Chapter Text
Mike wakes up screaming.
The sound rips out of him raw and animal, tearing through his throat before he even knows he’s awake. His back arches off the mattress like someone has yanked invisible strings attached to his ribs. For a split second he doesn’t know where he is — only that something is on top of him.
Pressing.
Crushing.
Hands.
Long, splintered fingers digging into his chest.
He chokes on the scream and it turns into a wet, strangled gasp. His vision blurs violently. The dark of his bedroom swims. He claws at his own sternum, nails scraping skin hard enough to leave crescents. His T-shirt is soaked through. Sweat drips down his neck, into his collarbone, cold and slick.
There’s a taste in his mouth.
Metallic.
He swallows and it burns.
His jaw aches like he’s been clenching it for hours. When he drags his tongue across his teeth, he tastes blood again. He must have bitten down in his sleep. Hard.
The room tilts.
Moonlight cuts across his walls in thin white lines. His posters stare back at him. The door is shut. The closet is closed.
But the pressure doesn’t leave.
It lingers inside his ribcage.
His heart slams so hard it hurts.
He drags air into his lungs and it feels wrong. Too sharp. Too thin. He coughs, and the cough splinters into another broken gasp. His fingers fly to his throat.
Skin.
Just skin.
No hands.
Still, he swears he can feel the imprint. Cold. Indented. Like something has marked him.
A sound moves through the room.
Soft.
Close.
Pathetic.
His stomach drops so violently he almost folds in half.
The word isn’t loud. It doesn’t echo. It slips into him, settles behind his eyes.
He looks around.
Nothing moves.
His chest heaves. The bedsheets are twisted around his legs like restraints. He kicks them off and stumbles upright. His knees nearly buckle. Black spots pepper his vision.
Four months.
Four months of this.
The headaches started first — dull and manageable. A throb behind his right eye that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He ignored it. Drank more coffee. Slept less.
Then the nosebleeds.
At first just a smear when he wiped his face.
Now—
Something warm slides over his upper lip.
He freezes.
Slowly, he lifts his hand.
Red.
Thick.
It spills from his nose in a sudden rush, running over his mouth, dripping down his chin. It hits the floor in dark, ugly drops.
His breath stutters.
“Shit,” he whispers.
The whisper answers.
Useless.
His pulse spikes.
The blood doesn’t stop.
It comes harder, heavier than it ever has before. It stains the collar of his shirt. It streaks down his throat. He sways on his feet and grabs the edge of his desk to keep from collapsing.
He needs the bathroom.
He needs— Will.
His legs move before he can think. The hallway stretches too long, warped at the edges. The house is silent. Everyone is asleep. Everything is normal.
Everything is not normal.
He reaches the bathroom and flips on the light.
The bulb flickers.
Buzzes.
For half a second the room goes dim enough that the corners seem to breathe.
He grips the sink and leans over it just as more blood pours out. It splashes into white porcelain, violent and bright. He fumbles for toilet paper with shaking hands and presses it to his nose.
It soaks through instantly.
Another whisper.
They’re tired of you.
His breath catches.
“Stop,” he says, but it comes out thin.
The mirror forces him to look at himself.
His face is pale. Sweat drips from his hairline. Blood streaks down over his lips and chin. His eyes look wrong — too wide, too glassy. There’s something frantic in them that he doesn’t recognize.
The whisper curls closer.
They know.
His fingers dig into the sink so hard his knuckles ache.
“Know what?” he breathes.
The light flickers again.
The reflection lags.
Just barely.
He blinks.
It catches up.
His pulse roars in his ears.
The blood finally slows to a drip. He tosses the soaked paper into the trash. Red blooms against white.
His chest tightens suddenly — brutally.
Air won’t go in right.
His lungs seize.
He tries to inhale and it stutters halfway down. His throat constricts like invisible fingers are tightening again. His hands start to shake. Not small tremors. Violent, uncontrollable tremors that make the faucet rattle when he grabs for it.
