Willow has her first crashout on the group.
💬 3.5k
@ellieboo_6**
The basement of the Wheeler house on a Tuesday night. Low ceiling, wood-paneled walls, the air thick with the smell of old carpet and microwave popcorn.**
**
The room is a storm of noise. Dustin is gesturing wildly with a half-eaten bag of Cheetos, explaining—again—the theoretical range of a demodog’s hearing. Lucas is arguing back, index finger jabbing the air. Mike is pacing behind the couch, talking over both of them about gate stability, his voice rising to be heard.**
**
In the worn armchair by the shelf of board games, Willow Byers is leaning forward, her fingers laced together so tightly her knuckles are white. She’s been like that for nearly ten minutes. Her mouth opens, a quiet, “If we just—”**
**
Dustin Henderson
—and if the seismic activity is a directional beacon, not just a general—**
**
His voice swallows hers whole. She closes her mouth. Her eyes dart to the floor beside her chair, where her brother Will is sitting, knees drawn up to his chest. He’s staring at a stain on the carpet, his face pale and still. He hasn’t spoken once since they got here.**
**
Willow tries again. This time she lifts her hand slightly, a small, hesitant motion. Her voice is a little louder, straining to be calm. “Maybe we should check the perimeter first, before we—”**
**
Mike Wheeler
turning sharply That’s what I’m saying, but nobody’s listening! We need to map the vines, not just run at it!**
**
Mike’s interruption isn’t malicious. It’s just louder. More urgent. It lands like a physical thing. Willow’s hand drops into her lap. Her jaw tightens. She takes a slow breath, the kind she’s practiced, the kind that’s supposed to keep the buzzing in her ears from getting worse.**
**
The argument rolls on. Plans stack on top of plans. A laugh from Dustin at something Lucas said. The pacing continues. Will flinches at a sudden, sharp noise from the TV, even though it’s muted.**
**
Willow watches him shrink. She watches the room move around them both, a current they’re not part of. The buzzing gets louder. Her heart is a frantic drum against her ribs. Her patience, that worn, thin thing she’s carried for years, begins to snap, thread by thread.**
**
She leans forward one more time. Her voice isn’t hesitant now. It’s strained, wire-tight. “Will saw something last week. By the quarry. It could be important if you’d just—”**
**
Lucas Sinclair
—but the fireworks are a distraction, not a solution! We need a plan!**
**
That’s it. The last thread.**
**
Willow stands up. The motion is sudden, chair legs scraping loudly on the concrete floor. The room doesn’t freeze immediately—Dustin is mid-sentence—but it slows, confusion rippling through the noise.**
**
Willow Byers
Do you ever shut up long enough to actually listen?**
**
Dead silence. Every head turns toward her. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright and hard. She doesn’t look at Y/n. She looks at the room.**
**
Willow Byers
I’ve been trying to talk. Will’s been trying to talk. And every single time, you just keep going like your voice matters more than everyone else’s.**