay as long as you needed.

“And,” she added, glancing at you, “if anyone even looks at you wrong tonight, I will ruin their life.”

That made you smile properly this time.

The car sped up slightly, rain tapping against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

You leaned your head against the cold glass, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. And for a second, just a second, you thought about Steve sitting alone in his room.

You pushed the thought away.

Somewhere loud. That’s all you needed.

i washed my hands of us, at the club.

You hadn’t meant to get that drunk tonight.

“Just enough to forget.” That’s what you told yourself. A couple drinks, loud music filling your ears, that should be enough.

Lauren’s house was already pulsing when you walked in.

Music thumped through the walls, bass rattling picture frames. The living room lights were off, replaced by mismatched lamps and Christmas lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling. Why they were there in the middle of April, you’ve got no clue.

The air smelled like cheap perfume, sweat, and whatever sugary disaster was being served in red plastic cups.

Robin stayed close behind you as you stepped inside.

“Okay,” she muttered near your ear. “Ground rules. You do not disappear. You do not chug anything handed to you by a guy you don’t know. And—”

You were already reaching for a cup.

She grabbed your wrist lightly. “Maybe start slow?”

“I am starting slow,” you said, pulling free and taking a long swallow.

It burned.

Good.

You barely tasted it.

Someone shouted your name. Someone else pulled you into a quick hug. The music was loud enough that you didn’t have to talk much, which was perfect.

Robin lingered at your side for the first twenty minutes.

You finished your first cup too fast.

Then another.

“Okay,” Robin said, watching you refill. “Maybe alternate with water?”

You shook your head. “Water’s boring.”

“This is how hangovers are born.”

“I don’t care.”

You didn’t.

Because every time the music dipped for even half a second, every time you didn’t have a drink in hand, your brain filled the space with him.

Steve standing in his room.

Steve running a hand through his hair.

Steve saying maybe we just aren’t right for each other anymore.

Your throat tightened.

You tipped the cup back again.

Robin saw it that time.

She stepped closer. “Hey. Slow down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

You laughed — too loud, too sharp. “You’re right. I’m fantastic, actually. Best night of my life.”

Another refill.

Your words were starting to blur together. The room felt softer around the edges. Warmer. Easier. When someone bumped into you, you stumbled slightly, catching yourself on the wall.

Robin’s hand was on your elbow immediately.

“Okay,” she said more firmly now. “You’ve had enough.”

“I haven’t even—” you squinted at your cup like it offended you. “I haven’t even had that much.” Every word slurred into the next, sentences dragging on.

“You can barely stand.”

“I can so—” You pushed away from the wall to prove it and immediately swayed.

Robin caught you again.

Your laugh came out wobbly. “See? M’so balanced.”

“You’re going to make yourself sick.” Her voice held such worry for you that it almost made you want to stop. To not drink another thing that night.

But a thought of him crept its way in. You knew you needed more to forget.

You leaned closer to her, lowering your voice like it was a secret.

“I just need it to be quiet in my head.”

You pointed to your skull, a small, tipsy smile spreading on your face, though you looked almost upset.

That did it.

Her expression shifted.

Someone turned the music up even louder. The floor vibrated. You felt that ache in your chest again — sharp and sudden.

You saw him in your mind like he was standing across the room.

You swallowed hard.

You pulled away from Robin and grabbed another drink off the kitchen counter without even checking what it was.

“Hey—” she started.

You drank it anyway.

Because if you were drunk enough, maybe you wouldn’t picture him.

Maybe you wouldn’t wonder if he was regretting it. Maybe you wouldn’t start crying in the middle of Lauren’s stupid living room.

The room spun slightly when you turned back toward the music.

Robin stepped in front of you this time.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “You’re done.” She tried to reach for the cup you were holding, but you moved your arm back.

You tried to glare at her, but it probably looked more like a confused squint.

“M’not done,” you slurred. “He doesn’t get to just— just—”

Suddenly the room felt too loud.

Because they were playing your song. You and Steve’s song. Time After Time, Cyndi Lauper. Over the years of your relationship, you’d claimed that it was fitting. Of course, he went along. He would go along with anything you said.

It played years ago at your school dance, where the two of you solidified your relationship. Ever since, it’s been your song.

And now you’re picturing him again. You can’t stay in here. Can’t stay as the lyrics and the backtracks fill the room.

Just seconds ago, you told Robin that you were fine. That you wanted to keep drinking and stay at the party and forget.

But now, you couldn't neglect the events from earlier. The music filled your head, forcing you to confront it all. 

You practically begged her to take you home after that.

i pictured you with other girls, in love. then threw up on the street.

Robin took you home after that. She knew it wouldn’t be fair to make you sit through that song.

Just like she knew she couldn’t let you drink another thing.

