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Hey Mike,
I'm not going to call you Shitface like I normally would, since, if you're reading this it probably means I'm dead or passed on or maybe just stuck in some agonizing hell with Vecna somewhere. I won't really know, will I? But the truth still is, if you're reading this, it means I'm not here anymore. And that's okay.
I mean I’m scared shitless right now, but you know it's like you said. Remember that one night at the quarry late last summer when the rest of the Party ditched us to go see Ferris Bueller for the four hundredth time? I had just broken up with Lucas and you were missing Will really badly and I was missing Billy. And we both were missing El. You had your feet hung over the edge of the quarry and I was scared I was going to fall. You threw your arm around my shoulder and chucked a rock into the pit. Then you drunkenly told me that every atom in our body was a billion years old and that if you really thought about it, it meant that we were made up of energy and that it would always be bouncing around the universe until the end of time. And you said that that really helped you when you couldn’t get Will being pulled out of the quarry out of your head.
Sometimes I think about it when Billy’s in my dreams too much.
And so yeah, if you're reading this maybe my brain isn't here and I can't fight you on any of your stupid ass plans anymore. And we can't sneak out of the lunch room to the alley between the art and science wing and eat lunch by ourselves when Eddie is being too insane. But maybe I'm still here somehow. Like the swirl of cream in your coffee in the morning or the wind kissing your hand. Like when you hung it out your dad's car window that one night when he picked the four of us up from the mall and we were all too high to risk talking out loud. I watched your fingers glide through the air from the backseat and wished I thought anything else in the world was as pretty as when the sky was periwinkle purple and the lightning bugs rushed by.
We never talked that night, after we had that awkward conversation in the parking lot while Dustin and Lucas were in the video store. We just sat and in silence together and watched two stupid comedies until one in the morning because you knew I didn’t want to go home.
And it was the nicest thing you ever did for me.
I get that you like the quiet sometimes. I'm not Will. I know that. But I want you to know that you've weirdly become one of the best friends I've ever had. And I guess we can thank Mrs. Kelly for sitting us next to each other in 10th grade math for that. Who knew that getting high off sharpie markers and planning various murder plots to off Troy could be something to bond over.
I mean, you're still a total idiot, and you've been way too moody and a complete asshole to pretty much everyone since El and Will left. And you really do need to clean up your fucking armpit of a basement. Seriously Mike...if Hawkins isn't totally destroyed and you and Lucas and Dustin and the rest of them somehow make it out of this. Please, for the love of god, can you please clean your basement. And after, get everyone together, eat too much pepperoni pizza, and play a campaign for me. I'm sure Eddie can help you with that. And tell Dustin I’m sorry for making fun of him when he asked to sit in for Lucas. The truth is I wanted to play—but you know. I just couldn’t.
And speaking of the truth. Please! Do not waste any more of your or my time not being honest with yourself. I am El's best friend. I would kill you for her in a split second. You are aware of this right? But I know you Mike. I know the real reason why you've been so sad since the Byers moved to California. And now that I'm dead I can say this. It doesn't matter what it means. You need to be honest with yourself and be honest with Will and El.
You need to be brave Mike. It's fucking important. It really sucks, but it’s true that you never know when you might find out your life is over.
Don't do what you think is right. Do what your heart really wants. El will understand. El doesn't need you.
But Will does. So fucking fix it.
And also...just….thanks. For sitting with me when no one else would.
Your kind of best friend,
Mad Max
PS. My mom was wasted one time and told me you were her favorite friend of mine. And also, I am sorry for that one time when you slept over my house after we drank at the quarry. I was lonely and sad and way too drunk. But yeah, El and Will are lucky to have someone as nice as you…. with noodle arms that turns out are great for hugs.
When you're not being a whiny bitch anyway.
Also if you ever tell anyone about that night. Or for that matter, any of the nice things I just said about you in this letter... I WILL KILL YOU. I DON'T CARE IF I’M DEAD.
Mike chuckles a broken sob and sweeps a tear from the lined notebook page that Max has splattered with her bubbly handwriting in blue ink. It smears some of her words and he curses.
"Shit!" he hisses, wiping his snotty nose with the back of his hand and shifting quickly to spread the paper out flat on his bed. He tries to iron out a few of the creases and rereads some of his favorite lines, laughing all over again. He can hear her voice as she makes fun of him, can see the crease at her brow and the disgusted squint of her blue eyes. Eyes that flashed at him with hatred one minute and humor the next. His laugh grows thinking of her face, red hair wild and staring up at him from whatever short person's world she inhabited. Mike laughs to himself until he can't breathe. He laughs and laughs, until those laughs turn to sobs and the tears flow down his face and drip off his nose. He never expected it but the hole ripped open inside his chest at the thought of Max being gone forever is utterly agonizing.
Eventually, his lungs find air again and the tears stop falling. His body is completely exhausted and his eyes are red rimmed and raw. He dries his face and knits his brow together with determination, squinting over at the radio he left lying on his desk before he left for California. She's not dead, he thinks with determination. Max is lying in Hawkins Hospital, broken and sleeping. But not dead.