Chapter 24

It’s cold in Hawkins, the kind of cold that seeps through and rattles in Maggie’s bones. Not that she minds. She likes winter.

She’s in the Byers’ living room, tucked cross-legged in the armchair, flipping through a dusty photography book of Jonathan’s when Joyce appears in the doorway.

“Maggie?”

She looks up, instinctively snapping the book closed.

“Madame Byers,” she says, throwing one arm out, “What a surprise.”

Joyce smirks, but doesn’t laugh. That’s how Maggie knows this isn’t just a check-in.

“Can you come into the kitchen for a sec?”

That flicker of tension curls up Maggie’s spine. She tries to play it off, but her voice comes out a little too high.

“Sure! Love the kitchen. Big fan of…kitchens.”

She follows Joyce in and immediately halts. Hopper’s already sitting at the table.

“Oh,” Maggie stops, “The kitchen just got very…sheriffy.”

“Sit down, kid,” Hopper says, not unkindly.

“I didn’t do it,” Maggie says immediately.

Hopper grunts, “Didn’t do what?”

“I dunno. But that’s usually how it starts when someone looks at me like that. You two look like you’re about to tell me my ferret ran away or that I’m adopted,”

She pauses, “Wait. That second one’s kinda already happened, huh?”

“We just…needed to talk,” Joyce says gently, “We wanted to wait until things calmed down.”

Maggie doesn’t answer. She’s already scanning the exits. She knows this moment has been coming since Christmas. Since before that, honestly. And she’s been ducking it with all the grace of a cat avoiding a bath.

“About your powers,” Hopper says bluntly.

Maggie groans, flopping face-first onto the table, “I knew this was gonna be an emotions chat. You people and your emotional honesty.”

Joyce chuckles and rubs her back, “We just want to understand. And help. If you’ll let us.”

Maggie slowly sits up again, “You already know the whole story. Right?”

Joyce nods, “Yes. The portal. The basement ceiling. Falling into this world. You told me everything.”

Hopper raises an eyebrow at Joyce, then turns back to Maggie, “That’s real? You really fell through some kind of…tear in space?”

“Yeah.” Maggie shrugs, “I woke up face-down in Mike Wheeler’s laundry pile, no memories. Interdimensional travel is not as glamorous as you’d think.”

Hopper leans back, exhaling slowly, “Jesus.”

“I know,” she says with a smirk, “You should’ve seen the socks.”

They all lapse into silence for a moment.

“I’m not dangerous,” Maggie blurts, then winces like the words scrape her throat on the way out.

“We know,” Joyce says softly, “We’ve seen how you use your gift, Maggie. You take pain so others don’t have to. That’s not dangerous. That’s love.”

Maggie picks at the hem of her sleeve, then blurts, “So what do you want me to do? About the powers?”

“Nothing yet,” Hopper says, “Just keep them under control. Keep them quiet. Which brings us to the hard part.”

Maggie’s stomach drops.

“You can’t tell anyone else about where you came from,” Joyce says softly, “Not Jonathan. Not Nancy. Not Steve. No one. Not unless we say it’s safe.”

“But—”

“I know it’s not fair,” Joyce continues, “But this isn’t just about you. It’s about protecting everyone. The government is watching. The lab may be shut down, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. They cleaned things up quickly after Christmas. Too quickly.”

“You can talk to the boys,” Hopper says, “They already know too much anyway. But everyone else… not yet.”

Maggie exhales through her nose, staring down at the table.

“Nancy already suspects something,” she says quietly, “She’s not dumb. She knows I’m hiding things. I don’t want to lie to her.”

Hopper leans forward, “Then don’t lie. Just…deflect. For now.”

“That’s a fancy word for lying,” Maggie mutters.

Joyce reaches out and gently squeezes her hand, “We’re asking this because we care about you. Because we don’t want to lose you. Do you understand that?”

Maggie doesn’t answer right away.

Then she says, “It’s just…hard. She’s the only thing that feels…real sometimes.”

Her voice is small, and for a second, she’s just a girl again. Just Maggie, uncertain in a world that doesn’t belong to her.

“I get that,” Joyce says, “I do. But you’re not alone in this.”

“I know,” Maggie says, “I just…wish I didn’t have to keep pretending I’m normal. I’m terrible at it.”

“You’re not normal,” Hopper says with a lopsided smile, “That’s what makes you useful.”

Maggie laughs, “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Joyce stands, “Alright. Serious talk over. Want to help me make tea?”

“Only if I get to pick the mugs,” Maggie grins, hopping to her feet.

It’s the summer now, mid-August, where the humidity is suffocating and Maggie doesn’t want to leave the air-conditioned paradise in the house.

Maggie doesn’t remember falling asleep. One minute she’s in bed, blinking up at the ceiling, and the next she’s standing in a vast, endless black. She knows this place now. The void.

It doesn’t scare her anymore.

She tilts her head, squinting through the darkness.

“Hello?” she calls out, her voice soft but clear.