Water blasts out too hard.
He doesn’t turn it down.
He splashes his face. The cold should help. It doesn’t.
His heart is racing too fast. Too loud. He can hear it in his skull.
His vision tunnels.
The room narrows to the mirror.
To his own face.
You’re disgusting.
The word lands heavy. Precise.
It sinks into him like it belongs there.
His stomach twists so hard he gags. He grips the sink and retches, but nothing comes up except a sharp, strangled sound.
“I’m not,” he chokes.
The whisper moves closer.
Inside his mouth.
Inside his teeth.
You have a secret.
His breathing fractures completely. Short, jagged gasps tear in and out of him. His fingers go numb. His lips tingle. The world feels far away.
A memory slams into him without warning.
Will laughing in the sunlight. Robin leaning too close to him. Will’s hand brushing Mike’s arm and not pulling away. The heat that flooded his chest. The sharp, immediate anger that followed.
His reflection watches him.
Sweat drips off his chin.
They’d hate you if they knew.
His knees give out.
He hits the tile hard enough that pain shoots up his spine. He barely feels it. He curls forward, hands in his hair, dragging at it like he can pull the thoughts out.
“I don’t—” His voice cracks. “I don’t.”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
Because he doesn’t know what he’s denying.
The light above him flickers violently now. The buzzing grows louder, unbearable, like insects crawling in his ears.
His reflection smiles.
Just slightly.
Not wide.
Not exaggerated.
A slow, knowing curve that doesn’t belong to him.
His breath stops completely.
The smile vanishes.
The mirror shows only him again.
Shaking. Sweating. Blood drying on his skin.
The whisper fades back, satisfied.
Waiting.
His lungs finally drag in air — sharp and painful. He coughs. He curls tighter on the floor and presses his forehead to the cold tile.
It feels deserved.
After a long time — he doesn’t know how long — the light steadies.
The buzzing stops.
The bathroom becomes a bathroom again.
He forces himself up on unsteady legs. He wipes the blood from his face. He scrubs harder than necessary, like he can clean something deeper than skin.
He doesn’t look at the mirror again.
He turns the faucet off.
He flushes the stained toilet paper.
He washes his hands twice.
Then he walks back to his room, leaving faint, drying footprints on the hallway floor.
He lies down in bed.
His eyes stay open.
He doesn’t try to sleep.
Because he knows what’s waiting for him there.
***
The house smells like coffee and burnt toast when Mike comes downstairs.
The sound hits him first — forks against plates, Holly’s voice climbing over everyone else’s, the low murmur of adults trying to talk over each other without sounding like they are. It’s normal. Loud in a familiar way. Safe in a way it’s always been safe.
It feels unbearable.
His head is still throbbing from the night before, a steady pressure behind his eyes that makes the kitchen lights seem harsher than they are. He slept maybe an hour. Maybe less. He doesn’t remember falling asleep; he only remembers staring at the ceiling until the shadows started to move again and he forced his eyes shut just to make it stop.
He pauses at the bottom of the stairs longer than he should.
The voices blur together for a second. He catches fragments.
—Jonathan, pass the salt—
—Holly, honey, sit down—
His stomach turns.
He steps into the kitchen.
Nancy notices immediately.
She’s leaning back in her chair with a mug in her hand, hair already brushed, eyes sharp in that way they always are when she’s cataloguing something she plans to bring up later. Her gaze drags over him once, slow.
“You look like shit,” she says, not unkindly. Observational. “Did you even sleep?”
It’s light. Normal.
Mike shrugs and reaches for the coffee pot before anyone can look at him too long. “I slept.” His voice sounds wrong to his own ears. Too flat. Like it’s coming from somewhere behind him instead of inside his chest.
Nancy doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been saying that a lot.”
The coffee pours darker than it should. He fills the mug too high and it sloshes over the rim, burning his fingers. He barely reacts.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly.
Too quickly.
He feels it the second it leaves his mouth.
