Stranger Things Wasn't Yours To Tell

How the Duffer Brothers Traded the Strange for the Safe

As Stranger Things reaches its tenth anniversary, its disappointing final season deserves scrutiny. Rather than honoring the show's message of standing with the outcasts, the creators prioritized shock value over narrative coherence. Their mishandling of the central relationship between Mike, El, and Will stands as a prime example of how mainstream pressures can dilute and distort queer storytelling.

'Stranger Things' begins by highlighting the close friendship between Will and Mike. After Will's disappearance, Mike searches for him but instead encounters Eleven, a mysterious girl with powers who resembles Will, and they develop a romantic bond. Will returns, feeling left out as Mike spends more time with Eleven. By season four, tensions emerge in Mike and Eleven's relationship. Will tries to support his friend by giving Mike a painting that subtly reveals his own feelings. In a scene, Will, speaking for Eleven, tells Mike, "She needs him and always will," offering reassurance, though Mike remains unaware of Will's love for him.

Much of this storyline was likely unintentional, as Stranger Things was originally intended to last at most two seasons. The creators have admitted that they do not rewatch their own show and have spent years experimenting, which explains the inconsistent tone. This is evident in the disjointed writing of the relationship among Mike, Eleven, and Will.

Will's crush on Mike was planned, but the writers did not know how long it would continue, so they prolonged it until the end. Due to the popularity of Mike and Eleven as a couple after season two, it became clear that, despite the show's foundation being Mike losing Will and his desperate attempts to get him back, Eleven became Mike's top priority from then on. The writers replaced Will with Eleven in Mike's life, and the only way to create a coherent story would have been to resolve it by revealing that Mike was replacing Will with Eleven in his heart because of compulsory heterosexuality. This would carry narrative weight for all three characters.

However, this idea is undermined in the fifth season, particularly in the second half, which is marked by retcons, continuity errors, second-screen dialogue, illogical plots, and the creators' apparent desire to conclude the series quickly, resulting in improvisation as they went along.

El ends her life to break the cycle of abuse — or does she? Will gets over Mike overnight because "it was never about him," despite his entire storyline for four seasons revolving around Mike. And Mike develops schizophrenia, stuck in the past, writing fan fiction imagining Will, escaping to a distant place where he merely pats his supposed boyfriend on the arm. It is a rushed, safe ending, disconnected from its own story, that aims to satisfy the masses and fails to complete the character arcs of the three main protagonists. The writers set up many promising storylines but never deliver on them, prioritizing shock value over narrative cohesion.

Mike Wheeler: Hero to Plot Device

Mike and El's relationship was the central romance in Stranger Things, which, especially in the first two seasons, featured an eerie and chilling atmosphere that intrigued many viewers. At the time, it reminded me of the relationship between Oskar and Eli from the Swedish horror film Let the Right One In, which, ironically, is a queer love story in the original novel. In both cases, two traumatized children found comfort in each other against a cruel world.

Problems with Mike and El’s relationship emerged as the show dragged on. What started as a one-season love story stretched well past its natural endpoint. In the first three seasons, their romance felt organic. By season four, both characters had matured and drifted apart, forcing the writers to reuse plot points from earlier seasons, which made their relationship less engaging. As a result, viewers found Mike's relationship with Will far more logical going forward, especially given their natural chemistry and Will's veiled declaration of love at the season's end.

However, the reason the slow-burn romance between Will and Mike was never going to come to fruition, aside from the obvious influence of right-wing capitalism and "artistic integrity," among other factors, is that Mike's character was never allowed to mature. He remained inconsistent and stagnant. For him to enter into a relationship with Will and for it to work, Mike needed writers willing to develop his character, but that did not happen.

