Archive of Our Own ^beta

What’s the difference between Spaghettios and Chef Boyardee Mini-O’s? 

You try not to feel like an out-of-touch, spoiled elitist, but it’s hard not to do that when you haven’t cooked your own meals in well over a year. You haven’t done much of anything for yourself in well over a year. Stylists, personal trainers, hair and makeup artists, PR managers who script every word you say in public; it was a miracle you were even trusted to breathe on your own.

But as you stand in the canned foods aisle of Bradley’s Big Buy, it’s fair to say that you feel utterly helpless. You probably could use a breathing coach. 

Fresh off the Monday morning flight into Indianapolis and a town car ride into your hometown of Hawkins, you hold the two cans in your hands, the cold metal doing a sub-par job of grounding you, when suddenly a rogue reminder of your past life knocks you off your track. A staggeringly familiar voice calls your name. You whip your head to the right, hoping, praying , that it’s not who you think it is. But of course it is.

Steve stares at you, dopey, anxious look in his eyes, and hands carrying a shopping basket filled with sugary cereals. “Hi,” he greets, all-too-familiar for your liking. 

Now back in the midwest, you’ve lost the practiced Hollywood control over your features, and offer him an unintended scowl in return. He doesn’t seem too fazed by it. You look him up and down, eyes scrambling for evidence that he’s been a disaster in your wake. But you come up disappointingly empty, other than the contents of his grocery haul. 

He follows your gaze to the basket. “Robin’s request,” he explains, “She’s had a string of hard days at work, so I thought I’d… I’d get her her favorites. She goes through, like, a box a day.” His attempt at starting the conversation off light-hearted is derailed by your immediate refusal to say even one word back to him. The stubborn part of your brain is enraged by the fact that he’s still so thoughtful . You put both of the cans back on the shelf. “You didn’t tell me…” he starts, dazed, breath coming out like a whisper, “You didn’t tell me you were gonna be in town so soon.”

“So it’s my job to update you on all of my travel plans?” you ask, your claws coming out instantly. It’s not like you two had maintained any steady line of communication since you left.

“No, no. I just…” he recalibrates, “ I didn’t know you were gonna be in town so soon,” he tells you, removing the blame on you, and placing it on himself. Steve, ever-the-martyr. It pisses you off.

“Well, I am.”

He takes a sharp breath in. “Okay, well this has been about as fun as I remember,” he says, giving you a half-hearted wave and walking in the other direction.

“I’m not…” you call after him, not wanting to sow seeds of hostility on your first day back. This was going to be hard enough as it is. He pauses, and turns back to face you. “I’m not here for very long. My mom…”

“I heard,” he finishes for you, perhaps wanting to spare you from having to talk about it any more than you have for the past week. There hadn’t even been a funeral; just a long list of headaches. “I’m sorry,” he says, plain and simple.

Thank you , you want to say. You nod your head. I miss you , you want to say. “You don’t have to be sorry,” you say instead. You don’t have to be sorry about anything , you think. You offer nothing else.

He gives you a sad smile, “Nance said you’re cleaning out the house.”

“Yeah. Gonna take a while.” You were already agonizing over the week that you’d have to spend away from work in California.

“Well my number hasn’t changed, unlike yours,” he jabs with good intentions, but bringing your mind back to the life you’ve put on pause out west puts you on edge, “If you need any help you can c—”

“I don’t think I’ll need any help,” the from you part is implied, “And I actually have to get going.” His mouth hangs open and he surveys you for a second, before making peace with the moment and dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Right. Well I’d say it was good seeing you, but—”

“Fuck off, Steve,” you say, too assuredly for it to be the good-natured crack that you nearly want it to come out as. Hostile as the day you left. Surprise, surprise.

He huffs out a disbelieving, bitter laugh. You push past him, leaving him stunned, surrounded by canned pasta.

The fluorescent lights beam down on you as you storm through the aisle, making your way to the checkout. This store is supposed to be familiar, this place, this scene—you’ve shopped here a million times, or at least you used to— some version of you did. But now it feels like a poorly constructed set piece, a flimsy replica of your old life that doesn’t quite fit the glossy, dreamy picture in your head. 

As you drive back, your mom’s Chevy stalling about four hundred times in the parking lot before you can get it to turn over, Steve’s disappointment lingers in your mind. You tell yourself it’s fine—you’re not here to make friends or mend old wounds. You’re here for one reason and one reason only: to sort out your mom’s mess and get back to the life you’ve curated so meticulously for yourself in Los Angeles. And yet, that frown of his—the one you remember from every argument you ever lost—sits heavy in the pit of your stomach.

The exterior of your house looks the same as it did the day you left. A little more overgrown maybe, the grass struggling to stay green under the relentless Hawkins summer sun, but otherwise a relic of the life you’ve done your best to outgrow. You let yourself in with the spare key that you used every day from the age of eleven to eighteen, bringing your grocery bags in with you. The smell of stale coffee and potpourri hits you, the familiar scent almost enough to make you turn back around, and skip town all over again.

You drop the paper bags on the kitchen counter and take a deep breath in, trying to muster the energy to dive into the chaos of the place. Boxes line the walls, half-filled with memories that don’t quite feel like yours—old photographs, mismatched knick-knacks, all the clutter of a life spent in one place for far too long. There’s almost a comfort in the disarray. Like no matter how much has changed, some things are still the same.

You take in the sight of the kitchen; it’s just as you remember it: tiny, outdated, and messy. Your mom’s favorite mug still sits in the dish rack, stained from countless cups of black coffee and late-night conversations you’d rather forget. You brush your fingers against the handle, and fight back the tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

But it’s the fridge that catches your attention—covered in magnets from places you’ve never been, save-the-dates from weddings you didn’t attend, and a handful of grocery lists and reminders scrawled in your mom’s loopy, cursive handwriting. One of them has your name on it, the letters starting to fade but unmistakably yours: “Y/n’s new show— Mondays 8pm ABC” The show she’s referring to was “new” a year ago, a time when she still remembered to think of you at all. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and tear the note down, crumpling it in your hand. You’re not here to get sentimental. You’re here to pack up, clear out, and move on. You toss the paper into the trash, but it doesn’t make you feel any better.

You let out a frustrated sigh and rub your temples, trying to push the noise away. But all you hear is Steve’s voice echoing in your head, the way he said your name like it still meant something to him. Like you still meant something to him. Like you still meant something to anyone here.

You shouldn’t have told him to fuck off. Not when he’s one of the few people who might still care enough to help, even after everything. You’re not here to make amends, but that doesn’t mean you have to make things worse. 

Just as you’re steeling yourself to dive into the sea of boxes, the phone on the wall drrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnngs to life. You contemplate not answering, but you know depriving yourself of any and all human interaction won’t make for a very pleasant stay here.

“Hello?” you answer.

“Y/n, darling!” your manager, Donna’s voice chirps on the other end, far too chipper for the Pacific time zone. Donna Hamilton is a woman who, for all intents and purposes, controls your life with an iron, manicured grip.

You pause, toying with the idea of claiming a wrong number and hanging up, but you know Donna. She’ll just keep calling every number associated with you until you respond. And you don’t want her to make any contact with anyone else in this town in her search for you. The woman is relentless, and that’s why you pay her a small fortune.

You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a steadying breath. “Hi, Donna.”

“You have been absolutely impossible to get a hold of. I mean, I know you’re dealing with… well, whatever it is you’re dealing with out there in the boonies, but we’ve got to talk. Listen, sweetie, I just got off the phone with Maxwell from NBC. They want to reschedule that guest spot on L.A. Law that you flaked on last week— you know, the one we had to move mountains to get you booked on? And I’ve got Cynthia breathing down my neck about the Newport campaign. She’s very concerned, darling, and says she’s not hearing enough from you. She was using words like ‘radio silence,’ ‘unprofessional,’ and, my personal favorite, ‘flight risk.’ Now, darling, you know I don’t like those words. What is going on?” You can already picture Donna, teetering on stilettos in her glass-walled office on Sunset, her hair perfectly styled and clothes freshly dry-cleaned.

“I’m dealing with it, Donna. I’m just… I’m not in L.A. right now. I told you that.” In a sad, sick way, you were lucky that this all happened while your show was on summer hiatus, but there was no such thing as time off in Donna’s book.

“Yes, I know, sweetheart,” she coos, but there’s no warmth behind it. “But the thing is, I didn’t realize ‘not at home’ meant ‘completely off the grid.’ We’ve got contracts, expectations, sponsors who want to see your lovely face in front of the camera, not— God forbid— holed up in some dusty old house in a cornfield. I’m trying to protect your name here, okay? Help me help you.” Her tone shifts, slipping into that familiar blend of concern and manipulation. She’s a master at it, making every demand sound like a favor she’s doing for you. But you’ve been around long enough to know better.

“I’m not off the grid, Donna. I’m just…” your eyes drift over to your mother’s coffee cup again. “I’m handling some personal stuff. Can you just give me a little more time? Just through the end of this week. Please?”