Nancy’s eyes narrow slightly.
He doesn’t wait for her to say anything else. He takes the seat across from Will.
He doesn’t mean to.
It just happens. Habit. Muscle memory from months of shared dinners and late-night conversations at this same table, when it was easier to sit across from him, to trade looks, to say things without anyone else noticing.
Now it feels like a mistake the second he does it.
Will is already there, elbows on the table, half-listening to something Jonathan is saying about a new lead near the quarry. His hair falls into his eyes the same way it always has. There’s a crease between his brows that deepens when he concentrates.
He looks up when Mike sits down.
The eye contact lands heavy.
It’s brief. Only a second.
But there’s something in it that makes Mike’s throat tighten.
Will doesn’t look away immediately.
He waits.
Like he’s checking.
Like he’s asking something without saying it.
Mike drops his gaze to his coffee.
The heat curls up against his face. The smell is too strong. Bitter.
Conversation keeps moving around him. His mom asks about school schedules. His dad makes a comment no one responds to. Holly is describing something she saw on TV in dramatic detail.
Someone says his name.
He doesn’t register it at first.
The word floats somewhere above the surface of his thoughts and dissolves before it sinks in.
“Mike.”
He stares at the wood grain of the table. There’s a small scratch near his left hand that he’s never noticed before. He traces it with his eyes, following the thin line as if it means something.
“Mike.”
The second time is sharper.
He blinks.
Sound rushes back in all at once — forks scraping, chairs shifting, someone clearing their throat. He looks up slowly and realizes everyone is looking at him.
Jonathan’s hand is halfway extended across the table. “Can you pass the syrup?”
Heat floods his face.
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
He grabs it too fast, nearly knocks over Nancy’s glass. His hand trembles when he sets it down.
The silence lasts half a second too long before conversation resumes.
He feels exposed. Like something is written on his skin and they’re all trying not to read it.
Under the table, something nudges his foot.
It’s light. Careful.
Mike freezes.
He knows that touch.
He looks up again.
Will’s head tilts slightly, just enough. His eyebrows lift in a small question.
You good?
It’s subtle. Almost invisible to anyone else.
There’s no accusation in it. No frustration. Just a quiet, steady patience that makes something inside Mike twist painfully.
Because Will doesn’t know if he’s allowed to do more than that anymore.
Mike made sure of it.
Over the past few months he’s left the basement before the campaigns end. Sat on the far end of the couch instead of shoulder-to-shoulder. Chosen silence when it would have been easier to say something normal. Every small adjustment felt necessary at the time — like stepping back from a fire before it could spread.
He told himself it was for Will’s sake.
He told himself it was better to cool things down before anyone noticed how much he—
He presses his teeth together.
It’s his fault it’s awkward now.
Will waits for his response.
Mike pulls his foot back.
Too fast.
“I’m fine,” he says again, this time directly at him.
The words come out sharper than he intends.
Will’s expression doesn’t change much. That’s what makes it worse. The patience stays. The hurt tucks itself somewhere small and quiet, almost invisible unless you’re looking for it.
Mike is looking for it.
He always is.
The conversation keeps moving. Joyce is talking about grocery lists now. Holly is swinging her legs under the table.
Mike forces himself to take a sip of coffee.
His hand shakes.
He focuses on swallowing, on keeping his breathing even, on not letting his thoughts spiral in front of everyone.
It’s not Will’s fault that he feels like this.
It’s not Robin’s fault that she and Will get along so easily, that they laugh in a language Mike doesn’t understand.
It’s not anyone’s fault that something shifted inside him months ago and never shifted back.
He’s the one who let it get complicated.
He’s the one who didn’t shut it down fast enough.
He’s the one who keeps thinking about the way Will looks at him sometimes — like he’s trying to hold onto something fragile.
A voice from last night slithers back into his head.
They’d hate you if they knew.
His grip tightens on the mug.
The headache pulses harder.
He doesn’t look at Will again for the rest of breakfast.