She didn’t say “I told you so.”

She didn’t say anything at all as she guided you out of the house, one hand firm on your back so you wouldn’t stumble off the porch. The cold air hit you immediately, sharp and sobering in the worst way.

The song was still faintly audible from inside.

You swallowed hard.

She helped you into the passenger seat, buckled you in when your fingers fumbled too much to manage it yourself.

Must’ve been the spiked punch causing you to shake.

Or maybe the many cans (you had lost count) of beer.

Possibly the whiskey you’d drank.

Or it could’ve been the drinks you took from the counters without knowing their contents.

Maybe it was all of them.

The drive started quiet.

Only the hum of the engine. The steady sweep of windshield wipers. Rain streaking across the glass like it hadn’t done enough damage already tonight.

You leaned your head against the window again, cold glass coming into contact with your burning skin.

Everything felt heavy. Your body. Your chest. Your thoughts.

Robin kept glancing over at you, worry written between every line of her face.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You nodded too quickly.

Big mistake. The pain splitted through your skull, like lightning striking your temples. The world tilted slightly as the alcohol blurred the edges of reality. That's when the big problems started.

You pictured him.

Not how he looked earlier — red-eyed, frustrated, scared.

No.

You pictured him laughing.

You pictured him at Scoops, leaning over the counter like he used to, flashing that stupid charming smile at some girl with glossy hair and perfect teeth. Some girl who always made you feel insecure. Some girl you envied with everything in you.

You pictured her touching his arm.

You pictured him not pulling away.

Your stomach twisted.

You hated it. Hated yourself for thinking it. Hated that your brain wouldn’t stop.

He wouldn’t move on that fast.

He wouldn’t.

But what if he did?

While no, he didn’t work at Scoops anymore, and no, he wasn’t working a shift tonight, he would be in the morning.

What if there was some girl at Family Video tomorrow? What if he smiled at her the way he used to smile at you? What if she didn’t argue with him about being overprotective? What if she thought it was sweet?

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe. Inhaling got harder the more you thought.

You pressed your forehead harder into the glass.

“I hate this,” you muttered.

Robin glanced at you. “Hate what?”

You shook your head, but the images wouldn’t stop.

Now it was worse.

Now you were picturing him slow dancing with someone else. Her hands around his neck. His forehead resting against hers, arms slid low around her waist. Swaying like the two of you at the dance a few years back.

In the back, Time After Time played low on his record player. 

On the vinyl he bought just for you. Because he knew it was your favorite song. He knew it was your song.

You pictured her in his room. Wearing his faded, grey t-shirt that you’d always steal from him.

In his bed. On the same side you’d lay.

Your stomach lurched violently.

“Pull over,” you said suddenly, already rolling down the window of her car.

Robin didn’t hesitate. She swerved toward the curb immediately.

You barely got the window down in time.

It happened fast. Messy. Unceremonious. Rain mixed with your vomit on the pavement. 

Robin reached across you instinctively, holding your hair back even though most of it was out the window anyway.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Okay. Breathe.”

“I pictured him,” you whispered hoarsely, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “With other girls. In love.”

The words broke halfway through. Almost as if the thought made you want to puke your guts out again. You stopped yourself.

“He’s not doing that. Sure, he’s a dingus, but not that much of a dingus.” She told you, gathering your hair and brushing it back behind your ears.

“You don’t know that,” you choked out, turning from the window to face her. “What if he doesn’t even miss me?”

Her jaw clenched.

“Steve Harrington?” she scoffed quietly. “He’s probably staring at his ceiling right now like the world ended.”

You let out a small, miserable laugh that turned into another shaky breath.

Rain kept falling. The streetlight above you flickered.

Your stomach still churned, but it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore. It was the grief. The jealousy. The unbearable not knowing.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” you admitted quietly. “Even when I try.”

“I know,” she said, a painful smile on her lips. 

She didn’t rush you.

Didn’t start the car again yet.

Just kept her hand steady at the back of your head while the rain washed the street clean.

After a minute, she reached into the glove compartment and handed you a napkin from inside it. “Next time,” she muttered, trying to lighten it, “we spiral without whiskey. Or beer.”

You huffed weakly.

She started the car again.

You leaned back into the seat, exhausted now. Drained. Your head lolled slightly toward her.

Robin kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift like she was ready to reach for you again if needed.

Neither of you said anything else.

The rain kept falling. The radio hummed low.

And even through the nausea and the blur and the ache, he was still there in your mind.

each bar plays our song, nothing has ever felt so wrong.

The rest of the drive wasn’t too bad.

You’d somehow found a way to turn off your head, to stop the spiral of thoughts in your mind.

You hardly thought of Steve as Robin drove you home.

Everything was peaceful. Until it was.