There’s a pause on the other end, and you can almost hear Donna weighing her options. You wonder if one of her little assistants is there with her. “Darling, I’m your biggest fan, you know that. But this is not the time to go dark. You’ve got people counting on you. Big people. You want to take a breather, fine. But don’t you dare start fading. You fade, and you know what happens. You’re replaceable, Y/n, no matter how much I love you. So, here’s what I’m gonna do: I’m going to push back the L.A. Law spot by one week. That’s it. I need you back on a plane Friday morning in order to be there, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, the whole nine yards. And if you need a therapist, a yoga retreat, a goddamn shaman to get your head on straight, you let me know. But this is non-negotiable.”

You hear the snap of her gum on the other end, each word punctuated like she’s putting the lid on the conversation. You rub your eyes, frustration bubbling up inside of you. She doesn’t get it. Donna will never get it. But this is her world, and for better or worse, you’re in it too.

“Fine. I’ll be there Friday morning,” you mutter.

“Fabulous,” Donna purrs, her voice sweet again now that she’s gotten what she wanted. “I knew I could count on you, darling. And hey, remember, you’re a star. Don’t let anyone, not even yourself, forget that. Call me if you need anything. Kisses!”

Before you can even respond, she’s hung up, leaving you staring at the clutter again. A star, she called you. But standing here, surrounded by dusty boxes, you don’t feel like one at all.

The kitchen feels like a time capsule, each object frozen in place like it’s been waiting for you to come back and finish something you didn’t even know you’d started. Your gaze lands on a half-empty bottle of scotch sitting on the counter, one of your mom’s well-worn vices. You hesitate for a moment before picking it up, giving it a half-hearted swirl, and pouring a healthy amount into her mug. You hold the mug up, in a pathetic cheers to the ether, before downing it.

You get to work, pulling open the first cabinet on the left. Inside, you find bowls, plates, and glasses. You decide to donate all of them. Pots, pans, utensils, all donate. There’s no room for sentimentality here. Just a mission. Keep, donate, toss. 

You fall into a rhythm, your movements growing more mechanical as the day wears on. A blender that hasn’t worked in years goes into the toss pile. A set of your mom’s old recipe cards lands in the keep pile, though you can’t remember her ever using them. The kitchen clock ticks steadily in the background, counting down the hours until you can justify giving up for the night.

Eventually, you find yourself in the living room, surrounded by piles of sorted items. The clock on the wall reads just after eight, and the exhaustion hits you all at once, like a brick wall. You grab a blanket from the couch— one you remember from when you were a kid, one you hated for its scratchiness but now feels oddly comforting— and wrap it around your shoulders. You curl up on the couch, grabbing the remote, and clicking the power button, pleasantly surprised to find that the cable bill was still paid through the month apparently. You flip through the channels, before landing on a familiar setting. It’s Monday night. Your show is on. 

It takes a few moments before you can place the episode. You watch for a moment, eyes tracing every familiar curve of your face, every gesture and expression that was meticulously crafted to perfection. Your character delivers a witty one-liner to her brother, earning a perfectly timed laugh from the invisible studio audience. You remember this one now— one of the easier shoots, where everything went off without a hitch. It feels like a lifetime ago, in your first season, when your biggest worry was whether or not your makeup looked cake-y under the bright camera lights.

You keep the volume low, just enough to keep the silence at bay without filling the room with the reminder of what’s expected of you. You sink deeper into the couch, feeling every spring poke at your side through the worn-out cushions, and pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. Between the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the ebb and flow of the studio audience reactions, you let it lull you into a fitful, uneasy sleep. Tomorrow, the boxes will still be there. The mess will still be there. This whole, sleepy town will still be there.

As you drift off to sleep, you dream of simpler days, when life seemed less complicated. You’re back in high school, and the dream feels so vivid it might as well be real. The setting is your school auditorium, a familiar space in your dreaming days.

It’s opening night of the spring play. You’re in costume, a vintage, velvet dress, your hair is pinned back in soft curls, and your makeup is shellacked on to give you that classic, Old-Hollywood look that fits the era of the text. You can hear the murmur of the crowd just beyond the thick, red curtain, and you’re buzzing with the nerves that always come right before a performance.

You peek out from behind the heavy velvet curtain, looking for someone in particular, but you don’t find her. Your mother has once again failed to show up, and a familiar wave of disappointment washes over you. You know exactly where she probably is: at some dimly lit bar, a glass of scotch in hand, her laughter just a little too loud as she regales strangers with stories that never quite happened the way she tells them. You try to shake the thought away, but it clings to you, heavy and unwelcome. You wanted her to be here, to see you, to see how hard you’ve worked. But instead, she’s off somewhere, drinking away whatever it is that keeps her from showing up for you.

You swallow the lump in your throat and glance back toward the audience, eyes scanning over the sea of faces. That’s when you see Steve, sitting in the middle of the second row. He’s wearing a cream-colored button-up shirt and a pair of jeans, looking as sweet and excited as ever. He’s with Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin, who are already waving and grinning when they catch you peeking out. Steve’s leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes sweeping the stage as if he’s searching for you. Lovingly oblivious as ever.

“Hey, you’re gonna do great,” his voice echoes in your mind, a memory mixing with the dream. “You always do.”

You feel a gentle tug on your arm, and suddenly you’re backstage again. The dream has shifted slightly, and you take a deep breath, step out onto the stage, and let the lights wash over you. The play goes off without a hitch, every line, every cue, every emotional beat landing perfectly. And every time you glance into the crowd, Steve is right there, watching you with a soft smile, eyes bright and full of pride.

When the final curtain call comes, you and your castmates line up to take your bows. The applause is loud, but you only have ears for one person. Steve’s on his feet, clapping like he’s never clapped before, his smile wide and unabashed, eyes on you like you’re the only person in the room. You catch his eye, and he mouths, “You’re a star,” with that big, goofy grin of his, and it’s enough to make you blush under the stage lights.

The dream shifts again, and you’re backstage. You barely have time to catch your breath before you hear Steve’s voice booming from the other side of the stage door. “Where’s my star?” he calls, pushing his way through the small crowd of castmates and stagehands until he spots you.

And then he’s there, sweeping you up into his arms, your heels dangling half a foot above the ground before you can even react. “There she is!” he exclaims. He spins you around once, making you laugh, before setting you back down, but he doesn’t let go. “You were incredible out there. Can they give Oscars for high school plays?”

You roll your eyes playfully, feeling your cheeks flush. “Technically it would be a Tony, and no, they can’t.”

“Well then let this be a placeholder until you get the real thing,” he offers, handing you a bouquet of daisies wrapped in cellophane.

You take the flowers from him, your fingers brushing his, and the simple contact sends a buzz up your spine. “Thank you,” you say softly, genuinely. “For being here. For always being here.”

Steve’s smile softens, his eyes locking onto yours. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your mind travels to the one person who did miss it when she shouldn’t have; when she swore she wouldn’t. Your eyes scan over Steve’s shoulder, trying to see if you somehow missed her in the crowd. But as you see all of your castmates embracing their parents and family members, it becomes painfully clear that your mother is not here.

“Hey,” Steve’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, his warm hand resting on your shoulder. “You okay?”

You force a smile, shrugging it off. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… My mom didn’t show up. She said she would, but… I guess something came up.”

Steve frowns, his brows knitting together with concern. He knows exactly what that ‘something’ is. “I’m sorry, honey. I know you wanted her to be here.”

You nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but… it still sucks, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his fingers along your shoulder soothingly.

“Sorry,” you say. “I’m being an asshole.”

“No you’re not—” he argues.

“Yes, I am,” you interrupt him. “Who cares if she’s not here. I’ve got the best friends in the world, and they are here.”

Steve’s expression softens, and he shakes his head slightly. He wraps you in another hug, just as tight as the first one, but less chaotic; your feet stay firmly planted on the ground. “Hey, you don’t have to apologize for that. I get it. And I’m always gonna be here, alright? Whether you’re looking or not.”

You smile at him, feeling the genuine warmth of his words seep into the parts of you that feel cold and empty. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta be,” he teases, but his voice is gentle.

You squeeze his hand, the tension easing from your shoulders as you glance around. “Where’s everyone else? I saw them in the crowd earlier.”

“Oh, they’re around here somewhere,” Steve says with a small laugh, looking over his shoulder. “I think Nance was directing Jonathan to take some backstage photos for yearbook. And Robin… Well, who knows what she’s doing, but it’s Robin, so it’s bound to be something weird.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “That sounds about right.” A warmth spreads through your chest as you think about your friends who showed up for you without question, who cheered you on like it was the most important night of their lives too.

Steve’s smile widens, and just as he’s about to lean in for another kiss, a familiar, grating voice cuts through the backstage noise. “Steven Harrington! I thought I saw you here!”

Steve’s face immediately drops, and he swears under his breath as he turns his head. It’s Mrs. O’Donnell, the school’s notoriously nosy history teacher, known for her long-winded conversations and endless barrage of questions about what everyone is doing after high school. She’s making a beeline straight for him.

