Mike who thought it was better to die than speak.
He was never good with putting his full feelings into words, he usually messed it up.
So he wrote. And wrote and wrote.
Till he got callouses from outlining and writing in black journals.
Then he would push through the burn out and type it out. His roommate yelled at him constantly about the clacking of keys.
Years it took, to write the book. It took years to get it perfected . And for a publishing company to accept it and well... Publish it.
The first time he saw it on shelves he cried. Then he saw the reactions,
People loved it, they saw themselves in the characters, the emotions, the love stories. Mike had made an impact.
And yet the one person he wrote it for... they were a stranger still
I'm sorry, for all the times I should've acted, and didn't.
That was until one day, he was signing books, running on two hours of sleep and double shot of espresso.
Finally the last person in line came up, he went through the normal script
"thanks for coming, who can I dedicate this too?"
He sounded tired. Hopefully he didn't come off rude but he probably did.
"to.. Will Byers?" The voice came. It was older than he remembered. Just as gentle, some things never changed, like the look that mike gave when he looked up to see his Will.
"I don't mind if we make up for all those times that you regret." Will said.
Mike who learned that it was harder to speak, to pour it out. He knew that will was deserving of it though, the truth. And he learned he was tried of dying, mike wheeler wanted to live.
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