Robin reached forward absentmindedly, twisting the volume knob on the radio.

Static cracked for half a second.

And then—

“Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick…”

It was quiet. Soft. Barely even loud enough to matter. But you knew it instantly.

Your entire body went rigid.

Robin did too.

 There it was. Time After Time. Your song, again.

“Oh, no—” she muttered, fingers fumbling with the dial before she managed to turn it off. Silence fell over the car. Heavier than you’d hoped.

Too late.

You had already heard it.

Just those first few notes were enough. Enough to pull you right back to the gymnasium lights at your first dance. To his hands at your waist. To the way he’d smiled at you like there was no one else in the room.

Nothing has ever felt so wrong.

Not the fight. Not the drinking. Not even throwing up on the side of the road.

Robin cleared her throat. “Okay. That’s banned. Radio’s canceled. Forever.”

You stared straight ahead.

You tried to laugh.

It didn’t come out right.

“I’m sorry.” she muttered, suddenly feeling as though it was her fault the universe was against you.

“It’s fine,” you said quietly.

It was far from fine.

Every stupid place in this town has played it at some point. School dances. The skating rink. Family barbecues. The grocery store last summer when he spun you around in aisle seven because it came on over the speakers.

You knew you wouldn’t ever be able to escape him.

Not when that song was looming over your life in every corner.

The car felt smaller now.

Colder.

Robin didn’t turn the radio back on. God, she wouldn’t dare.

She drove the rest of the way in silence, like she was guarding you from the world.

But the melody was already stuck in your head.

And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t turn that off.

"oh my, love is a lie." shit my friends say to get me by.

Robin pulled up in front of your house but didn’t turn the engine off right away.

The porch light was on even though no one was home. Your dad was away on one of his multiple month long business trips. Your mom was working until morning at the hospital.

She glanced over at you. Your makeup was smeared. Your hair a mess. Eyes glassy and swollen. Clearly the night had taken a toll on you.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Here’s what we’re not going to do.”

You sniffed. “What?”

“We’re not going to decide that this means you’re unlovable. Or doomed. Or cursed by some ancient Greek tragedy.”

You gave her a weak look, lips pursed together. “Feels a little Greek tragedy-ish.” You mutter, nodding your head.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Love is a lie,” she declared suddenly, dramatic and flat, hands hitting her thighs. “A capitalist construct designed to sell greeting cards and slow dance tickets.”

Despite yourself, you let out a tiny huff, turning your head to her.

She softened immediately.

“I’m serious,” she said, quieter now. “It’s just brain chemicals. You’ll detox. You’ll be okay, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

You stared down at your hands.

“Love is a lie.” you repeated faintly, almost to yourself, like if you said it enough it could become true.

Robin reached over, squeezing your shoulder, pulling your eyes back to her.

“That’s right. Total scam.”

She didn’t mean it. You knew she didn’t mean it.

She was just trying to build a life raft out of sarcasm and hand it to you.

“I’m walking you in,” she said, killing the engine.

Inside, the house was too quiet. Too normal.

Robin hovered while you kicked your shoes off clumsily, steadying you when you swayed.

“You good?” she asked.

You nodded. You could tell she didn’t believe you.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” she said carefully. “And if you start spiraling, you call me. I don’t care if it’s three a.m.”

You nodded again.

She hesitated at the door.

Then, softer, “This doesn’t get to ruin you, okay?”

The door clicked shut behind her, silence rushing in.

You stood there for a moment.

The house felt heavier without her.

Without him.

“Love is a lie.” you whispered again, leaning back against the door. You almost believed it.

It would be easier if you did.

If love wasn’t real, then this wouldn’t hurt so much. But if love was fake, then what you had with Steve wasn’t real either.

And that thought made your chest cave in.

You slid down the door slowly, sitting on the floor.

“It’s just shit she says to get me by,” you muttered to the empty room.

Because Robin doesn’t believe love is a lie.

And neither do you.

Not really.

That’s the problem.

May, 1986

It’s been a month since you and Steve broke things off.

Doesn’t mean it’s stopped hurting you.

In fact, it actually hurts worse than it did before.

Because you keep wondering why he didn’t come back.

Why doesn't he miss you. If he ever will miss you. If he’s moved on.

There are so many things you wish you could ask him. But you can’t.

and I never don't cry at the bar, yeah, my sadness is contagious.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of pretending you were fine. Weeks of avoiding certain streets. Weeks of Robin watching you like you might crack open at any second.

So when she said, “It’s just for an hour. Graduation thing. I know the bartender. We’ll stand in the back. You don’t even have to drink,”

You told yourself you could handle it.

Robin knew some people from band who were a grade above you both. That’s why you were going. For Robin.

It still felt wrong to go anywhere associated with Steve.

It was his grade. What if he was there? 