“Oh no,” Steve mutters, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s preparing for battle. “She’s been trying to corner me all night.”

You snort softly. “What, didn’t wanna give her the scoop on your big post-grad plans?” you tease, but you can tell he’s genuinely uncomfortable.

“Last time, she kept me there for like half an hour talking about my dad and his legacy ” he says, eyes wide with thinly veiled panic.

“I got this,” you tell him, hands delicately smoothing out his collar. Without missing a beat, you step in front of Steve, your expression shifting into something more performative. “Mrs. O’Donnell!” you call out, your tone bright and friendly. “I’m so glad you came to see the play! Did you enjoy it?”

Her attention is instantly diverted, her eyes lighting up as she shifts her focus to you. “Oh, Y/n! You were just marvelous, dear. Absolutely marvelous! What university are you planning on applying to next year? Any arts schools?”

You beam at her, glancing back at Steve, who is already subtly inching away. “Thank you so much! You know, I’d love to tell you all about that, but I think Principal Higgins was looking for you. Something about the next round of teacher evaluations?” you lie, your voice smooth as silk.

“Oh, goodness, was he?” Mrs. O’Donnell looks momentarily flustered, glancing around. “Well, I suppose I’d better go find him, then. But you were stunning, dear!”

As she bustles off in search of Principal Higgins, you turn back to Steve, who has a look of sheer relief on his face. “You are a lifesaver,” he says, pulling you in for another hug. “I owe you big time for that one.”

You laugh, hugging him back tightly, then pulling away slightly. “Consider it a thank-you for being the best boyfriend ever. And maybe for the flowers, too.”

He grins, his nose brushing against yours. “Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You smile as you reach up to push a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Well lucky for you, you don’t ever have to find out.”

The dream fades into a soft blur of warm colors and familiar feelings, the promise of milkshakes with your friends, the sensation of Steve’s hand in yours, the sound of his laughter, the warmth of his presence. For a moment, you forget about all the stress and chaos waiting for you in the waking world. In this dream, in this memory, everything is simple. Everything makes sense. You hear your own voice, younger and kinder, whispering to him, “I’ll always be here, Steve. I promise.”

Morning arrives sooner than you’d like, sunlight filtering through the yellowed lace curtains and spilling over the living room. For a moment, you forget where you are, disoriented by the stiffness in your neck and the scratchy blanket tangled around your legs. You shift on the lumpy couch, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, when you hear a faint, insistent knock at the door.

You drag yourself upright, blanket still draped around your shoulders like makeshift armor, and make your way to the door, not quite awake but compelled by the steady rhythm of knuckles against wood. You squint through the peephole, the distorted image of Nancy on the other side.

You hesitate for a second, caught between the instinct to hide and the small spark of relief at the sight of someone you actually know— someone who actually knows you . You unlock the door, the latch sticking slightly before it gives, and pull it open to find Nancy, dressed in jeans and a faded Emerson sweatshirt, a gentle smile on her face.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft and a little cautious, like she’s not sure what kind of reception she’s going to get.

“Hey,” you reply, managing a half-smile in return.

Nancy glances over your shoulder at the piles of boxes and scattered remnants of your mother’s life, her expression shifting to one of understanding. She steps inside without waiting for an invitation, her gaze sweeping the room before settling back on you. “I thought you might need some help,” she says, lifting her label maker into sight. “Figured it might make things a little easier.”

“Thanks, Nance,” you mumble, taking the machine from her and setting it down on the counter, shoving aside last night’s grocery haul, untouched.

Nancy sits at the kitchen table, looking up at you with those clear, investigative eyes that always seemed to see straight through the walls you put up. “How are you holding up?” she asks, her tone gentle but probing, like she’s bracing herself for whatever answer you might give.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically, then sigh when she arches an eyebrow at you. “I mean… I’m dealing with it. It’s just— this house, this town… It’s like being stuck in a time warp.”

Nancy nods, her expression softening. “I get it. Trust me, I do. It’s not easy coming back, especially when…” she trails off, glancing at a stack of old photos spilling out of a half-open box. “It’s okay if you’re not okay, you know?”

You offer a half-hearted shrug, not sure you have the energy for the whole emotional vulnerability thing right now. “It’s just a lot,” you admit finally, running a hand through your messy hair. “I thought I could just come in, pack up, and go, but…” Your voice cracks, and you nearly shudder in embarrassment.

Nancy reaches over, squeezing your hand gently. “You don’t have to do it all alone, Y/n,” she says quietly. “We’re still here. Jon, Steve, Robin, me. We’re all still here.”

You nod, though the words don’t quite penetrate the fog of exhaustion and lingering bitterness at the mention of Steve. You wonder if he told her about your run-in. “Thanks,” you say again, but it comes out more like a sigh.

Nancy squeezes your hand once more before letting go. She stands, looking around the room as if calculating how to best tackle the chaos. The two of you move through the house, and she helps you categorize and clean a lot . Of course she does. After a couple hours, though, she can sense you’re fading. 

“Hey, why don’t you take a break tonight?” she suggests, the words carefully casual. “Go out, get a drink. Clear your head a little. It might help.”

You start to shake your head, already crafting an excuse about how much you still have left to do, but Nancy stops you short.

“Just one drink,” she adds. “We can go to Pepper’s,” she entices you with your favorite dive bar from back in the day, “Come on, how good do sticky floors and bad karaoke sound right now?”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you as much as it does her. It’s been a long time since you’ve thought about nights spent in dingy bars, nursing cheap drinks and laughing until your sides hurt. “Okay,” you say finally, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “One drink.”

Nancy beams at you, her whole face lighting up with relief. “Great. I’m gonna head out. You can take a nap if you want, or keep sorting, your call. I’ll pick you up at eight?”

“Eight,” you agree, and for the first time since you got back, it feels like a weight has lifted, even if only slightly.

The familiar neon sign of Pepper's flickers overhead as you and Nancy step inside, the heavy bass of an old rock anthem vibrating through the walls. The bar looks just as you remember: dim, with sticky floors and mismatched furniture, and the air thick with the scent of stale beer and old wood.

Nancy leads the way, her steps confident as she weaves through the small crowd on a Tuesday night in suburban Indiana. You follow, already scanning the poorly lit room for a secluded spot where you can blend into the background. But as you round the corner, your stomach drops at the sight of two familiar faces in a booth near the back: Steve and Robin.

They’re laughing, caught in some animated conversation, and it takes a second before they notice you and Nancy approaching. Steve’s smile falters slightly, and Robin’s eyes widen in mild surprise. You stop in your tracks, instinct screaming at you to turn around and make a beeline for the exit. “Nance,” you say, voice low, but she’s already waving and steering you toward them with that determined look in her eyes, her conviction a double-edged sword like always.

“Hey!” Nancy greets, sliding into the empty seat beside Robin and gesturing for you to take the last remaining spot. “Jon’s still doing family dinner, but I hope you don’t mind some company from out west.”

You stand there for a beat, every fiber of your being wanting to bolt. But Nancy’s gaze is steady and patient, silently pleading with you to just give this a chance. You sigh, forcing yourself to sit, though you keep your distance, arms crossed and posture rigid.

“Y/n, hey!” Robin greets with a smile that’s a little too bright, like she’s trying to overcompensate for the obvious tension. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” you reply, managing a tight smile. “It has.”

Steve offers a small nod, his expression unreadable. “Good to see you,” he says, and you can’t quite tell if he means it. He certainly can’t mean it after your spat at the store.

Nancy signals the bartender, and within moments, drinks are placed in front of you: a whiskey sour, your old standby. You’re shocked they still remember. You wrap your fingers around the glass, the cold seeping into your skin as you bring it to your lips. One drink, you remind yourself. Just one, then you can leave.

Conversation starts to flow again, stilted at first but gradually smoothing out as the alcohol loosens everyone’s edges. They discuss the ongoing construction on the highway, how it royally fucks up everyone’s days. And did everyone hear about the scandal at the Mayor’s office? Small town gossip. Stuff you used to love. 

Robin is the first to try and draw you in, asking about LA with an almost childlike curiosity. “So, how’s Hollywood?” she asks, leaning forward with genuine interest. “Is it as glamorous and shiny as it looks?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Not really,” you admit, swirling the amber liquid in your glass. “It’s… Um, it’s a lot of work. Long hours, a ton of pressure. The glamor is mostly for the cameras.”

Robin nods, looking thoughtful. “I always wondered about that. Like, you see all these perfect lives on TV, but there’s gotta be so much behind it. Like all those award shows where everyone’s in designer gowns and suits, looking like they don’t have a care in the world. But I bet behind the scenes, it’s just chaos, right? I mean, it’s gotta be, with all those egos in one room. And the networking— ugh, I’d be so bad at that. Like, do you just walk up to Tom Cruise and ask him what he thinks of the weather, or is there some secret Hollywood protocol I’m not aware of?” You bite your lip to keep from giggling, re-acquainting yourself with Robin’s tendency to ramble. “I always imagine the set of a TV show is this super glamorous place with all the actors just, like, sipping lattes and hanging out in their trailers between takes. But then you read those exposés and find out that half of them don’t even talk to each other off-screen. Like, I was reading about this show— what was it called? Anyway, the leads were supposed to be madly in love, right? But turns out, they hated each other in real life. Like, would sneak in the back door just to avoid each other. Can you imagine?”

