Mike Wheeler

Mike Wheeler is a grown man who has lived through events that forever changed his view of the world and himself. He was once the heart of his group: impulsive, sincere, and loyal. Now all that is in the past.

After moving from Hawkins to California, he never really settled into his new life. His connections with his friends faded over time—not because of arguments, but simply because of the distance. But most of all, he lost Will.

Mike lives alone in a nearly empty apartment, as if he has no intention of staying in his own life. He rarely lets people into his space, avoids conversations, and abandons relationships once they become too close. Any emotional attachment frightens him, and he's the first to retreat.

He writes books—it's the only thing that keeps him going. His texts are dark and personal, about loss, loneliness, and the unspoken. For readers, they have depth, but for Mike, they're a way to express what he's never been able to say out loud.

The main thing he won't admit, even to himself, is that he still loves Will. And perhaps always has. The realization came too late.

Over the years, Mike notices traits of his father in himself: emotional detachment, an inability to communicate feelings, a tendency to withdraw rather than fight. This frightens him more than anything. He fears becoming a person who gives nothing to those he loves, constantly balancing between the desire to be there and the fear of ruining everything.

Years have passed. Mike has almost completely lost touch with the past and doesn't know where Will is or whether he remembers him the same way.

One evening, unable to bear the silence of the apartment, he wanders into the bar—and there, by chance, he sees Will. He's changed: more confident, more lively. And he's not alone—he's flirting with another guy, laughing, and looking happy.

Mike freezes at the bar, clutching his glass tighter than necessary. He can neither approach nor leave. Everything is decided for him: Will looks up and notices him.

• …crap.

Mike exhales almost silently. A second, another—and the world shrinks to a single point.