But he feels his gaze on him anyway.
And somehow that feels worse than the whisper.
His mom is the first to stand, gathering plates with soft efficiency. Joyce follows, stacking glasses. Chairs scrape. The spell of breakfast breaks in pieces.
Mike lingers just long enough that it doesn’t look like he’s fleeing.
He’s aware of Will pushing his chair back at almost the same time.
The hallway feels narrower than it should.
Morning light slips through the front windows in pale strips across the carpet. The air smells like detergent and coffee and something faintly metallic that Mike knows isn’t really there.
He grabs his backpack from where it’s leaning against the wall and focuses on the zipper, on the sound it makes when he pulls it too hard.
Behind him, a pause.
Then—
“Hey.”
Will’s voice is careful. Not loud. Not demanding.
Mike doesn’t turn immediately. He adjusts the straps on his bag like they need adjusting.
“Yeah?”
Another pause. Softer this time.
“Are you… okay?”
It’s the same question as the foot nudge.
Just spoken out loud now.
Mike finally turns.
Will is standing a few feet away, hands hooked awkwardly into the straps of his own backpack. There’s space between them. There used to not be.
Will looks like he’s not sure how close he’s allowed to stand anymore.
That alone makes something twist hard in Mike’s chest.
“I’m fine,” Mike says automatically.
Will nods, but he doesn’t move away.
“You’ve been kinda—” He hesitates, searching for a word that won’t accuse. “Quiet.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
Quiet.
Like it’s new.
Like Mike wasn’t always loud and opinionated and the first to argue strategy in the basement.
Mike shrugs. “Tired.”
Will studies him for a second longer than is comfortable. His eyes flick briefly to Mike’s face — lingering, like he’s trying to read something written there.
And for a split second, Mike wonders if he can feel it.
Not the thoughts.
But the wrongness.
The way something has been pressing behind his eyes for weeks now. The way sleep feels like falling through thin ice. The way every time Will laughs with someone else — with Robin, with Dustin — something ugly and sharp claws up his throat before he can swallow it down.
Will shifts his weight.
“You don’t have to—” He stops, starts again. “If something’s wrong, you can just tell me.”
It’s simple.
It’s sincere.
And that’s what makes it unbearable.
Because if Mike opens his mouth right now, he doesn’t trust what will come out.
He doesn’t trust that he won’t say something about Robin.
About how easily Will talks to her.
About how it feels like being replaced even though he knows that’s stupid and selfish and not fair.
He doesn’t trust that he won’t say too much.
The whisper threads through his thoughts again.
You ruin everything you touch.
His jaw tightens.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he says, sharper than before.
Will flinches — barely.
It’s small. A blink. A slight stiffening.
But Mike sees it.
And instead of backing down, something in him spikes — defensive, panicked.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he snaps. “I said I’m fine.”
The words echo down the hallway louder than he intended.
Silence drops heavy.
From the kitchen entrance, Nancy freezes mid-step. Jonathan stands just behind her, a dish towel still in his hand. They weren’t trying to listen. They just heard it.
Mike feels their eyes on him.
He feels twelve years old.
He feels monstrous.
Will’s face closes in on itself — not angry, not dramatic, just wounded in a quiet way that makes Mike’s stomach drop.
“I was just asking,” Will says softly.
And that softness makes everything worse.
Because Will isn’t attacking him.
He’s worried.
And Mike just proved that something is wrong.
The headache pulses again, sharper now. The hallway feels too tight. Too bright.
Mike runs a hand through his hair.
“Forget it,” he mutters.
Nancy’s voice is careful. “Mike—”
“I said I’m fine.”
It comes out strained this time, not angry. Almost pleading.
He doesn’t wait for anyone to respond.
He turns and takes the stairs two at a time.
Each step feels like retreat.
Upstairs, the air is cooler. Quieter.
He closes his bedroom door harder than necessary and leans back against it, heart racing like he’s just run miles instead of ten feet.