And then, like always, a shape forms. A girl, small and familiar, stepping forward. Her curls are short and soft around her face now, grown out from the buzzcut. She’s in a cozy sweater that looks too big, sleeves pulled halfway down her hands. Her eyes meet Maggie’s.

“El.”

“Maggie,” El says, a quiet smile playing on her lips, “You came.”

“You pulled me here, didn’t you?”

El shrugs, playful, “Maybe.”

Maggie grins, “Sneaky.”

El grins back, “You’ve been avoiding sleep.”

Maggie huffs, “Excuse you, I’ve just been… selectively unconscious. There’s a difference.”

They both laugh.

There’s a closeness here, one that neither of them tries to define. Maggie doesn’t know what they are to each other, two girls pulled into something too big, too strange, stitched together.

El walks a little closer, “You’re okay?”

“I think so,” Maggie says, rubbing the back of her neck, “Everything’s… quieter now. There’s not a monster crawling out of someone’s walls, so that’s refreshing.”

El’s expression softens, “You’re safe. That matters.”

Maggie hesitates, “And you? Are you—where are you?”

El’s eyes flicker for a moment, thoughtful, “Hiding. Not safe yet.”

“I miss you, you know,” Maggie hesitates, a sudden awkwardness catching in her throat, “Is it weird to say that?”

“No,” El says, “Not weird.”

There’s silence, but the good kind.

Then Maggie tilts her head, “So… is this gonna be a regular thing? Dream drop-ins from my telepathic void friend?”

“If you want,” El says, and she reaches out, like she might touch Maggie’s hand but doesn’t, “You’re not alone.”

Maggie’s chest tugs at that, because sometimes, even with the Byers, even with all the laughter and warmth and weirdness, there’s still that old echo of not-belonging. And El, somehow, understands that better than anyone.

“Same goes for you,” Maggie says, “Even if you’re hiding, even if we’re just… floating in the brain space ether. You’ve got me.”

Their eyes meet. Maggie gives a crooked smile.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she adds, “you also probably have terrible taste in snacks and I bet you’ve never seen a single episode of The Golden Girls, which is tragic—”

“I like Eggo,” El says quickly, defensive and adorable.

Maggie gasps, “Okay, you’ve got one point of culture.”

They both laugh again, and the darkness doesn’t feel like darkness anymore.

El finally says, quiet and certain, “I’ll see you again soon.”

“You better,” Maggie replies, already feeling the pull of waking.

And then, just like that, the void fades.

Maggie wakes in her blanket nest on the Byers’ couch, the early morning sun peeking through the curtains.

She whispers to the quiet room, “Sweet dreams, El.”

It’s a rare kind of Saturday in Hawkins, sunny and wind-wild. Maggie stands at the window for a second longer than she should, watching the breeze twist through the Byers’ front yard. There’s a kind of sweet ache in the air.

A sharp double honk breaks the spell.

Nancy Wheeler pulls up in her car like she’s done it a hundred times, even though it’s only been three, maybe four, and leans one arm casually out the window. She doesn’t get out. She doesn’t need to. She honks like it’s no big deal. Like she’s not Nancy freaking Wheeler, with her perfect wind-tousled hair and her soft denim jacket and her killer eyes that see straight through people if they’re not careful.

Maggie swallows. She tells herself it’s just the weather that makes her chest feel floaty.

“I’m going out!” she yells, even though she doesn’t wait for anyone to respond.

Jonathan’s been buried in photos all morning, Will’s got his headphones on and is curled up sketching dragons or monsters or whatever cryptid is haunting his brain this week, and Joyce is deep into a double shift.

Nancy smiles when Maggie slides into the passenger seat. It’s not a big smile, but it makes Maggie feel like she’s dissolving into sugar.

“Hey,” Nancy says.

“Hey yourself, Nance Pants,” Maggie replies, biting her tongue a little too late.

Nicknames are safer. If she doesn’t make it weird, she’ll definitely make it gay, and frankly that’s a more dangerous game.

Their first stop is the record store. Maggie immediately starts stacking disco vinyls in Nancy’s hands.

“Oh my God, Maggie.”

“You’d dance to Donna Summer. Don’t lie.”

“I would not,” Nancy says, trying to sound serious, but her lips twitch.

“You would,” Maggie counters, flipping through the bins, “This one comes on at a school dance and you’d be the first one dragging Steve out to the floor.”

Nancy snorts, but she doesn’t put the record back. That’s all Maggie needs to win.

They leave with Talking Heads, two Queen singles, and, yes, a Donna Summer record squished between them.

The diner is the same as always. Linoleum floors, faded red booths, fry grease soaked into the wallpaper. They slide into a corner booth and split a basket of curly fries and a strawberry milkshake that Nancy insists she wasn’t going to finish, but does.

Nancy talks about how the latest article she submitted was totally gutted by the editor but at least he kept the lead. She talks about Steve. Maggie tries not to flinch every time his name comes up.