You hoped with everything in you that he wouldn’t be.

The Hideout smelled like beer and cigarettes and sweat. Seniors crowded the tiny dance floor, celebrating freedom like Hawkins wasn’t still sitting on top of something monstrous.

Robin stayed close to you. Closer than usual.

You leaned against the wall, nursing something weak that she’d insisted on ordering herself.

It contained barely any alcohol.

That was the difference between you and Robin. She could handle alcohol. You couldn’t. Not since the night after you broke up with Steve.

You have to get shitfaced to feel anything. And by the time that happens, you’ve already lined yourself up for terrible hang overs and puking your guts up.

“See?” she said. “You’re fine. I told you coming here would be okay.”

You nodded.

You almost believed her.

Across the room, someone was laughing too hard. A couple was pressed close near the music table, the girl’s hands looped behind the guy’s neck.

He whispered something to the guy running the songs over her shoulder before his attention was completely on her again.

You tried not to look. But now, you were curious.

The kid running the table put on a new record, one that looked strangely familiar.

The second it started, your chest tightened.

Time After Time. 

It seemed like the song followed you everywhere you went. You could never get away from synth cords in the back tracks.

You watched how her face lit up when it played. How he smiled watching how excited she quickly became. It was clear that he’d gotten the song played just for her.

You saw yourself and Steve in them.

You had to turn away.

You stared at your drink. Never would you have guessed it would hurt this long.

You thought by May you’d be better.

You thought by May you’d be annoyed when someone said his name. That you’d be able to walk into a room and not scan it for him automatically.

But there you were.

Scanning.

Robin noticed before you said anything.

She always did.

“You okay?” she asked gently.

You nodded too fast. Your throat tightened anyway.

Across the room, the couple by the table started slow dancing properly now. The girl rested her head on his chest.

And it hit you.

Steve had done that once.

At that stupid winter formal with the same song playing in the back.

He’d rested his chin on top of your head and whispered, “If we break up, I’m never dancing again.”

You laughed then.

You didn’t laugh now.

Your vision blurred.

You blinked hard.

Too late.

Tears slipped down before you could stop them.

Robin swore under her breath. Of course, she’d heard the song. She just hoped you didn’t.

Hey, hey—” She stepped in front of you slightly, blocking your view. “Don’t do that. Come on, look at me.”

You tried.

The shift was immediate.

Robin’s face fell. The joking edge disappeared. Her shoulders tightened.

Now she looked like she was hurting too. It’s like she was catching your sadness.

“I didn’t think it would still feel like this,” you admitted, voice cracking. “It’s been a month.”

“That’s not that long,” she said quickly.

“It feels like it is.”

Around you, people were still laughing.

Still dancing.

Still moving on.

You weren’t.

You wiped your cheeks angrily.

“I feel like I never don’t cry.” you muttered bitterly. “At a party. Or a bar. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

Robin gave you a sad smile. “Well, you’re very committed to the bit.”

You let out a broken sound that was almost a laugh.

But she was right.

Every time you tried to be normal, it ended like this.

You thinking of him.

You crying.

Robin getting quiet because she didn’t know how to fix it.

Your sadness was contagious.

It leaked into every room.

“I can’t keep doing this to you,” you whispered.

Robin’s expression hardened.

“Doing what?”

“Ruining everything.”

“You are not ruining anything,” she said immediately. “You’re heartbroken. That’s different.”

The song swelled again.

Someone cheered.

You pressed your palms to your eyes.

“I thought I was better at this,” you said. “I used to be better at this.”

Robin wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But this one mattered.”

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

Across the room, the couple laughed again.

You couldn’t watch.

That's when you started to drink again. You just couldn’t handle the thoughts. You ordered something you didn’t even know the contents of, just that it had a high percentage of alcohol.

That's what you need right now. An escape.

i slur your name till someone puts me in a car,

The first shot burned. The second didn’t.

That was how you knew you were in trouble.

The alcohol hit your bloodstream fast — too fast. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept properly in weeks. You’d been living on coffee and grief. Robin noticed the switch immediately.

“Okay,” she said cautiously, watching you tip back your third shot glass. “Slow down.”

“I’m going slow,” you insisted, even though you absolutely were not. Your voice already sounded thicker. Warmer. Edges blurred.

The music felt louder now. The lights fuzzier. The room softer.

And for a second — just a second — it worked.

Your chest didn’t feel so tight. Your head didn’t feel so loud. You laughed at something Robin said. Too hard. Too long. See? You were fine.

Until you weren’t.

Because across the room, someone shouted a name that sounded almost like his. And your brain filled in the rest.

Steve.

It was like your body reacted before your mind could.

“Steve wouldn’t—” you started, words tangling together.

Robin stiffened. “What?”

You blinked at her like she’d interrupted something important.