Downstairs, he hears muffled voices.
He doesn’t strain to make out the words.
He already knows the tone.
Worried.
Confused.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
He didn’t mean to snap.
He didn’t mean to hurt him.
He just—
He doesn’t know how to exist in the same room as Will without feeling like something inside him is being pulled too tight.
A few minutes later, through the window, he hears the faint sound of bikes rolling down the driveway.
Laughter — softer than usual.
He doesn’t look.
By the time he comes back downstairs, the house is quieter.
His mom is rinsing a plate. Nancy pretends not to look at him.
“Will and Holly headed out,” she says gently. “Didn’t want to be late.”
Of course they did.
Mike nods once.
He grabs his bike from the garage without saying anything else.
The morning air hits cold against his face as he starts pedaling alone.
The space beside him feels louder than company ever did.
***
Hawkins High feels louder than it used to.
Maybe it isn’t.
Maybe it’s always been like this — lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against waxed tile, laughter that echoes too high in the rafters — but today it scrapes against Mike’s nerves like sandpaper.
He stands near the row of lockers by the math wing, backpack hanging off one shoulder, staring at the combination dial like it’s written in another language.
Left. Right. Left.
He’s done this for years.
He misses it twice.
Behind him, someone shoves past too hard. He stumbles into the metal door and the clang rings sharp in his skull. The headache from this morning never really left. It just settled into something quieter. Meaner.
Dustin is talking.
He’s always talking.
“…and I’m just saying, if we reroute the campaign a little, like temporarily, it doesn’t mean we’re quitting Hellfire, it just means we’re evolving, okay? Evolution is metal.”
His voice is louder than usual.
Forced.
Mike glances over.
Dustin’s still wearing the Hellfire shirt.
Of course he is.
A senior in a varsity jacket walks by and mutters something under his breath — loud enough to be heard.
“Cult freak.”
Dustin’s shoulders tense.
He doesn’t turn around.
He just keeps talking.
Lucas nudges him lightly with his elbow. “Ignore them.”
Dustin shrugs like it doesn’t matter.
It does.
Mike knows it does.
But the awareness floats at a distance. Like he’s observing through thick glass instead of standing right there with them.
Will is beside him.
Not touching.
Just close enough that Mike can feel the space where their arms almost brush when someone passes between them.
There used to be no gap.
Now there’s always one.
“You okay?” Lucas asks suddenly.
Mike looks up.
“For what?”
Lucas hesitates. “Pre-calc. You looked like you were about to fall asleep.”
“Oh.” Mike forces a small laugh. “Yeah. Riveting stuff.”
Dustin shuts his locker harder than necessary. “It’s ‘cause of the breakup, obviously.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
Breakup.
Mike’s jaw tightens slightly.
Lucas nods like that explains everything. “Yeah, man. It’s been, what, a few months? That stuff lingers.”
“It’s not—” Mike starts.
But Dustin barrels on.
“Totally understandable, by the way. Long-distance plus apocalypse stress? That’s like a statistical nightmare for teen relationships.”
Will goes very still.
Mike feels it.
He doesn’t look at him.
Lucas adds gently, “She’ll come back, Mike. Once all this training stuff is done. You guys just need time.”
Time.
Like that’s the issue.
Like that’s what’s hollowed him out.
Mike exhales slowly through his nose.
“It’s not about El,” he says.
There’s no anger in it. Just exhaustion.
Dustin tilts his head. “Then what is it about?”
The question is casual.
Curious.
Dangerous.
For a split second, the hallway noise dulls. Not fully — just enough that the edges soften. The fluorescent lights flicker faintly overhead, or maybe that’s just his vision blurring again.
What is it about?
The question is casual.
But it tightens something in Mike’s chest.
It’s not about El.
It hasn’t been for months.
It’s not just about the painting.
About the way he’d asked Will, quietly but not gently, why he let him believe it was El’s idea.
About the silence that followed.
