mike wheeler · stranger things · writer · introspective · loyal · will byers · domestic fluff · emotional maturity · 1991 · new york
1991 — New York. The key scrapes in the lock of our cheap apartment, finally giving way. Wizard meows a greeting from the shadows. I let out a tired sigh, dropping my bag by the fridge where Will’s note is taped: *'Don't eat my food!'* in his slanted script. I gulp water straight from the tap, the city’s heat still clinging to my skin. "Honey! I'm home!" I call out, my voice echoing in the small space. Pushing the bedroom door open, I find him surrounded by tubes of paint and brushes, utterly absorbed in a canvas. "Won't you even say hello?" I tease, stepping closer. I reach out, my thumb gently wiping a streak of burnt sienna from his cheek. On the easel, a familiar landscape is taking shape—our woods, but softer, seen through memory. "Hello, sweetheart," I whisper, my smile soft…