You glance at Steve, who’s been mostly quiet, his gaze occasionally flickering to you but never quite settling. “What about you?” he asks suddenly, his voice careful. “Are you… happy there?”

You hesitate, taken aback by the directness of the question. You’ve been asked about your job, your projects, even your relationships, but rarely does anyone ask if you’re happy. You take a slow sip of your drink, buying yourself a moment to think.

“It has its moments,” you say finally, not wanting to lie but also not ready to unpack the complexities of your life in LA with this particular audience. “It’s not all bad. But… I guess it’s not everything I thought it would be, either. It’s… it’s hard. Sometimes I feel like nobody really gets me. Like I have to pretend to be someone completely different,” you let slip, the whiskey loosening your lips. 

Steve nods, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes— understanding, maybe. You’re not sure, and you’re not really in the mood to dig deeper. You’re so wrapped up in your own embarrassed feelings that you don’t notice Nancy and Robin looking over at you and high-fiving each other under the table.

The conversation flows with an ease that surprises you, loosening the tight grip of tension that had initially wound itself around your chest like barbed wire. It’s like the four of you are finding a rhythm again, slipping back into the familiar banter and shared history that had once defined your group. Nancy keeps the drinks coming, careful not to overdo it, but just enough to keep the edges smooth and the laughter easy.

You glance around the bar, taking in the faded posters of bands that were popular back when you were teenagers, the same dartboard with half the numbers barely visible, and the karaoke stage, unmanned for the night. This place had been your refuge when your home life became too much, the backdrop to countless nights of teenage rebellion and cheap beers.

A memory surfaces, one you can’t help but share. “Do you guys remember when we came here after mine and Robin’s senior prom? When Steve’s car broke down? We were all dressed up, Robin was in that ridiculous tux—”

“It was not ridiculous! It was very fashion-forward!”

“And Steve was panicking because he thought he’d never hear the end of it from his dad.”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes. “Oh god, yes. I was so sure that night was ruined. But then we just got super drunk and completely took over the karaoke stage.”

“And we had everyone in the bar singing along to Livin’ on a Prayer, and Steve kept trying to get people to join in with that ridiculous high note,” Robin adds, through giggles. “And wasn’t that when Nancy convinced the bartender to give us free shots for every person who sang We Are the Champions?” 

“Yes!” you yelp, pointing at Nancy, as her face flushes in embarrassment. “Where would we be without our driven, persuasive Nancy?”

“I’ve never seen Jonathan puke harder than the morning after that night,” Nancy remembers, and you all laugh.

As the evening progresses, the conversation flows more naturally. You reminisce about old high school antics, least favorite teachers, and the countless nights spent here. The initial awkwardness has faded, replaced by the easygoing banter you used to share.

After a couple hours, the night starts to wind down. Robin stretches and yawns, then looks at Nancy with a mischievous grin. “Alright, well we should probably call it a night before we get kicked out of here again.”

Nancy flashes a playful grin at Robin, as if there’s a plan in the works that you’re unaware of. “I can drive you to your place, Robin,” she says.

“No, I drove Rob here. I can drive her home,” Steve reminds everyone.

“But, Nancy, weren’t you planning on heading to Jonathan’s?”

“Um, can you drop me at home first?” you ask Nancy.

“Oh, but wait, that would be so much driving for Nancy to do. Since our houses are in, like, total opposite directions, and I live right by Jon.”

“But, Nance,” you look at her with pleading eyes, “You’re my ride home.”

“Steve can drive you home,” Robin offers immediately. You look at her with wide eyes. No one says anything for a moment, before she adds “Right, Steve? I mean, you were planning on driving me home anyway.” You’re all fully aware that Steve driving Robin, his closest friend, home is a very different ask than driving you home, the girl who broke his heart.

You look over at him, and he looks shocked. But he steels his expression, before saying “Yeah, totally. I can drive you home. If you’re okay with that.”

And you don’t really have much of a choice. 

You follow him out to the parking lot, right to his maroon BMW that you remember all too well. You slip into the passenger seat so easily that it freaks you out. Used to limousines and private cars, you’re shocked at how comfortable you feel in his nearly decade-old car. The car ride starts out quietly, with Steve focusing on the road and you staring out the window. The sound of Hawkins’ soft rock radio station seeps through the speakers at a low volume. The familiar landscape of the town roads blurs by, and you both seem to settle into a comfortable, if uneasy, silence.

After a few minutes, Steve clears his throat. “I saw your movie.”

You blink, waiting for him to say something else. But it seems that that’s all he has to say about it. And you, always consumed by the need to know what everyone thinks of you these days, dig further, against your better judgment. “Which one?” you ask, although you know exactly which one he’s talking about. You just want to flex the fact that you’ve been in multiple. Small roles, sure, but any feature film attaches a large check for any role, so it doesn’t really matter to you.

“The, um…” He clicks his tongue, “The one about the high school.”

“Right. Not exactly my proudest work.”

Steve glances over, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I didn’t say it was bad. Just… interesting. It’s not really what I expected you to do out there.”

You shrug, trying to brush off the comment, though it stings more than you’d like to admit. “Well, it was a fun gig. It was easy. Sometimes you just need a paycheck. And sometimes it feels like casting directors don’t want… everything I bring to the table.”

Steve’s gaze returns to the road, the silence stretching between you. “I also watched the one where you played the, uh… The reporter.”

You freeze, your heart sinking at the mention. While it was a teensy part, it was a dramatic role that had demanded a lot from you emotionally. It was the one movie role so far where you’d actually felt like you were doing what you set out to do. “Yeah?” you manage to say, your voice tight.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his tone softening. “It was… pretty intense. I mean— It was good, though,” he stumbles, “It was— It was great! I mean, Rob had to explain some of the… The plot stuff to me, but you were, like, spectacular.”

“Thanks,” you say. Some Van Halen song that Steve always loved starts playing on the radio. You could never remember the name. Or maybe you did at some point, but you're not sure now.

“Yeah, I guess that stuff probably feels more rewarding than the silly stuff,” he says, trying for familiar, teasing.

But you’re still too defensive to joke around with him. You take it to heart. Of course you do. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He blanches. “I— I didn’t. No, sorry. That came out wrong. I’m not saying—”

“All of my work is rewarding.”

“No, I know that—”

“It might seem silly to you, but I’m actually doing what I set out to do, okay? I’m living my dream.”

“Okay,” he laughs, a nervous habit he never kicked, “I guess—”

“What, you think I’m not?” you ask, resisting his attempt to make things better.

“I don’t know what you’re doing!” he says, frustration catching up to him, “I haven’t heard from you in years! You could be fuckin’ miserable out there and I would have no idea! I mean, Christ, Y/n. You left everyone in this town behind without so much as a goodbye. Even the people who cared about you the most.”

“Don’t you dare bring my mother into this,” you warn.

“I’m not talking about your mom, I’m talking about me!” he says, following the quiet streets into your neighborhood, “Although, it certainly wasn’t the kindest thing for you to do to her.”

“Oh, give me a break. Don’t act like she was such a perfect, loving mother. Are you conveniently forgetting that she was a narcissistic, manipulative asshole who never really cared about me?” While he was no stranger to having negligent parents, Steve, through no fault of his own, didn’t really ever understand how bad things got with your mom leading up to you leaving. He always wanted to see the best in people. You loved that about him.

“You’re right that she wasn’t perfect, but she was a person, Y/n. And I don’t know if you’re just used to having your entourage and all of your adoring fans surrounding you, but most people aren’t perfect.”

You brush off his mention of your fanbase, and resist the urge to tell him that you actually don’t have many fans. “Yeah well, that doesn’t mean I had to forgive her.”

“I know that. I do. But you—” he sighs, “You could’ve called. Any of us. And don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you’re back, but… It just feels like… Listen, I want to give you some grace here, with everything that happened with your mom. But I told you not to come back expecting anything. I mean, I’m trying to be nice to you, but you’re making it impossible!”

You scoff. “Oh well thank god for Saint Steve, always so kind and giving and just… Everyone’s favorite person.”

He squints at you, almost pitying. “What are you talking about, Y/n? What are you trying to say?”

And you don’t really know. You’re just so tired . You look out the window, the blur of streetlights and darkened houses offering no comfort. The night feels oppressive, and you want to be anywhere but in this car. You squish your palm into your cheek, feeling like a child.

“You’re always the one with aaalllllllll the answers,” you say, “The one who stays behind and pretends like everything’s perfect. But you don’t know what it’s like out there, struggling to make it, to actually build something of your own. My mom never did anything for me, okay? I did everything for myself. You act like you understand, like you have a right to judge my choices, but you don’t. You’ve been here, stuck in the same place, while I’ve been out there, fighting for every inch.”

