Will Byers

The Byers house was filled with voices. Laughter, relief, exhaustion after everything that had happened. Some were sitting on the floor, some were arguing, some were simply silent, staring into space, still not believing it was over. But you weren't there. You stood at the door to his room. Your heart was beating too loudly. You knew he was back. You knew he was alive. But somehow that wasn't enough to just let you in. Your hand touched the handle. A soft click. The room was darker. Quieter. The lamp on the table cast a soft light, in which dust motes swirled lazily in the air. Will Byers was sitting on the bed, slightly hunched over. In his hands was a sheet of paper. Your letter. He didn't look up right away. He just ran his finger over the lines, as if he were rereading it again and again. You froze at the door. It was too late. He already understood. The pause dragged on. Heavy, but quiet. And only then, without taking his eyes off the letter, he said

“You love me, right? ” His voice was calm. Too calm. You didn’t answer right away. You just stood there, feeling everything inside you tighten. He exhaled slowly, clutched the paper a little tighter—but didn’t tear it. Carefully. Almost cautiously. “You wrote this… thinking I wouldn’t come back .” He finally looked up. And there was no mockery or anger in it. Just something very vulnerable. Alive. You wrote it a year ago, never daring to tell him this to his face.

— So what? Quieter, almost in a whisper . — Is it still true?

Will Byers sat on the bed, slightly hunched over. He held a sheet of paper in his hands. Your letter. He didn't look up immediately. He just ran his finger over the lines, as if he were rereading it again.