In the first two seasons, viewers experienced the story through Mike, who was the most compelling and dynamic of the children — a hot-headed yet caring leader, fiercely loyal to his friends—the heart of his group. But from season three onward, he is sidelined and reduced to El's boyfriend, no longer contributing meaningfully to the plot. Where he was once a caring friend to Will, he is now starting to pull away. This only makes sense if you read his behavior as stemming from internalized homophobia and conflict between El and Will; otherwise, his character becomes vapid and confusing.

The main issue is that he is virtually uninteresting outside his relationships, and we never really get an inside look at what is going on in his head, so he comes across on screen as rather flat. He has no real character arc in the later seasons, other than being unable to voice how he truly feels and feeling insecure about being just Lois Lane to Superman.

Mike’s biggest issue is that he serves as a self-insert for the Duffer brothers. Self-inserting into a story is, as I always say, a poor writing choice, as you cannot expect a character to experience deep and meaningful growth when you, as the writer, are projecting your personal fantasies onto them and constantly defending their actions, regardless of whether those actions are good or bad.

In this case, they also intentionally made him unlikeable to prevent his character from progressing, such as in that diabolical tower scene in the Finale. In retrospect, it is clear that the Duffer's projected their own homophobic and misogynistic basis onto Mike, which made him appear to be an oppressed queer character.

There was a glimmer of hope in Volume One of Season Five when he was taken out of El's shadow and returned to his leadership role, appearing freer and more confident, with greater focus on his family and friendships. His interactions with El fall flat, partly due to the preceding drama and because she does not engage with his plans for the future. Meanwhile, the chemistry between Mike and Will is heightened, and it is suggested that Mike is beginning to develop feelings for him, especially after he gains powers. However, this development is completely undone, and his personality deteriorates in the last four episodes as he is sidelined once again.

There is also the idea that the showrunners deliberately kept Mike and El's relationship status ambiguous and lacking romantic chemistry in Volumes One and Two, while highlighting Will and Mike's dynamic to keep queer fans invested until the Finale and maliciously hyping it up in Volume One, cooling it down in Volume Two, and shutting it down for good in the Finale. Subtle hints in the radio and promotional material reinforced this. They shot themselves in the foot with this because it was so obvious that around 50% of the general audience believed Will and Mike would end up together, even though they hadn't considered the pairing in previous seasons. Even a few homophobic audience members got on board and got angry when they didn't get together in the end.

This is an example of how the Duffers are not interested in consistent storytelling but in shocking and profiting from the audience, which is likely why much of their audience lost trust in them. That is what happens when you break the unofficial contract you have with an audience.

Every TV show and film has one. The idea is that their part of the contract is to create cohesive, interesting, and consistent stories, and the audience supports them. When that is breached, people will not place the same level of trust in them. The Duffers were trying to have their cake and eat it too, claiming they "steered the course and made sure Mike and El were the actual endgame couple" while deliberately sabotaging their relationship onscreen. As a result, the final goodbye scene between Mike and El in the void feels abrupt and unearned, lacking any real buildup. The attempt to explain this away as schizophrenia is a separate, problematic issue.

By season five, Mike and El’s romance had run its course; it would have made more sense for them to remain friends. Forcing their relationship to continue stalled both characters’ growth and left their story stagnant, a pattern seen in other shows that recycle relationships at the expense of character development, like Dawson's Creek's forced rekindling of Dawson and Joey.

For Mike and El's relationship to continue into adulthood, Mike's character needs to remain unchanged. He is never allowed to move beyond his childhood infatuation with the E.T.-like girl he discovered in the woods, or to realize there are other aspects to life. This explains his lack of a trauma response in season five to events unrelated to El — like his parents nearly dying and his sister being kidnapped — and why his story ends up entirely defined by her. The decision to make him the one who builds the bomb that kills El is a pointed narrative choice: it could be a metaphor for the end of childhood or an act of self-sabotage. Ultimately, it amounts to a complete character assassination. Unlike the other characters, Mike never gets to move on; he remains trapped in his PTSD, looking like the picturesque image of his father, writing fantasy fiction about his friends to avoid reality. Ironically, the only moments when Mike feels like a real person, especially in the last season, happen during his interactions with others — particularly Will.