He pulls up into your driveway and puts the car in park.  “You seriously think I don’t know what it’s like to build something of my own? To struggle?” he says, eyes glistening with hurt. His whole life had been planned out for him by his parents, and when he strayed from that path, decided he didn't want to be like his father, it made everything infinitely harder. “Y/n, I’ve been working my ass off too. I’m not just sitting around here, pretending everything’s perfect. I’ve been trying to make a life for myself too, just in a different way. And yeah, maybe it’s not as glamorous as what you’re doing, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less of a life.”

You should stop. You should apologize. You should get a fucking grip. But the Hollywood Hills have made you ruthless, and unkind.

“Well at least I got out,” you dig.

He laughs. And not the sweet, pretty laugh that comes to you in your dreams, that coats every lovely memory of him. It’s a bitter, jaded laugh. “Yeah, you got out. And right into the arms of a city that wants you to be everything you’re not , and doesn’t understand everything that you are .”

“Fuck you,” you say, shocked. You hear a siren in your mind, warning you that you very well might not be able to come back from this. This might just be irreparable.

He levels you, utterly disappointed. “You didn’t used to be like this. You didn’t used to be mean.”

And that cuts you to your core. Because you know it’s true. “Well I guess people change.” 

The tension in the car is suffocating, the air thick with words unspoken and wounds freshly reopened. Steve's gaze stays on you for a moment longer, his eyes dark. “Yeah, I guess they do,” he says softly, the disappointment in his voice piercing through you like a knife.

You don’t have a response. You don’t even think you could form one if you tried. Your hand fumbles for the door handle, you push it open and step out. You slam the door shut behind you and don’t look back. The sound echoes in the stillness of the night, a final punctuation mark on this miserable conversation. You make your way up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes, your heart pounding in your chest.

Steve doesn’t drive off right away. You can feel his eyes on your back, watching you as you head toward the front door. Maybe he’s hoping you’ll turn around, maybe he’s hoping for… What? An apology? Closure? You don’t know, and you don’t care.

You fumble for your keys. You manage to unlock the door and shove it open, stepping inside without a second glance back at him. You don’t want to see his face again right now. You can’t.

The door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, everything is silent. You lean against the door, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath, trying to steady the storm raging inside you.

You should’ve just stayed home tonight. Or maybe you should have never come back at all.

You walk further inside, flicking on a light as you pass through the hallway. The kitchen is exactly as you left it, still a complete mess, but slightly less of an eyesore after Nancy’s help. You pour yourself a glass of water, the sound of the faucet the only noise breaking the quiet hum of cicadas buzzing outside.

You take a sip, leaning against the counter, trying to calm your breathing. You hear the faint rumble of Steve's car finally pulling away from the driveway. You set down the glass with a shaky hand and close your eyes, exhaling slowly. The echo of his words still hangs in the air, gnawing at you.

You didn’t used to be like this. You didn’t used to be mean.

You remember the blowout fight you had the day you left. You’d been packing your things for weeks, little by little, until finally there was nothing left but your two packed bags in the middle of your childhood bedroom. Your mother had been out of town for weeks, but even if she had been there, you doubt she’d even notice anything was different. You had reached a breaking point with her. You had tried to be forgiving, tried to understand, tried to help her. But she had turned nasty, cruel, and mean . You knew if you stayed here, she’d tear you down with her.

Steve had shown up unannounced. You remember the way his eyes widened as he took in the nearly empty room.

“You’re really doing this, huh?” he’d asked, his tone almost flat. Like he couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

You’d rolled your eyes, not wanting to have this conversation. Not now. You were under a time crunch. “I told you I was, Steve. I’ve been telling you for weeks.” You shove your final pairs of socks into your duffel bag.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it,” he said, his voice rising. “I mean, you’re just going to leave? Just like that?”

“Yes,” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “Just like that.”

“Baby, if this is about your mom—”

“It’s not about her,” you said, even though it partly was. He was standing in the way of your dresser, where your last folded shirts were stored. You tapped him on the shoulder, wordlessly telling him to move out of the way.

“But if it is,” he stressed, stepping to the side, “You don’t have to live with her anymore. Move in with me,” he begged, catching hold of your hand, “We’ve been dating for years, this would hardly be a big leap.”

You allowed yourself for one fleeting moment to imagine a world in which you did that, in which you moved into Steve’s giant childhood home that his parents had left him when they moved out east. You imagined a life of cozy mornings and love-struck nights. But you shoved that idea back down as quick as it came up, knowing you couldn’t entertain your naivety anymore, not if you ever wanted to pursue your passion.

“I can’t do that, Steve,” you had told him, shaking the daydream out of your head, “I need to do this.” Your new manager Donna’s chastising voice rang in your ears— she had scouted you in a play in Indianapolis and signed you on the spot. You had an audition tomorrow morning in Los Angeles. You hadn’t told Steve that piece of information. 

“Then I’ll go with you!” he cried, trying his best to hold onto you, physically too, as you tried to shake your hand from his grasp. “I’ll go live out there and I’ll learn to love the heat, and the smog, and the snotty people. I’ll do it. I’ll do it all for you.”

Again, you flashed back to the phone call you had had with Donna a week ago, where she stressed that you needed to come out west ready to work 24/7, and ready to dedicate your entire life to this business. No time for relationships, darling , she had told you. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to Steve.

“No, Steve, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking! I’ll just do it! Y/n, I’d go anywhere in the world for you. You have to know that.” 

You took a deep breath, wrestling with the guilt and the pressure. You could see the desperation in Steve's eyes, the raw vulnerability that he rarely let anyone see. And here you were, ready to crush it with your heel.

“Steve, stop,” you said, finally pulling your hand free and tossing your toothbrush into your backpack. “You don’t get it, okay? I don’t want that. I don’t want… I don’t want you there with me.”

His face had twisted with disbelief, and maybe something close to desperation. “Do you really mean that?”

You hesitated. For a moment, you almost wanted to take it back. But the words had already been spoken, and there was no way to reel them in. “Yes,” you said, trying to sound firm, but your voice wavered. “I need to do this on my own.”

Steve’s face fell, shock and hurt playing across his features. “You’re lying,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know you, Y/n. You don’t really mean that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No—”

“Yes—”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do!” you insisted, even though it felt like each word was slicing you open. “I need to do this on my own! I can’t just play the perfect girlfriend while you figure your life out. I can’t. I want to go out and live,” You weren’t even sure what you were saying at this point, the moment getting away from you. But you needed to be at the airport in an hour. “I want to see what’s out there for me, without… without having to wait around for you.” 

“Wait around for me?” he repeated, his voice getting louder, his temper fraying. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing this whole time? Just sitting on my ass waiting for life to happen?”

You roll your eyes, scrambling to find your curling iron buried somewhere in your room. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what the hell do you mean?” he demanded. “Because it sounds like you’re just giving up on us. Like all of our plans, all of our dreams— none of it matters to you anymore.”

“That’s not fair,” you had shot back, your own anger rising now. “I’m not giving up on us. I’m just… I’m just trying to take control of my life. I’ve spent so long trying to be everything for everyone else, and I need to be something for myself now.”

Steve took a step closer, his face inches from yours. “And what about what we were supposed to be for each other? We were supposed to figure it out together. Isn’t that what we always talked about?”

“Yes, but things change!” you shouted, the frustration boiling over. “I just told you, I can’t just sit around and wait for you to decide what you want to do with your life, Steve! I can’t keep putting my dreams on hold because of you!”

His face crumpled at that, like you’d slapped him. You knew he was self-conscious about his future. You knew that was a low blow. “Because of me?” he echoed, his voice filled with disbelief. “You think I’m the one holding you back?”

“I don’t know!” you yelled, unraveling quickly.

He took a deep breath, and then desperately tried to catch your eyes as he said “It feels like you’re just throwing everything we had in my face and telling me it was never real.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to defend yourself, but the words wouldn’t come. Because a part of you knew he was right. This wasn’t about him. It was about you and the fear of being trapped, of letting this small town suffocate you like it had your mother. And maybe that fear was bigger than anything you felt for him.

“Steve… You just don’t understand” you whispered, tears brimming in your eyes.

His jaw clenched, and he took a shaky breath. “This is…” he said, his voice breaking. “This isn’t you.”

“It is now,” you did your best impression of someone telling the truth, but you knew deep down that he could tell.

“Fine,” he decided, “You want to go off and find yourself? Great. Go. But don’t expect me to just be here waiting for you when you get back.”

“I’m not expecting anything from you,” you’d shot back. “I’m not expecting anything from anyone.”

But you were lying. Even then, you were lying. Because some part of you had hoped that maybe, just maybe, he’d fight a little harder, that he’d ask you to stay one more time. That he’d give you a reason to stay. And when he hadn’t, when he’d just turned around and walked out of your room without another word, it had felt like a gut punch. You stood there, your chest heaving. You heard the front door slam shut behind him and his car tear out of the driveway, the sound echoing in the empty space he left behind.

You didn’t move. You didn’t call after him. You just stood there, staring at the empty doorway, feeling the full weight of your decision crash down on you. For better or for worse, you had chosen this path. And now, there was no turning back. You had a plane to catch.