About Will saying he just wanted Mike to believe it.
About Mike not knowing what that meant — not fully — but knowing it meant something he didn’t have language for.
That conversation never resolved.
It just… sat there.
After that, everything shifted.
Every look felt heavier.
Every joke felt loaded.
Every moment alone felt dangerous.
And then the headaches started.
Then the sleepless nights.
Then the thoughts that don’t feel like thoughts.
Mike swallows.
“I’m just tired,” Mike says finally.
It’s not a lie.
It’s just not the truth.
Dustin studies him for a second longer, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Well. Join the club.”
His voice softens.
There’s grief sitting underneath it — thick and unprocessed. Eddie’s name doesn’t get said much in the halls anymore. The town decided on a narrative and moved on. The freak. The cult leader. The murderer.
Dustin didn’t.
None of them really did.
Lucas glances toward the far end of the hallway, where a girl from the cheerleading team is putting up a small flyer about a hospital fundraiser.
Max’s name is printed across the top.
He looks away quickly.
Everyone is carrying something.
Mike knows that.
That’s part of the problem.
He’s not supposed to be the one falling apart.
Will went missing in the Upside Down.
Lucas watched Max break in front of him.
Dustin watched Eddie die.
El is training to fight something none of them can even see yet.
Mike’s issues are smaller.
Quieter.
More selfish.
The whisper slides in, smooth as oil.
You’re weak.
He grips the strap of his backpack tighter.
Across from him, Will shifts slightly.
Not closer.
Not farther.
Just… there.
And for a moment, Mike wonders if Will can feel it — the tension humming under his skin, the way the air feels wrong when certain thoughts surface.
Will’s eyes flick up briefly.
They meet Mike’s.
There’s something searching there.
Concern.
And something else.
Uncertainty.
Like Will isn’t sure if he’s the cause.
Mike looks away first.
The bell rings.
Mike startles slightly.
The hallway snaps back into focus.
Dustin is still looking at him.
Lucas too.
Will isn’t.
Will is staring at the floor tiles.
Dustin claps his hands together. “Alright, nerds. Government time.”
Lucas groans dramatically.
They start walking.
Mike falls half a step behind without meaning to.
Will slows slightly, like he’s considering matching pace.
He doesn’t.
And neither of them say anything.
***
By fifth period, the noise in his head is louder than the school.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t screaming. It’s a steady, low pressure behind his eyes, like someone pressing their thumb into the space between his thoughts and holding it there. He’s barely spoken since Government. When the bell rang for lunch, he followed the others automatically, tray in hand, but the smell of the cafeteria food turned his stomach before he even sat down.
He tried.
He really did.
He cut into the sandwich. Took one bite. Chewed longer than necessary, like if he could just force it down everything would feel normal again. But the bread turned heavy in his mouth. The taste felt wrong — not rotten, not spoiled — just wrong. Too thick. Too much.
He swallowed anyway.
It sat there.
Like a stone.
Dustin was talking about campaign revisions. Lucas mentioned visiting Max after school. Will barely touched his fries.
Mike couldn’t look at him for long.
He pushed the tray away after a few minutes and said something about not being hungry. No one pushed. They have bigger things to worry about.
Now he’s sitting in the back of English class, staring at a paragraph he’s read four times without absorbing a single word. The letters slide slightly out of place when he focuses too hard. The teacher calls on someone in the front row. Laughter follows. It sounds far away.
The nausea creeps in slowly.
At first it’s just heat in his chest. Then a tightening in his throat. Then a cold sweat along his spine.
He knows this feeling.
He asks to go to the bathroom before the teacher finishes her sentence.
The hallway is empty this period. The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. Each step toward the restroom feels heavier than it should.
Inside, the air is colder. Sterile. It smells faintly like bleach and old tile.
He locks himself in the far stall.
For a moment, he just stands there, hands braced against the metal divider, breathing through his nose like if he controls it carefully enough, it’ll pass.
It doesn’t.