“He wouldn’t dance like that,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward nothing. “He— he always— he always does that thing with his shoulders first. Like he thinks he’s smooth.”

You giggled. It didn’t sound right.

Robin stepped closer.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “Maybe let’s switch to water.”

You ignored her.

“Steve,” you said again, testing the name in your mouth like it was something you weren’t supposed to have anymore.

It came out wrong. Soft but broken.

You laughed again, but your eyes were glassy now.

“You know what’s funny?” you said, leaning in too close to Robin. “He said he’d never dance again if we broke up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. Robin swallowed.

“That was a dumb thing for him to say,” she muttered.

You shook your head.

“No, no, it wasn’t dumb. It was sweet. He’s sweet.” Your face crumpled slightly. “He’s so— He’s not coming to this stupid thing! He’s—“

You lost the words halfway through. Instead, you said his name again.

Slower this time.

“Steeeve.”

It dragged out. Slurred. Heavy.

Robin grabbed your arm gently.

“Come on, you’ve got to stop thinking about him.”

But you were past that point.

You were at the part where the alcohol doesn’t numb — it magnifies.

Every feeling got bigger.

The music got louder. The lights got harsher. The ache got deeper.

“Steve,” you said again, louder now.

A couple of people nearby glanced over.

Robin’s jaw tightened.

“Shhh,” she said. “Hey, Steve isn’t here.”

You shook your head, stubborn.

“No, he— he doesn’t get to just— just—” Your words collapsed into themselves. “He doesn’t get to stop loving me.”

That was it.

That was the thing you hadn’t said out loud yet.

Robin’s expression changed.

You swayed slightly.

She steadied you.

“I still love him,” you said, blinking up at her like this was breaking news. “Rob, I still— I still—”

Your throat closed. Tears spilled fast this time. And you kept saying it.

His name.

Over and over, each time more slurred.

“Stev— Stee—” you huffed frustratedly. “Why can’t I say it right?”

You laughed again. Then you cried harder.

A senior near the bar looked at you weird. Someone whispered something. Robin shot them a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“That’s it,” she said quietly. “We’re done.”

You tried to protest.

“M’not done,” you mumbled. “I need another—”

“No, you need a bed,” she said firmly.

You shook your head, wobbling.

“I need him.”

That one was barely audible, but she heard it.

Her face softened. She wrapped your arm over her shoulder.

“Okay,” she muttered. “We’re leaving before you confess your eternal love to the entire graduating class.”

You didn’t argue this time. You just kept whispering his name under your breath as she guided you toward the door.

“Steve. Steve. Steve.”

Like if you said it enough, he might appear.

The cool night air hit your face and you gasped dramatically.

Robin practically dragged you to the car. You were still talking.

Still slurring.

“Y’know what he smells like?” you said suddenly, deeply serious.

“Oh my god,” Robin muttered.

“He smells like— like hairspray and mint gum and— and summer.”

She opened the passenger door. You try to slide into the seat but you almost miss it entirely.

She caught you before you fell, steadying you at the waist.

“Okay,” she said through gritted teeth. “Sit.”

You obeyed… mostly. She buckled you in because your hands kept missing the latch. You blinked at her slowly.

“You think he misses me?” you asked.

The question was so small. So sober in its drunkenness. Yet she didn’t have an answer for you. She couldn’t tell you if he did or didn’t. The door closed gently.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she got in the driver’s seat, starting the engine of her car. As she pulled out of the parking lot, you pressed your forehead to the window.

The glass was cool.

Comforting.

You whispered his name again.

Softer now. Like you were afraid it might shatter if you said it too loud.

Robin gripped the steering wheel.

She hated this. Hated watching you unravel. Hated that she couldn’t fix it.

Behind her, the bar lights faded in the rearview mirror.

In the passenger seat, you were still murmuring:

“Steve.”

And this time, your voice broke completely.

June, 1986

Ever since that day you’d gotten drunk at the senior party, you hadn’t touched an ounce of alcohol.

The waves of hurt came back every now and then when there was a reminder of him, but you’d grown to deal with the pain in different ways.

It’s been two months now.

Two months since the break up.

Schools out, meaning it shouldn’t hurt much anymore. Less seeing him. Less hearing about him. Less forced proximity.

But it doesn’t hurt less.

Because in those months, you had something to hold onto.

But now? Now it just feels like he's gone completely. Like what little of him you had has disappeared before your eyes.

The weight behind your ribs hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s only intensified.

i find the artifacts, cried over a hat.

Your house felt bigger in the summer. Emptier. The air was heavier, like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were cleaning.

That was the excuse.

School was out. Closets needed sorting. Shelves needed dusting. You needed something to do with your hands.

Because when they were idle, they reached for things they shouldn’t.

Like bottles.