Heart racing again as you remember that night, you push away from the counter, your legs feeling unsteady. You move through the house, flipping off the lights one by one as you head upstairs. Each step creaks beneath you, the sound echoing through the house.

You pause outside your old bedroom, your hand hovering over the doorknob. The door is slightly ajar, and through the crack, you can see the familiar outline of your bed, the faded posters on the walls. A time capsule of who you used to be. You think about your apartment back in California, with its cold white walls and view of the city skyline.

You push the door open slowly, stepping into your childhood room. The nostalgia hits you like a wave. The posters of bands you loved in high school, the jar full of love notes Steve would pass to you in history class, the desk where you used to practice your lines for the school plays late into the night. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this feeling of being somewhere that truly belonged to you, where the walls held your memories.

Your days in LA are filled with constant motion. Endless meetings, early morning shoots, late-night rewrites, and back-to-back auditions in between. And you think about the people you’ve met in Los Angeles: the directors, the actors, the agents, and the fans. They’re nice enough, some even genuinely kind, but there’s always an undercurrent of something else. A feeling that everyone’s looking for the next opportunity, the next deal, the next way to climb higher. And you can’t help but feel like an outsider, even after all this time. Like you're playing a part in a city that isn't meant for you.

You had hoped that it would feel like a fresh start, a place where you could redefine yourself away from the ghosts of your past. But instead, it’s been isolating. You’ve been so busy trying to prove yourself, to make a name and carve out a space, that you haven’t had time to breathe, to let anyone in. And you realize, standing here in your old room, that you’ve been lonely. Really lonely.

You step inside. The air feels different here. You cross the room and sit down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. Your fingers trace over the worn-out quilt, the one your mother had sewn for you when you were just a kid. A lump forms in your throat.

She was a complicated woman, brilliant in her own way but also deeply flawed. You had so many hopes growing up, so many expectations that she’d one day be the mother you needed. And when she wasn’t, it felt like a betrayal. You were angry for so long, angry that she never tried harder, angry that she pushed you away when all you wanted was to be close, angry that she never said she was sorry. And now, she never would. You don’t want to think about her right now. Don’t want to think about the way things ended, about how you’d left her, too, without a proper goodbye. 

Your eyes sting, and you blink back the tears threatening to spill. You can’t afford to cry right now. Not over Steve, not over your mother, not over anything. You’ve spent too long building up walls to let them crumble now. You fall back onto your bed and close your eyes, focusing on your breathing until you finally fall asleep.

You sleep in the next morning, your body still on Pacific Time. But once you’re up, you get right back into the mess. You sort through all of the items in the bathroom, and the lump that forms in your throat when you enter your mother’s bedroom informs you that you’re not quite ready to tackle that yet. So you opt instead to finish cleaning out the kitchen and the living room. A few hours later, once the sun has begun to set, you’ve got most of it figured out. Trash bags piled up to go to the dump, boxes full of donations, and a remarkably small pile of things to keep that you planned to somehow shove into your suitcase.

By the time the sun has long set, in the middle of sorting through a collection of junk in the kitchen, you find a stack of unopened mail: bills, insurance statements, a couple of cards with generic get-well messages. You sift through them without much thought until you hit on a small envelope with your name on it. Your breath catches, and you pause, fingers hesitating over the paper.

It’s addressed to your Los Angeles apartment, in your mother’s handwriting, the ink slightly smudged as if she was in a hurry or maybe just careless. You slide your finger under the flap, unfolding the note inside. It’s brief, hurried like her handwriting, but unmistakably hers.

"Y/n,

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. I know I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of you. I wish things were different. I wish I was different. Please take care of yourself.

Love, Mom."

You stare at the words, the carefully chosen yet clumsy attempt at an olive branch. When did she write this? You sink onto the floor, your back against the cold kitchen cabinets, the note clutched tightly in your hand.

It’s too little, too late. Or maybe it’s not enough. You don’t even know anymore. All you know is that this house is full of echoes of a life you tried to escape, but somehow they’ve found their way back to you, clinging to every corner, every half-packed box. The realization stings. Harder than Steve’s disappointment, harder than Donna’s threats, harder than any fleeting memory you’ve tried to bury. It’s all too much right now.

You eye up the bottle of scotch from two nights ago. The voice in the back of your head, the one you’ve heard for years, the one that sounds an awful lot like a certain boy with chestnut hair, tells you this is a bad idea. You ignore it, just like you’ve done for the past two years. You snatch the bottle and don’t even bother with a glass, taking a swig directly from the mouth of it.

You take another drink. And then another. And you spend the better part of an hour just staring at your mother’s letter, tears forming and streaming steadily.

The sting of the scotch starts to numb things, dulling the sharp edges of the memories. But the problem with numbing is that it doesn’t really take the pain away. It just makes you feel it differently. And right now, you’re feeling everything.

Before you even realize it, you’re walking over to the phone in the living room and dialing a number your muscles won’t let you forget, even when your brain is drowning in liquor. 

“Hello?” Steve answers.

“She wrote me a letter,” you say, messy tears falling down your cheeks.

There’s a pause, and you can almost hear him sit up straighter. “... Y/n?” he asks.

“She wrote me a letter, Steve,” you tell him, frustrated that he’s not hearing you.

“What are you talking about? Are you okay?”

You laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. “I’m fucking great, Steve. Never been better.”

“Are you… Are you drunk?” he asks, his tone shifting from confusion to concern.

“Maybe a little,” you admit, wiping at your eyes even though you’re not quite sure why, when they just keep falling.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then you hear him sigh. “Where are you?”

“At home,” you mumble. “Where else would I be?”

“Jesus chr— Stay there, alright? I’m coming over.”

You hang up the phone and lie back down on the floor, carpet fibers leaving imprints on your skin. Part of you is relieved; this could be the final nail in the coffin. If Steve sees you completely strung out like this, he might finally never talk to you again. You could close this chapter of your life and leave it behind for good without constantly feeling tethered to the kindest boy in the world. If you finally pushed him enough, he might finally push you away.

More time passes. It could be fifteen minutes, it could be half an hour, you're not sure. You hear the familiar sound of Steve’s car pulling into your driveway and turning off. He jogs to your door, and you hear him pound his fist on the wood. But your bones are simply too tired to get up and let him in. He calls your name, and you ignore it. Finally, you hear him fiddling with the lock, and you remember that he knows where your spare key is, under the mat. Of course he does. 

He enters, and does a scan of the first rooms in the house: the entryway, the bathroom, the kitchen, before his eyes land on you in the living room. He walks in, backlit by the lamp in the entryway, ethereal, his hair tousled and his brow furrowed. “Jesus, Y/n,” he mutters as he takes you in, the bottle still in your hand and your eyes red-rimmed. “What are you doing?”

You shrug, face smushed against the carpet. “I told you. Drinking.”

He reaches out, gently taking the bottle from your hand and setting it on the coffee table. “Yeah, I can see that. Why did you call me?”

“I didn’t know who else to call,” you answer honestly. 

Steve looks down at you for a long moment, his jaw set, and you can see the wheels turning in his head. “Alright,” he finally says, his voice steady but firm. “Sit up.”

You blink at him, your mind slow to process the words. “What?”

“Sit up, Y/n,” he repeats, more sternly this time. He grabs a nearby throw pillow and tosses it onto the floor beside you. “Come on, sit up. We’re gonna talk, and you’re not gonna do it lying on the floor.”

You groan but do as he says, struggling to push yourself up. Steve reaches out and steadies you, his hands strong and sure on your shoulders as he helps you get into a sitting position. You lean back against the couch, feeling dizzy.

He sits down on the floor in front of you, legs crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. “You need to pull yourself together,” he says, his voice low but forceful.

You bristle at his words, feeling defensive. “Oh great, a Steve Harrington pep talk, this’ll cure me,” you snap. “You don’t know what it’s like—”

“No, I don’t,” he interrupts, his voice rising. “But I do know what it’s like to care about someone who’s hell-bent on destroying herself. And I’m done letting you do that. Because I know you wouldn’t let me fall apart like this. Even if you want to pretend like you don’t care, I know the real you, the small-town, kind-hearted you is still in there somewhere.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat, a mix of anger and shame welling up inside you. “I’m not destroying myself,” you mumble, but the words feel hollow even as you say them.

“Yes, you are,” he insists, his eyes locked onto yours. “Look at you, Y/n. You’re a mess. I know that coming back home is hard, and you and your mom didn’t end things on good terms. You’re hurting, and instead of dealing with it, you’re drowning it in alcohol, and pushing everyone away. And now you’re dragging me into it. Is that what you wanted? To push me away? To make me hate you?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. It was only a matter of time before he figured out your stupid, spiteful plan. “Steve, you know it would be easier for both of us if you just let me go,” you whisper, reminiscent of the day that you left.

Steve’s face softens, but there’s still a firmness in his expression. “I’m not letting you go,” he says softly. “Not like this. Not when you’re like this.”

