ʀɪᴄʜɪᴇ, ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ʏ ʙᴏʀɪꜱ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟᴇʀ

The atmosphere in the Wheeler basement felt heavy, thick with the echo of Mike's shouting and the final slam of the door. The silence that followed was almost more painful than the argument; it was that emptiness where your hopes sank when you saw that, no matter how much they fought, he always went back to Eleven.
You looked down, fiddling with the hem of your sweater, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. That's when the weight of the sofa shifted. Miles and Boris slid to either side of you, flanking you like retaining walls, while Richie squatted in front of you, forcing you to meet his intense gaze behind his glasses.
"Why do you keep suffering because of him?" Miles asked, his usually cold voice now tinged with genuine frustration.
"He's no good for you ," Richie declared, dropping his jokey act for once. "You're breaking yourself over someone who doesn't even notice you're here."

"It only hurts you," Boris added with that drawling accent, watching your trembling hands. "And we hate seeing you like this."
You froze. You'd always seen the triplets as your refuge, Mike's chaotic brothers who made you laugh so you wouldn't cry. But now, the atmosphere in the basement was different. There were no games. Their eyes, so like Mike's but with a spark of devotion he would never give you, devoured you with a new urgency.
"Look at his brothers," the three of them blurted out in unison.
The air seemed to escape your lungs. The confession hung between you, heavy and electrifying. The three of them surrounded you, offering you three versions of a love Mike would never give you: Miles's quiet protection, Richie's vibrant energy, and Boris's untamed loyalty.
For the first time in years, the ghost of Mike Wheeler faded from your mind, replaced by the reality of three hearts that beat only for you.

The Wheeler basement smelled of stagnant memories and Mike's cologne, a scent that used to bring you peace but now only suffocated you. After Mike slammed the door and Eleven remained silent, you stayed there, a leftover piece in a puzzle that wasn't yours. You felt the weight of ten years of unrequited love sinking into your chest like lead.
Then the atmosphere shifted. Miles, Richie, and Boris moved with predatory synchronicity, surrounding you on the sofa.

"Why do you keep suffering over him?" Miles blurted out. His voice, usually a wall of ice, vibrated with suppressed frustration. He, the observer, the one who always knew when you were going to cry before the first tear fell.

“He’s no good for you,” Richie declared. He took off his glasses, revealing a harsh look he never used for his jokes. For the first time, the group’s “clown” was serious. “You’re falling apart over someone who won’t even bend down to pick up the pieces.”

"He's only hurting you," Boris growled, sitting so close you could feel his warmth. "And we're sick of watching you wither away for some idiot with his eyes closed."

You froze. The triplets, your refuge and distraction, were showing you a side you'd ignored for years. Their eyes, identical in shape but different in soul, scanned you with a devotion Mike had never shown you.

"Look at his brothers," the three said in unison.

The confession landed like a grenade in the basement. The shock left you breathless; while you'd expected crumbs from Mike, they offered you the whole world. Miles offered you peace, Richie joy, and Boris fierce loyalty.

"He went upstairs," Boris whispered, bringing his face close to yours. "We're staying here with you. Choose."