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Every solution in Mike’s life has failed him somehow and sure it might be dramatic to come to this conclusion over glasses, or chairs, but he seriously hasn’t felt an ounce of hope since 1987 no matter how desperately he tries to pretend he has.
Except for right now.
At 12:15 on November 6th, Mike finally finished his task for the evening: typing out every single memory he has of his best friend. This will, without a doubt, be the most important outline Mike has ever written- and will write- in his entire career as an author.
Right now, Mike clicks the “submit” button underneath the PROMPT HERE textbox with a little too much force and clamps his trembly hands together in faux-prayer over his laptop.
Inside, Mike’s heart pounds with a foreign feeling from so long ago; a feeling called hope.
Hope comes to him thirty minutes later in the form of a speech bubble.
[Will - 12:34 AM]
hey mike. :)
(or: Mike Wheeler is a mess who throws over thirty five years of "grieving progress" away in the span of one night, all thanks to a few too many shots of Jack Daniel’s and the creation of character-ai.)