The nausea rises sharply, sudden and undeniable.
He barely makes it.
Afterward, he stays kneeling on the tile longer than necessary, forehead resting against his wrist, breathing uneven but quiet. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t make a sound.
He just feels empty.
He flushes. Wipes his mouth. Stands slowly.
The mirror above the sinks reflects someone paler than he remembers. Dark circles. Hair slightly damp at the temples.
He turns on the faucet and splashes water over his face.
The drip of the sink echoes louder than it should.
And then—
“Why does it matter?”
He freezes.
The voice is soft.
Familiar.
It isn’t loud enough to belong to the hallway. It isn’t distorted enough to feel like a monster.
It sounds like Will.
Mike lifts his head slowly.
The bathroom is empty.
Water continues running.
He grips the edge of the sink.
“You wanted to believe it,” the voice says gently.
His stomach twists again.
“That’s not—” he whispers.
The fluorescent light flickers.
“I just wanted you to believe it.”
The memory is wrong. Twisted. That’s not exactly what Will said that night in his bedroom, when Mike confronted him about the painting. But it’s close enough that it hits the same nerve.
“Stop,” Mike mutters under his breath.
The reflection in the mirror looks back at him — but for half a second, the expression lags. Like it isn’t syncing right.
“You said you loved me.”
The voice shifts.
It isn’t Will anymore.
It’s softer.
Higher.
El.
Mike’s breath catches.
“That’s not what this is,” he says quickly, too quickly.
“You promised.”
The word echoes slightly.
The mirror blurs at the edges. The fluorescent light hum deepens, warping lower.
“You’re different now.”
He grips the sink harder.
“I’m not,” he insists. “I’m not.”
The air feels heavier. Harder to pull into his lungs.
“Something’s wrong with you.”
The voice doesn’t sound like El anymore.
It doesn’t sound like Will.
It sounds like him.
But stripped of warmth.
“You know what you are.”
His pulse pounds in his ears.
He shakes his head, backing away from the sink.
“No.”
“You’re sick.”
“No.”
“You’re broken.”
“Stop.”
The word cracks out of him sharper now.
“You ruin everything.”
“Stop!”
His voice echoes off the tile.
The buzzing light overhead stutters violently for a second — or maybe his vision does.
“Mike.”
The name is closer now.
“Michael.”
“Stop!” he shouts, hands clamped over his ears.
The bathroom door creaks open.
The sound slices clean through everything.
Silence drops.
The buzzing light steadies.
The mirror shows only him.
Breathing hard. Alone.
“Mr. Wheeler?”
A real voice.
Adult. Grounded.
Mike’s hands slowly lower.
The counselor stands just inside the doorway, eyebrows drawn together in concern. He must’ve heard through the hall.
“You alright?”
Mike straightens too fast, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I’m fine.”
His voice is hoarse.
He glances around quickly — stalls empty. No one else.
Just tile. Sinks. Light.
The counselor steps closer, not invading space, but close enough to look at him properly.
“You don’t sound fine.”
Don’t look at me like that.
The thought flashes through him sharp and immediate.
Don’t look like you see something.
“I just felt sick,” Mike says, forcing his breathing to slow. “It’s nothing.”
The counselor studies him for a moment longer than is comfortable.
Then, gently:
“Michael. Why don’t we talk in my office for a bit?”
The words settle heavy in the quiet room.
Mike doesn’t answer right away.
Because part of him is still listening.
Waiting to see if the whisper comes back.
It doesn’t.
But the silence feels temporary.
***
Mike doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there.
He remembers the counselor stepping into English. Remembered the teacher pausing mid-sentence. Remembered his name being called in that careful adult tone.
He remembers walking down the hallway.
He doesn’t remember sitting down.
The office smells like coffee and paper. The clock on the wall ticks steadily. There’s a bookshelf behind the desk. A framed diploma. A small plant that’s starting to brown at the edges.
His hands are folded in his lap.
He hasn’t moved them in a while.