The box had been under your bed since April. You’d shoved it there the night after the break up.

Not thrown away.

Just… hidden.

Out of sight.

You hadn’t been brave enough to look.

Until now.

You knelt on the floor slowly, the wood warm against your knees. Reached under the bed. Your fingers brushed cardboard.

You froze.

Your pulse quickened like you’d touched something alive.

It was ridiculous.

It was just a box.

But it felt heavier when you dragged it out. Like it knew what it contained.

You sat back on your heels.

Stared at it. Two months. You’d survived over two months. You could survive this.

You lifted the lid. The smell hit first.

Not strong. Not obvious.

But faintly familiar.

Laundry detergent. Old paper. A trace of something like cologne that had long since faded but hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Your chest tightened.

Right on top was a movie ticket stub.

You picked it up carefully.

Back to the Future.

July, 1985.

You could see it instantly—

The two of you squeezed into the back row. Steve whispering dumb commentary in your ear. His arm draped around you. The way he laughed too loud during the skateboard scene.

You’d shushed him.

He’d kissed your temple in retaliation.

You’d kept the ticket because he’d drawn your initials with a plus sign between them, surrounded by a heart. 

Your thumb traced the faded ink.

You set it down gently beside you.

Under it was a cassette tape.

Handwritten label.

“Road Trip Mix – S.H.”

Your throat went dry.

You remembered that drive.

Windows down. Summer air loud and warm. Him drumming his fingers on the steering wheel off beat. You yelling at him for skipping your favorite track.

He’d said, “I made this for you, you menace.”

You’d said, “Exactly. For me. Don’t skip the best songs!” and hit his shoulder playfully.

He’d laughed.

You pressed the tape to your chest for a second before placing it down too.

Next—

A hoodie.

Dark blue.

Too big for you.

You didn’t have to unfold it to know that it was his.

You’d stolen it one night when you’d fallen asleep on his couch. He’d let you keep it.

You lifted it slowly.

Brought it to your face.

The scent was faint now. Almost gone.

That hurt worse somehow.

You remembered sitting in the passenger seat wearing it. Sleeves swallowing your hands. Him glancing over at red lights like you were the best thing he’d ever seen.

“You look better in my clothes than I do,” he’d said once.

You’d rolled your eyes.

But you wore it every chance you got.

You folded it carefully and set it aside.

Underneath that—

A polaroid.

Your breath caught.

It was taken at the lake two summers ago.

Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your head tilted toward his. Sunburn across both your noses. Water dripping from your hair.

You were laughing at something outside the frame.

He wasn’t looking at the camera.

He was looking at you.

You stared at it too long. Set it face down.

You dug deeper. A folded note.

You unfolded it slowly.

His handwriting. Slanted and messy.

“Stop overthinking everything. You’re braver than you think. I believe in you.”

Your vision blurred instantly. You remembered the day.

You’d been panicking about everything happening in Hawkins. Convinced you weren’t strong enough.

He’d pressed that note into your hand before you left.

“I mean it,” he’d said quietly.

You swallowed hard. Your hands shook now. You kept going.

A cheap plastic bracelet from the carnival.

You remembered him winning it for you and acting like it was diamond.

A crumpled receipt from Family Video with your names scribbled in the corner.

A matchbook from The Hideout from the first time he’d taken you somewhere that wasn’t Scoops or the movies.

Each thing a portal.

You weren’t imagining it. It had been real.

You were still sitting there, surrounded by artifacts of a relationship that felt archaeological now, when your fingers brushed fabric again.

White with navy letters.

You knew before you fully saw it.

Your breathing changed.

Slow. Careful.

Like approaching something fragile.

You lifted it. The Scoops Ahoy hat.

Well, not the Scoops hat, but one of them. He had two. Since he was at your place before work on too many occasions to count, he left one there in case he was in a rush and had to take the back up.

Bright white. Blue trim. Slightly bent at one corner.

You stared at it like it might blink. It shouldn’t have hit you this hard.

It was stupid. A costume.

You remembered the first day he wore it. How dramatically offended he’d been about the shorts. How you’d teased him mercilessly.

“Ahoy, sailor,” you’d said, tipping the hat off his head.

He’d grabbed your wrist and pulled you close over the counter when no one was looking. “You better behave,” he’d murmured.

You’d laughed into his shoulder.

You remembered sitting on the counter after closing, stealing cherries from the topping bar while he counted the register.

You remembered the way he’d adjust the hat in the mirror and ask, “Be honest. Do I pull this off? I feel like it’s blowing my best feature.”

You’d told him yes every time.

You remembered leaning over the counter one slow afternoon, watching him argue with Robin.

You remembered the way he’d lean his elbows on the glass and grin at you like you were in on some private joke.

