Byler Oneshots

He is not into me (Part 34)

Will:-

After a while, exhaustion finally hit me. I wandered downstairs to get a glass of water. The house was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that made every creak and rustle more pronounced. Mom still wasn't home, and it felt odd. She should've been back by now. Maybe work kept her late, but it didn't sit right with me.

Hopper was probably asleep—he had this routine of coming home early, sleeping for a few hours, and then waking up to do whatever it is he does. The thought made me shrug. He was probably somewhere in his room, snoring softly.

With nothing else to do, I headed back to my room, crawled under the covers, and let sleep take over.

********

I woke up to the faint sound of my door creaking open.

"Kiddo?" Hopper whispered.

I was too groggy to respond, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. He must've realized because he quietly turned off the light and left the room. I heard the front door click shut moments later. So, Mom still wasn't home, and Hopper had gone out again, leaving me alone in the house.

I wish Mike had stayed, I thought with a sigh. If he had, we could have spent a little more time together, maybe talked late into the night. I wondered if he'd sent me anything. My phone was charging on my desk, but I was far too lazy to get up and check. It could wait until morning.

For now, all I wanted was to let sleep pull me back into its comforting embrace. And just like that, I drifted off.

**********

The morning sun streamed through the blinds, casting soft golden light across my room, gently nudging me awake. I blinked against the brightness, my body slow to move as I stretched under the covers. Reluctantly, I threw the blanket off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the cool floor beneath my feet.

Rubbing my eyes, I shuffled towards the bathroom. The cold splash of water on my face made me gasp but woke me up instantly. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, still a bit groggy but ready to start the day. After drying my face, I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed—good enough for now.

I lazily reached over to grab my phone from the nightstand. I expected to see a message from Mike, maybe something sweet like always since he promised to text me. But as I unlocked the screen, I was surprised—nothing. No new messages.

That's weird.

For a moment, I stared at the screen, waiting for a notification that didn't come. Mike usually sent something by now, even if it was just a "good morning." Shrugging it off, I decided to send him a quick text instead:

"Good morning! Hope you slept well. Can't wait to see you later!"

I hit send, hoping it would nudge him to reply, then tossed my phone back on the bed. With that done, I headed to the kitchen, my footsteps soft as the house remained eerily quiet.

As I approached the kitchen, I heard Hopper's voice, low and steady, "It'll be fine, hon." His calm tone was meant to reassure, but it did the opposite for me. My steps faltered, and my heart raced. Alongside his voice, there was something else—sniffling, quiet but unmistakable. Someone was crying.