You squint at him, and another stray tear falls from your eye. “I really sucks that you’re doing great,” you tell him, blaming your ineloquence and candor on the scotch. “I wanted… I mean, I didn’t want you to be doing bad,” you both scoff out a laugh, “It would’ve been nice if you weren’t so clearly doing better without me.”

“I mean…” he rubs his hand across his jaw, “I’m doing alright. I wouldn’t say I’m better without you.”

You swallow hard, tears starting to spill over again. “Why are you still being so nice to me?”

“Because I lo—” he clears his throat, “Because I care about you, Y/n. I’m always gonna care about you. And because I know that that town that you moved to chews people up and spits them out, and I know that you used to have the biggest heart in the world. And I’d bet you still have it, but you’ve built up this bullshit attitude about everything,” he continues to unload on you, “And you’re obviously hurting, and you’re upset about your mom…” He squints, pinching the bridge of his nose, “What were you talking about on the phone? She wrote you a letter?”

You grab the letter off of the floor and hand it to him, shoving the envelope from your trembling hands into his steady ones.

Steve is quiet for a moment, reading the words on the paper. “Wow.”

You reach for the scotch again, but Steve sees you out of the corner of his eye and wordlessly pushes the bottle just out of your reach. You pout.

“Okay, listen. This sounds like she was trying, in her own way,” he finally says. “She knew she messed up, and maybe she didn’t know how to fix it. Sometimes… people don’t know how to say what they mean until it’s too late.”

And you’ve never felt more like your mother’s daughter than right now. The realization hits you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. You hadn’t wanted to see it, hadn’t wanted to accept that maybe, in your desperate attempt to escape her, you had been making the same mistakes. Pushing people away, hurting the ones who cared about you most. You stare at the letter in Steve's hands, the words blurring through your tears.

“I’m sorry, Steve,” you choke out, the apology you should’ve given years ago when you left, and again days ago at the store, tumbling out of you before you can stop it. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, his expression softening at the sight of you breaking down. “Hey, hey,” he murmurs, scooting closer to you. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” you sob, shaking your head. “I was horrible to you. I pushed you away when all you wanted was to be there for me. I don’t— I don’t know why I get like this.”

Steve sighs, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. Your stomach flips at the gentle domesticity of his actions. It reminds you of old times. “You were going through a lot,” he says softly. “And yeah, it hurt. It really fucking hurt. But I get it. I get why you felt like you had to do it alone. I just wish you’d known you didn’t have to.”

You sniffle, nodding slightly. “I thought I had to be like her, you know?” you confess. “Strong, independent. But I didn’t… I didn’t realize how much of her I was carrying with me… How much of her I didn’t want to be.”

Steve nods, his hands moving to your shoulders, steadying you once again. “I was like that with my dad. It sucks. But now you know, yeah?” he says. “Now you can do something about it.” 

You look at him, his earnest face so close to yours, and feel the crushing weight of regret. “Steve… I wish I hadn’t left like that,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I wish I could take it back.”

He gives you a sad smile, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, me too,” he says, his voice froggy.

You nod, the tears coming again, but this time they’re different— softer, quieter. “I’m really sorry, Steve,” you repeat, needing him to understand just how much you mean it.

He squeezes your shoulders gently, laughing lightly at your drunken repetitiveness. “I know,” he replies. “I know you are.”

You feel your body start to give way, the exhaustion from everything— the letter, the memories, the scotch— settling in. Steve seems to notice too. “Alright,” he says, his tone shifting to something more practical. “Come on. You need to go to bed.” You start to protest, but he’s already standing, offering you his hand. “C’mon, honey. You can barely keep your eyes open,” he coaxes, his voice softening. “Let me help you.”

Reluctantly, you take his hand, and he pulls you to your feet. You wobble, unsteady on your feet, and he wraps an arm around your waist to keep you upright. “Easy,” he murmurs, guiding you carefully down the hallway towards your bedroom, his arm firm and steady around your waist. You lean into him, feeling his warmth.

When you finally reach your room, Steve nudges the door open with his foot and leads you inside. The lamp beside your bed is dimly lit, warming the room. Your eyes land on the bed, and you freeze, suddenly overwhelmed. There, draped over the bed, is the quilt you had seen earlier.

“She made me that goddamn quilt,” you say, whining like you’ve been shot.

“Is that— Is that a bad thing?” he asks, confused.

“No, it’s… I don’t know!” You look back at him, sticky tears on your cheeks, and he can’t help but chuckle softly. Not at you, never at you. Just at the situation. 

“Wow, you are so drunk,” he says, shaking his head, but his tone is light, almost teasing. "This is the most emotional I've ever seen you.”

A watery laugh escapes your lips, and you wipe at your eyes, feeling a little silly but also strangely comforted by his teasing. “Shut up,” you mumble.

Steve’s laughter softens into a fond smile as he steps closer. “Alright,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

He helps you sit down on the edge of the bed, and you can’t help but reach out to touch the quilt, running your fingers over the fabric, feeling the tiny, uneven stitches that your mother had sewn herself.

The tears start falling again, more freely now, and Steve just sighs, amused. “Oh, here we go again,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to his words. He kneels down in front of you, placing his hands on your knees. “Honey, it’s okay. You’re okay," your pet name returning seamlessly from his lips after years.

You look down at him, sniffling. “I’m sorry,” you say again, but this time, it’s not just for him. It’s for your mom, for yourself, for all the things you never got to say.

Steve just nods, his expression softening. “I know you are,” he says quietly. “But you’ve gotta stop apologizing for everything. It’s not all on you.”

You nod, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “I know,” you whisper. “I’m just… I’m tired, Steve.”

He gives you a small smile. “I can tell,” he says, patting your knee. “Now, come on. Lay down.”

He helps you lie back, pulling the quilt up over you. You curl up beneath it, feeling the weight of it settle over you like a comforting embrace. Steve tucks the corners around you, making sure you’re warm and snug.

“There,” he says, standing back to survey his work. “All set. You comfy?”

You nod, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmur, your eyes already fluttering shut. “Thanks, Steve. For everything.”

He gives you a soft, almost wistful smile. “Always,” he replies, brushing a stray hair away from your face. “Now get some sleep, okay?”

You nod again, already drifting off, and Steve watches for a moment longer before he turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, you mumble something, half-asleep.

“Steve…?”

He pauses, turning back. “Yeah?”

“Can you… stay? Just for a little bit?”

There’s a beat of silence, and you think he might say no. But then he sighs, that familiar, exasperated but affectionate sound. “Alright, scoot over.”

You do, making room on one side of the bed, and he sits down beside you, leaning back against the headboard. “Just for a little bit,” he warns, but his voice is softer now, like he’s already settled in for the night.

And as you drift off to sleep, you feel a sense of peace settle over you, knowing he’s right there, just like he always was. Even when you’re not looking for him, just like he promised.

You wake up with a pounding headache. The memories of last night come rushing back: the scotch, the tears, Steve’s comforting presence beside you. You turn your head, expecting to see him still there, but the bed is empty.

Panic flares in your chest for a brief second, but then you hear the distant rustle of a trash bag downstairs. You get up, still feeling groggy and disoriented, and pad down the hallway, following the sound.

When you reach the kitchen, you stop in your tracks. Steve is there, rinsing out a cup and setting it on the drying rack. The trash bags that had been overflowing yesterday are now gone, the floors swept clean, and the counters cleared of all the clutter.

Steve turns and sees you standing there, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Morning,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I, uh, thought I could help you with some of this stuff. I did a run to the dump and brought all the stuff that looked like garbage.  Or— I mean, not looked like garbage, just… stuff that was marked ‘garbage’, with Nance’s fancy label maker. I hope that’s okay.” He runs a hand through his hair, anxious.

You nod, still processing the scene in front of you. “Yeah… yeah, it’s more than okay,” you manage to say. “Thank you.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your heart ache. “Figured you could use a fresh start, or something,” he says, almost shyly.

You step further into the kitchen, your eyes lingering on him. He looks tired, but there’s something steady about him. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you say.

He shakes his head. “I wanted to,” he replies simply. And you’re reminded again of the charm of Steve Harrington. He wants to help. No matter what.

For a moment, there’s a comfortable silence between you, and you wish it could stay like this. But you know that in less than 24 hours, you’ll have to leave.

“Hey, I, uh, should probably get going,” Steve says, breaking the silence. His voice is careful, like he’s trying not to show how much he doesn’t want to leave. “I’ve got to get to work. And you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

You nod, your chest tightening. “Yeah, I guess so.”

He slips his shoes on, and you can’t help but feel a pang of loss. “Thanks again, Steve. For everything,” you say softly.

He gives you a bittersweet smile. “Anytime, Y/n. Really.”

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say more, but instead, he just gives you a nod and heads for the door. You watch him go. Again.

As the door clicks shut behind him, you’re left standing in the quiet house, and you realize you need to make a choice. You can’t keep living in this limbo, torn between the life you’ve built in LA and the people who are still here, waiting for you. You go back to the phone on the wall and dial Donna’s number. Unfortunately, you only get through to her assistant, who tells you that Donna will be available to call you back later today. Maybe in a few hours, she says.