He hasn’t answered any questions either.
At some point, he heard voices outside the door. Dustin’s, maybe. Lucas asking something low and urgent. Will saying his name. The murmur of adults telling them to get to class.
No one is saying anything now.
The door opens.
He doesn’t look up immediately.
“Michael.” His mother’s voice. Soft. Tight.
A hand touches his shoulder.
He flinches before he can stop himself.
The hand withdraws quickly.
There’s a pause.
Ted clears his throat from somewhere behind her.
Mike keeps his eyes on the carpet.
The counselor’s voice is calm, measured. “Thank you both for coming in.”
Chairs scrape softly against the floor.
“We’ve been concerned about Michael for a while now,” the counselor continues. “His teachers have reported a decline in participation. In assignments. In overall performance.”
A soft shuffle of papers.
“I think you should see this.”
There’s silence.
Then Karen inhales sharply.
Mike doesn’t need to look.
He already knows.
“Are these current?” Ted asks sharply.
“Yes.”
A thicker silence.
“Michael,” Ted’s voice hardens instantly, “what the hell is this?”
Mike doesn’t respond.
“D in English? F in math? Government? Science? What are you doing all day?” His father’s voice rises with every question. “You think this is a joke? You think colleges are lining up for this?”
Colleges.
Mike swallows.
He never said he wanted college like that.
He said he wanted to write once.
Just once.
It turned into a lecture about real careers. About business. About “not wasting potential.”
He keeps his eyes down.
“Michael, answer me.”
Nothing.
Karen’s voice cuts in, sharp but controlled. “Ted, stop.”
She turns slightly toward him.
“Michael,” she says more gently, “why do you have a D in English? That’s your best subject.”
There’s something almost confused in her voice. Like she’s trying to reconcile two different versions of her son.
Mike finally lifts his head just enough to look at her.
Her mascara is slightly smudged.
Her expression isn’t angry.
It’s tired.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
It’s automatic.
Karen looks at him for a long moment.
Then she turns to the counselor. “I don’t understand. He’s home. He’s not out partying. He’s not—”
The counselor folds his hands together.
“Sometimes,” he says carefully, “what’s happening at home isn’t always visible.”
Ted bristles immediately. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not assigning blame,” the counselor replies evenly. “But Michael has been showing signs of significant distress. Withdrawal. Fatigue. Declining academic function. Those patterns don’t develop overnight.”
Karen’s jaw tightens.
“We are good parents,” she says.
The counselor holds her gaze. “I’m sure you’re trying to be.”
Ted scoffs. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The room fills with overlapping voices.
Karen defending.
Ted snapping.
The counselor maintaining that careful professional calm that only makes Ted louder.
Mike doesn’t move.
Their words start to blur at the edges.
He catches fragments.
— “He’s always been sensitive—”
— “We provide—”
— “Emotional support is not the same as financial—”
— “Are you saying this is our fault?”
The sound dulls.
Like cotton filling his ears.
His head starts to pound again.
He looks down at his hands.
His fingers are pressing into the skin of his palm.
Harder than he realized.
He eases up slightly.
The clock on the wall ticks.
Ticks.
Ticks.
The arguing continues, but it’s distant now. Like it’s happening underwater.
And then—
A different sound.
Low.
Heavy.
A grandfather clock.
Mike’s head lifts slowly.
There isn’t a grandfather clock in this office.
He knows that.
The first chime echoes deep and hollow.
No one else reacts.
Second.
His heartbeat stutters.
Third.
The air feels thinner.
Fourth.
Fifth.
The sound vibrates through his ribs.
The arguing stops abruptly in his ears — not in reality, just in him.
Silence drops like a curtain.
Behind the counselor’s shoulder, in the far corner of the room —
There’s a clock.
Tall.
Dark wood.
Impossible.
Its face is cracked down the middle.
The pendulum swings slowly.
Mike can’t breathe.
“Your time, Michael.”
The voice isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need to be.