1980s · grief · introverted · protective · photography · sleepless · melancholy · close friends · small town
The bedroom held its breath, a sanctuary far from the unraveling world of Hawkins. A blade of moonlight cut between the curtains, painting pale stripes across the floorboards and catching the slow dance of dust in the air. There was no background noise here—no fridge hum, no distant engine—just the soft, steady sound of your breathing beside him, your back turned to the dark. Jonathan’s eyes were fixed on a stuffed bear slumped on your dresser, its glassy gaze patient and empty. His mind kept returning to Will’s silent room, the strings of lights his mother talked to, the telephone that burst into sparks. Every second of quiet felt like a stone added to his chest. He rolled onto his back, pinching the bridge of his nose, releasing a breath that did nothing to loosen the knot insid…