You remembered how proud he’d been the day he got out of that job. How you’d told him he deserved better. How he’d kissed you in the parking lot after his last shift.

The hat trembled in your hands.

And suddenly— You couldn’t breathe.

This one artifact, those stupid string of memories it brought, it was undoing you.

The fact that there had been so many normal days. So many moments that weren’t dramatic.

Just him.

You pressed the hat to your chest. Your shoulders started shaking before you even realized you were crying.

Not the loud kind. Not the hysterical kind.

The quiet, breaking apart kind.

You bent forward slowly, curling over it like you were protecting something. Because in a way, you were. You were protecting what it had meant.

Your tears soaked into the fabric. You thought about how careful he’d been with you.

How much he’d tried. How scared he’d been of losing you. How you’d both said things you didn’t mean.

You thought about the crease by his eyes when he smiled. The way he pushed his hair back. The way he said your name when he was tired.

Grief lived in the details. You understood that now.

You pressed your forehead to the brim of the hat.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whispered to the empty room.

But the weight behind your ribs shifted slightly. Not lighter. Just clearer.

You weren’t moving on. You weren’t healing. You were still in it. And that was the truth.

July, 1986

Three months.

Three months and somehow, you still hadn't come to terms with any of this.

You still haven't drank any more alcohol, but the pounding of your head and the way you always stood shakily would suggest otherwise.

You had gotten a little better at masking it all, though.

Still, you couldn't ever imagine yourself with another guy. Couldn't imagine waking up beside someone new. Couldn't imagine going to a winter formal with an unfamiliar face.

You couldn't imagine a life without Steve.

i heard your key turn in the door, down the hallway.

The house was too quiet again.

Summer had a way of stretching the hours thin. The cicadas outside buzzed lazily in the heat, sunlight pooling golden across the hardwood floors. Your parents were both gone—your dad still out of town, your mom working a double shift.

You hadn’t planned to remember what today was.

You truly hadn’t.

But when you’d woken up that morning and looked at the calendar pinned beside your desk, it had been circled in faded blue ink.

July 14th.

You’d circled it when you got the calendar. When you were still together. One year since your first official date. Not the dance. Not the “are we?” phase.

The real one.

The night he’d shown up at your door with flowers he’d very obviously bought from Melvald’s and tried to pretend were expensive.

You’d forgotten to erase the circle. So now it sat there. Mocking you.

You told yourself it was stupid to care.

You told yourself anniversaries didn’t count when you weren’t together anymore.

You told yourself it was just a date. A random day of 

But all day, everything felt heavier. You tried reading. You couldn’t focus. Tried cleaning more. There was nothing left to clean. Tried not to think about him.

That failed immediately.

By early evening, the house had started to feel like it was closing in.

You wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge without knowing why. Stared at nothing. Closed it again. Walked to your bedroom and sat down on your bed.

The quiet was loud.

And then—

You heard it.

A sound so small you almost thought you imagined it.

The faint metal click of a key sliding into the front door lock.

Your body went completely still.

Your heart didn’t race at first.

It stopped.

Then it slammed against your ribs so hard it felt like it might bruise.

No one else had a key.

Except—

The lock turned.

The door opened.

For a split second, your brain tried to rationalize it. Your mom? No, she wouldn’t be home for hours.

A burglar? But burglars didn’t use keys.

And then you heard it.

That familiar creak of the door swinging shut gently. Not forceful. Not rushed.

Careful.

Like someone who knew exactly how much pressure the hinges needed.

Your breath left you in a shaky exhale.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

It had to be your mom. She must’ve gotten off work early, or had to swing by the house to grab something.

If not your mom, your dad. Maybe his business trip had been cut short, so he’s back now.

There’s no way it could’ve been anyone else.

You stepped out of your bedroom without thinking. The hallway felt impossibly long.

Your pulse roared in your ears as you moved toward the front of the house.

And then—

You saw him.

Standing just inside the doorway was Steve Harrington.

He looked different somehow. Or maybe it was just that you hadn’t seen him up close in months. His hair was longer. Slightly messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times.

He froze when he saw you.

Like he hadn’t expected you to appear that fast. Like maybe he hadn’t expected you at all.

Your voice came out before your brain caught up.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t what you meant to say. You meant to say a thousand things. But all that came out was:

“Steve.”

His name tasted different now.

His hand was still wrapped around the key in the lock.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You stared at the key. Then at him.

“You still have that?”

His expression shifted. Almost sheepish. Almost guilty.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I, uh… I was gonna bring it back.”

Silence. You stepped closer, slow, cautious.

“Why didn’t you knock?”

You thought maybe he’d forgotten that was the normal thing to do. Maybe, just maybe, he’d spent so much time coming in without a second thought that it was hard to unlearn the habit.

