Poststrangerthingscanon Stories

After Will moves to Montauk, Sunday night calls become the only thing holding the distance between them. But the dream won't leave Mike alone. He returns to the same beach night after night, a place he's visited too many times before. This time, instead of running, he crosses the water. Will is waiting. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. And when Mike wakes, the feeling doesn't fade. The next morning, alone in an empty house for three weeks, Mike tries to convince himself it was only a dream. Then a pale yellow envelope arrives in the mail. - 'And I know that's silly, because we call on Sunday nights. But it's not the same. It's never just you and me anymore. I mean, obviously I like talking to Dustin and Lucas, but they don't get me. Not like you do.' It's almost frightening how closely their thoughts mirror each other. Every Sunday he wishes, quietly, that the calls could just be them. No interruptions. No overlapping jokes. Just Will's voice and the space between them. He's never said it out loud. And now here it is, written plainly in ink, resting between his fingers. 'I can't say things to them that I would easily say to you. No one knows me like you do, Mike,'