“He’s… I don’t know,” Nancy says, rolling a fry between her fingers, “He’s been really good lately. Trying, you know?”

“Trying,” Maggie echoes.

Nancy nods, “Like, really trying. To be someone better. For me. But sometimes I don’t even know who that is. Or what I want. And it makes me feel—like I’m the problem. Like I’m not being fair.”

Maggie picks at a fry, but her stomach’s in knots, “Maybe you don’t need to figure it out right now.”

Nancy looks at her, those sharp blue eyes softening, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Maggie says, trying to smile, “You’re allowed to not know everything. Even if you’re Nancy Wheeler.”

That gets a real laugh out of her. By the time they reach the quarry overlook, the sun’s starting to melt into the trees. They sit on the hood of Nancy’s car, shoulders just barely touching, and let the wind tangle their hair.

For once, Maggie doesn’t feel like she has to fill the silence. Nancy’s face is lit like something out of a dream, and Maggie doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t let herself.

Because this? This isn’t hers to take.

Not while Nancy still talks about Steve like maybe, just maybe, she’s still waiting for him to be enough. Not while Maggie still doesn’t have her own answers, not about where she’s from, or about who she’s supposed to be, or about how she’s supposed to love someone when everything in her life has always been temporary..

Nancy finally speaks, “I like hanging out with you, you know.”

Maggie’s throat goes tight, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make things… feel easier.”

Maggie smiles, “Well. That’s because I’m devastatingly cool.”

Nancy laughs, bumping her shoulder lightly, “Obviously.”

And for one second, just one, Maggie lets herself pretend. That Nancy’s smile is just for her. That Steve doesn’t exist.

The sun is sinking behind the trees, casting shadows across the floor of the Byers’ living room. Maggie pushes through the front door with a whistle on her lips and a plastic bag rustling at her side.

“I come bearing offerings!” she announces, “One bag of Twizzlers, two gas station sandwiches, three hershey’s bars, and a partridge in a pear tree.”

Will is on the couch, knees tucked up, sketchbook in his lap. He looks up as she enters, smiling just a little. “

Hey.”

Maggie plops down beside him, tossing the bag onto the coffee table, “Hey yourself. You look like you’ve been thinking about the meaning of life. What’s up?”

Will shrugs, closing his sketchbook without a word. His eyes stay on the carpet.

“Nothing.”

Maggie narrows her eyes, “You’re a terrible liar, William. Try again.”

He hesitates and picks at the edge of the sketchbook cover, “Just… been thinking a lot lately. About people. About… how they are. How I am, I guess.”

Maggie raises an eyebrow, “Philosophical. Are we talking, like, ‘why do people suck’ or more ‘why don’t I fit where I’m supposed to’?”

Will glances at her, startled, “The second one.”

“Mm.” She nods, quiet for once, “Wanna elaborate, or are we playing vague and broody tonight?”

He presses his thumb against the corner of a page until it curls, “It’s like… everyone else seems to just get stuff. You know? Who they are. Who they like. They talk about it like it’s easy. Like it’s obvious. But it’s not. Not for me.”

Maggie watches him carefully, “You mean like… romantic stuff?”

He nods slowly, eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboards, “Yeah. I think so. I guess. Sometimes I feel like I’m just pretending. Like I’m standing in the middle of this conversation everyone else knows the words to, and I’m just… smiling and hoping nobody notices I’m faking it.”

Maggie says, gently, “You’re not faking it, Will. You’re just… figuring it out.”

Will’s voice is barely audible, “But what if there’s nothing to figure out? What if I’m just… not like them?”

Maggie doesn’t respond right away. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, then turns to look at him.

“You ever feel like you’re watching a movie with no subtitles, and everyone else is laughing or crying, and you’re just like, ‘wait, what did I miss’?”

He nods, quickly, eyes wide, “Yes. Exactly.”

She smiles softly, “Yeah. Been there. Still there, sometimes. But let me tell you something, and this is very important, so write it down in that artsy little notebook of yours: there’s no right way to feel. No deadline. No checkbox to tick.”

Will says nothing, but he doesn’t look away.

She tilts her head, “And… look, I’m not gonna put words in your mouth, but if what you’re feeling is anything like what I’ve felt… you’re not alone.”

His shoulders sink a little, like something in him let go.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

She nudges his foot with hers, “Also, just in case you were worried, I’m still gonna love you even if you end up hopelessly in love with George Lucas or the guy who voices Scooby-Doo.”

Will laughs, “I think that’s Casey Kasem.”

“See? You’re already one step closer to discovering your truth,” she beams, “Proud of you.”

He glances at her and smiles just a slight bit.

“Don’t tell the others,” he says, voice quiet again.

She zips her lips, “Your secret’s safe with me, Picasso.”

They sit in silence a little longer, the light outside dimming. Maggie reaches for the bag of Twizzlers and offers him one without looking.

It’s a small gesture, but one of understanding and being seen.