Now that the final episode has been released, we must confront an uncomfortable truth: the fact that Vecna never once attempted to weaken Will by exploiting his fears—including his homosexuality—renders the coming-out scene narratively unnecessary.
Will explicitly states that he chose to reveal his fears, to name them aloud through his coming out, so that Vecna could no longer weaponize them against him. This confession was framed as an act of reclaiming power. And yet, Vecna never uses this knowledge. Not once. There is no consequence, no narrative echo, no payoff. The promise collapses into silence.
This means that, from a storytelling perspective, the scene ultimately served only two purposes. First, to suggest that Will is “moving on” by reframing his feelings for Mike as a mere crush, reducing them to a childish infatuation—his so-called “Tammy.” A claim that rings false, because love does not evaporate in twenty-four hours. Second, to expose Will’s sexuality as spectacle, offering homophobic segments of the audience an open stage on which to mock him.
There was no reward for the vulnerability demanded of him. No narrative protection. No dignity.
This could have been an intimate coming-out scene—quiet, human, reverent—one that honored queer experiences rather than consuming them. Instead, it was staged as public theater: a performance played out before an audience, centered on a Will who is crying, apologetic, and visibly terrified. A boy laid bare, not held.
What makes this more disturbing is the reality behind the camera. Noah Schnapp was subjected to twelve hours of filming that forced him to tap into the deepest, most fragile parts of himself as a gay person—so deeply that he reportedly dissociated by the end. And yet, the creators later had the audacity to present this scene as a flawless example of progressive representation, proudly positioning themselves on the “right side.”
But this scene is, in fact, a perfect reflection of how Will’s arc—his feelings, his sexuality—has been treated all along: pure performance, concealing manipulation, steeped in heteronormativity and internalized homophobia. The emotions of a young gay man are exploited to prop up a heterosexual couple that was already narratively broken. Will’s love becomes an instrument of emotional and psychological torture, used against him until it culminates not in growth, but in humiliation.
And worst of all, this is where his personal arc ends.
He is denied reciprocity after being fed false hope—both as a character and as a mirror for the audience. His story is then summarized in a hollow epilogue image: Will in a gay bar, paired with a generic boyfriend, as if that alone were fulfillment. As if his soul were not better reflected in an art school classroom, or a museum, or any space that resonated with his sensitivity, his creativity, his inner life.
The Duffers dared to reduce Will to this: a martyr who never attains what he desires most—not only love, but mutual love—and the sole gay character of the series.
Mike, too, is hollowed out. Reduced to nothing more than Eleven’s obsessed boyfriend, despite never behaving that way throughout the season. His trauma is ignored, his complexity erased, his character flattened, retroactively rewritten so that all his emotional turbulence since season three is never explained. A convenient simplification that discards years of nuance.
The fact that most of the strongest Byler-centered episodes since season two—and Volume 1 itself—were not written by the Duffers, while Volume 2 and the finale were, stands as damning evidence to me. Evidence that the Duffers are, at best, mediocre writers who have reaped praise built on the labor of others—the true storytellers behind the series’ most compelling, layered, and human moments.
What remains is a story that asks queer characters to bleed for symbolism, to suffer for aesthetics, and to disappear once their pain has served its purpose. A story that calls this progress.
But progress does not look like this.