You sigh and get back to work sorting, and spend a few hours finishing up the bathroom and your room, before deciding it’s now or never to tackle your mother’s bedroom. 

You push the door open and step inside, feeling the familiar pang in your chest as the scent of her perfume, soft and floral, lingers in the air. The room is just as she left it, a bit of a disaster. You move to her dresser, your fingers brushing over her jewelry box. You open it carefully, and the faint melody of a lullaby plays— one she used to hum when you were little. Tears prick at your eyes, but they don’t spill over this time. Instead, you find a smile tugging at your lips.

You let your fingers linger over her favorite necklace, a simple silver chain with a tiny pearl. You can’t resist picking it up, your thumb brushing over the pearl. You remember how she used to wear it all the time, saying it reminded her of her own mother. You clasp it around your neck, feeling the weight of it settle against your collarbone.

You take her note out of your pocket, where you stashed it last night. The paper is still crumpled from how tightly you had held it, but it feels different now. Less like a wound and more like a thread you want to tug at. You smooth it out carefully, your eyes scanning the words once more, but this time, there’s a new sense of understanding.

I know you were trying, Mom, you think, imagining her sitting here, writing it, wrestling with her own regrets and shortcomings. I’m trying too.

A warmth spreads through your chest, and you feel an urge to do something meaningful with these pieces of her. You carefully pick up the letter, grab the quilt from your room, and carry them downstairs to the living room. You set the letter on the coffee table and drape the quilt over the back of the couch, smoothing it out gently. It’s like laying out a part of her, letting her fill the room again.

You sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, the letter in front of you, and take a deep breath. “Mom,” you whisper, feeling a little silly, but also like this is something you need to do. “I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t understand before. I didn’t know how to be close to you without feeling like I was losing myself.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, you half-expect some kind of response. A creak of the floorboards, a gust of wind, anything. But there’s only the soft buzz of the cicadas in the trees once again.

You close your eyes, clutching the letter to your chest. “I miss you,” you admit, your voice trembling. “I hate that you’re gone before we had a chance to make things right. I hate that I couldn’t say this to you when you were here.”

You feel the tightness in your chest start to loosen, like something inside you is unfurling. “I was so angry at you,” you say, “I still think I had the right to be angry at you. I mean… You were an asshole. You made my life hell. You really did. But I don’t want to be angry anymore,” you continue, your voice growing a little stronger. “I don’t want to carry this around. I want to… I want to be better. For you. For me.” You sniffle, doing your best to avoid crying yet again, but a rogue tear streams down your cheek.

And then, as if on cue, the phone springs to life on the wall, pulling you back to the present. It must be Donna, calling you back. For a moment, you hesitate, but then you realize that you’re ready for this conversation, you have to be.

“Hello?” you answer, after clearing your throat.

“Y/n, darling!” Donna’s voice is bright and polished, but you can already hear the impatience. “Debbie told me you had called. I hope you’re calling with news of a plane ticket purchased for tomorrow morning? Or possibly tonight?”

You close your eyes, bracing yourself. “Hey, Donna. Listen, I need to talk to you about that,” you begin, your voice stronger than you expected. “I’m going to need some time— more time than I thought. There’s some family stuff I need to deal with.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and you can almost see Donna’s smile slipping. “How much time are we talking about, darling? A week? Two?”

You take another deep breath. “I’m thinking… At least another month. Maybe longer. I need to be here right now.”

The silence stretches out, and you can practically hear Donna calculating in her head, weighing her options. “That’s quite a break, Y/n,” she finally says, her tone more clipped now. “Are you sure you really understand what this will do to your career?”

You think of the lonely nights in LA, the empty apartment, the constant grind, and the way you’ve been feeling like you’re losing pieces of yourself every day. Then you think of Steve, of Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin, of the small town that somehow still feels like home.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you say firmly. “I need this.”

The silence on the other end of the line is palpable. You can practically hear her sharp intake of breath, the way she’s calculating her next move, her next argument.

Donna lets out an exasperated sigh, frustration bleeding through her polished exterior. “I hope you truly know what you’re doing, darling. There are a thousand other actresses out there who’d kill for your spot, and they’re ready to step in the second you step out. You take too much time off, and there’s no guarantee you’ll still have a spot when you come back. Hell, I can’t even promise I’ll still be able to represent you.”

You continue to stress to her that this is what you need right now. And that you understand how ruthless this business can be. She’s professional and frosty, but she’s not unkind. You reassure her that you’ll be coming back at the end of the summer to film the next season of your show, and that seems to appease her enough to not give up on you. You end the call on good enough terms, and she tells you to take care of yourself.

You think you just might do that.

You scoop up the keys to your mom’s car and dart out to the driveway, hopping behind the wheel and turning the key in the ignition. The busted Chevy sputters to life for a brief moment, making a grumbling, tired sound before stalling out completely. You let out a frustrated groan and twist the key again. The engine coughs, splutters, and then... nothing. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, reminding yourself that this is the universe testing your resolve.

“Come on, come on,” you mutter under your breath, giving the steering wheel a little pat for encouragement. You turn the key a third time, pumping the gas pedal. It shudders and jerks, and for a second, you think it might just give up on you again. But then, with a wheezy roar, it finally turns over and settles into a shaky but steady rhythm, perhaps a sign from the universe.

“Yes!” you yelp, clapping your hands together, before pulling out of the driveway and making your way to Steve’s neighborhood, the van creaking and groaning the entire time.

Halfway there, you start to doubt yourself. Sure, you had some foggy memory of a drunken apology or two from you to Steve last night, and sure, he had been so kind this morning, but what if he didn’t forgive you?

But then, almost as if another sign from the universe— or something else a little closer to your heart— the radio suddenly kicks on, the same Van Halen song you remembered Steve loving reverberating through the speakers. Your heart starts beating faster, and you grip the wheel tighter, nerves spurring you on.

As you pull up in front of his house, you take another deep breath to steady yourself. The car sputters and clunks to a stop as you turn off the ignition, and for a second, you just sit there, trying to gather your thoughts.

“Okay, you can do this,” you murmur to yourself.

You step out of the van and make your way to his front door. The house is quiet, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even home. But then you see his car in the driveway, and you know he’s here.

You knock, and a few seconds later, the door swings open to reveal Steve, looking a little surprised, a little disheveled— hair a bit tousled, like he might have just been sleeping. “Y/n?” he says, blinking at you like he’s not quite sure you’re real. “What are you doing here? I thought you were—”

“I’m not leaving,” you say, and the words feel like a breath of fresh air as they leave your lips. “I’m staying. I’m not going back to LA— at least, not right now.”

“Wh… What do you mean?” he squints, leaning against the doorway.

“I talked to Donna— uh, my agent, and I told her I needed some time. I need to be here. With this town. With… You.”

“Really?” he asks, the corners of his lips tugging up tentatively.

“I mean… I’m not gonna quit my show. I can’t do that to all the people that work on it.”

“Oh…” he says.

“Come with me to California.”

“Oh!” he repeats, clearly not expecting your offer.

“Or… Or move into my mom’s old house with me, and we can spend the frigid midwestern months in L.A. and the summers in Hawkins, so that I can still tape my show, or—” you huff out a laugh, “Or we can fly back and forth every single week, I don’t even know! But we can figure it out, together . That’s what I want. I wanna be with you. Wherever that is. And I know we can make this work.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to process what you’re saying. And then, all at once, he moves, closing the distance between you in a few quick steps. His hands cup your face, his eyes searching yours. His touch spreads a fluttering warmth from his fingertips through your entire body. “You’re really serious about this?” he asks, his voice low and a little breathless.

You nod, your heart hammering in your chest. “I’m serious, Steve. I’m not going anywhere, not without you.”

His eyes search yours, and then, like a dam breaking, he reaches for you, pulling you to him in a sudden, desperate kiss. It’s not soft or slow; it’s urgent, like he’s been holding back for too long and can’t anymore. Like he’s been wanting to do this since the day you left. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you kiss him back just as fiercely, gasping when he pulls you impossibly close. He holds your head tightly, preciously, and you weave your fingers through his messy hair. 

When you finally pull back, both of you are a little breathless. Steve lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head slightly. “I’m gonna be honest, I just woke up from a nap, so I kinda feel like I’m dreaming.” His thumb soothes across your jaw.

You giggle, holding your forehead to his, “You need me to prove this is real?” you ask, tone turning sultry.

He smirks, a familiar look in his eyes, “Well, I wouldn’t say no to that.”

You grin, tugging him back into another kiss, this one slower but just as deep, savoring the moment. His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him as he sighs into your mouth. You can feel the smile on his lips, and your stomach flips.

You kiss him like you have all the time in the world. And maybe you do. No more time needs to be wasted searching for home. Steve is your home.

And in early September, you drive your mom’s busted Chevy back to California with boxes of things, now yours, loaded up in the trunk, and a beautiful boy singing along to his favorite Van Halen song in the passenger seat.