“I did,” he said quickly. “Twice. You didn’t answer. I thought maybe—” He swallowed. “I thought maybe you weren’t home.”

You hadn’t heard anything. Your heart was beating too loud. He pulled the key out slowly and held it up like evidence.

“I should’ve given this back weeks ago,” he said quietly.

You looked at him fully now. Really looked at him. His eyes were tired. Red around the edges. Like he hadn’t been sleeping much either.

The hallway felt smaller.

“Why are you here?” you asked.

Your voice wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was fragile.

He inhaled slowly. “I didn’t want today to pass without…” He stopped himself.

Your stomach flipped. “Without what?”

He looked at you like he was debating whether to jump off a cliff.

“Without saying something.”

Your chest tightened. You hadn’t mentioned the date. You hadn’t told anyone.

But he remembered.

Of course he remembered. He remembered everything important.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

His laugh was quiet. Not amused. Just soft.

“Yeah,” he said. “I remember a lot of things.”

That did it. Your eyes burned immediately. You folded your arms around yourself, not defensively—just to keep from shaking.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” you admitted.

You're not sure what you meant. The day or ever.

He flinched slightly. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you again. The kind where both people are holding something breakable.

“I thought you were done,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. “I thought you were.”

You both stood there, the weight of those months settling between you like a third presence.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said suddenly. The words came out fast. Urgent.

“I didn’t mean that we weren’t right for each other. I was scared and you were pushing and I felt like you didn’t trust me and I— I panicked.”

His face crumpled slightly. “I know,” he said quickly. “I know. I shouldn’t have let it get there.”

“You said it too.”

“I know.” His voice broke on the last word.

“I’ve replayed that fight like a hundred times,” he admitted. “Every single night. I keep thinking if I’d just said something different. If I’d just listened instead of getting defensive.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I thought you didn’t come back because you didn’t miss me,” you whispered.

He stared at you like you’d just insulted gravity.

“Are you kidding me?”

His voice wasn’t loud. But it was intense.

“I didn’t come back because I thought you needed space. Because I thought if I showed up, I’d just make it worse.”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I care so much it’s ruining my life,” he said before he could stop himself.

Silence. You blinked at him.

“What?”

He ran a hand through his hair—there it was, that nervous habit you knew so well.

“I haven’t slept properly in months,” he admitted. “I keep thinking about you walking out that night. I keep thinking about how I let you leave.”

Your heart felt like it was splitting open.

“I didn’t want to leave,” you said.

“I didn’t want you to either.”

The words hung there. Raw. Unfiltered. Your breathing grew uneven.

“I thought you’d moved on,” you said. 

He stepped forward slightly.

“There hasn’t been anyone else.”

Your breath caught.

“There won’t be,” he added, softer.

The hallway felt charged now.

Like static before a storm.

“I still love you,” you said.

You didn’t plan to. You didn’t build up to it. It just fell out of you.

You wish it hadn’t. But there was no pride left to protect. His eyes closed briefly, like the words physically hit him.

“Good,” he whispered. Your heart stopped again.

“Because I still love you too.”

And this time, it didn’t feel like grief. It felt like oxygen. You took a step closer. Then another.

You were close enough now to see the faint crease between his brows. The way his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

“I almost didn’t come,” he admitted. “I sat in my car for like ten minutes. I thought maybe you’d slam the door in my face.”

You shook your head immediately.

“I could never.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. “For making you feel like I didn’t believe in you. I was scared. I didn’t want anything to happen to you. I thought if I just protected you hard enough, I could control it.”

“I know,” you said.

“I should’ve trusted you.”

“I should’ve trusted you too.”

The space between you disappeared. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rushed.

He reached for you slowly.

Like you might vanish.

His hands settled at your waist, hesitant at first.

You let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

And then you were crying.

Not the broken kind from the hat.

Not the drunk kind from the bar.

He held you tight.

Like he had been holding himself back for two months and finally didn’t have to anymore.

“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair.

“I know,” you whispered back. “I did too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

There were tears in his eyes too.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And then he kissed you. Not desperate. Not frantic. Slow. Careful.

Like relearning something sacred. His hand came up to cup your jaw. Yours slid into his hair automatically.

It felt the same. It felt different. It hit different.

Because you almost lost it. Because you know now what it feels like without him.

He rested his forehead against yours when you finally pulled apart.

“I’m not letting you walk out like that again,” he said quietly.

“I’m not planning on trying again,” you replied.

A small, shaky smile tugged at his mouth. “Good.”

The house didn’t feel empty anymore.

The hallway that had felt impossibly long now felt like the beginning of something again.

And somewhere in the quiet of July, with the cicadas humming outside and the last of the daylight slipping through the windows—

It didn’t hurt anymore. Because it was him. And it always had been.

Maybe love wasn’t a lie.