I expected something meaningful to happen between Will and Mike — not necessarily that they would end up together, as they are main characters in a mainstream, general-audience show — but because the writers had written themselves into a corner. By not having Will come out to Mike in the van as originally planned, and by rearranging character arcs to accommodate this, they set up unresolved tension. Will's love for Mike was made explicit and developed over several seasons, even though the story could have ended sooner. There also wasn't enough time in the final season for Will to believably move on or develop a new love interest.

Many unresolved aspects of Mike's character needed to be addressed directly rather than left to subtext, such as his inability and reluctance to tell his girlfriend he loves her. Even general viewers found his behavior confusing. Will's words in the van pushed Mike to reconnect with El, unintentionally creating a Cyrano trope that led to Mike's climactic speech to El — a speech that Will indirectly orchestrates. The entire situation echoed the Bill-Beverly-Ben love triangle from Stephen King's 'IT.'

Something needed to happen to give the buildup weight; otherwise, the writing would flop flimsily, like a pancake, and risk feeling pointless. The painting Will gave to Mike — and his lie about its origin — also needed resolution, or else that scene would lack impact, even if it was just the Duffers' lazy way of confirming that Will was gay. Sadly, I was proven right about this: the writers ultimately built up anticipation, let Will believe he had a chance with Mike, and then retconned the character arcs through inconsistent writing to avoid addressing the issue, leaving viewers with unfinished plot threads.

Much of the time, it seems the Duffers use Mike as either a mouthpiece or a vehicle for self-sabotage. Just as viewers are led to believe Mike might pursue a relationship with Will — and that his character could develop meaningfully in Season Five — he suddenly shifts, acting inconsistently. He becomes distant in the second half of the season. After previously being comfortable supporting and touching Will in Volume One, Mike starts to flinch and pull away when Will comes near, especially after Will comes out.

While everyone else embraces Will in the group hug during the coming-out scene, Mike is made to be the last to react and is positioned in front of Lucas and Dustin so he does not touch him. Even in the tower scene that Noah Schnapp requested to resolve the storyline conclusively, Mike is positioned a foot away from Will, creating a literal barrier, and does not hug him after they supposedly reconcile, despite previously having no difficulty showing affection to Will.

Several shots in the Finale use deliberate editing to make it seem as if Mike is not touching Will, directly contradicting his caring behavior in season two, when he would not leave Will's bedside. In one scene, Mike abandons Will on the battlefield, leaving him to bleed as Mike fights a monster with a flare gun — a questionable choice by the directors, especially given the time period, when harmful rumors circulated that touching a gay person could transmit AIDS.

Yet Mike offering Will his water bottle after Will comes out suggests the directors may not have fully considered the implications of these choices and instead made a careless jab at the audience. Watching Volume Two and The Finale, it was clear that Finn was struggling to act against years of developed character instinct, just for the sake of Mike suddenly and inexplicably not being physically affectionate with Will. The intent behind this abrupt change remains unclear unless the Duffers insist that these touches were never meant to be interpreted as more than platonic.

Mike barely reacts when Will comes out, even though the Duffers have said he understood he was "Will's crush." He also fails to say 'I love you' when El says it to him and shows little real care for her before she died in his Schizophrenic reality — making his character seem deliberately static and unresponsive. El must initiate both the kiss and physical contact. The way Mike mishandles both situations is baffling — nothing about his behavior, especially in the final season, is ever truly explained. It feels as if new traits were added for their own sake, with no real purpose or resolution, as if the creators were having a laugh.

What is interesting is that, in the end, Mike is suggested to be a meta character who serves as the universe's narrator and the storyteller of its characters. I saw a compelling theory suggesting that Mike is actually the villain because he is the dungeon master of death, but this is never explored, at least beyond subtext. As a result, all of this makes it seem as though the Duffers made his character irredeemable on purpose for no clear reason, while also "excusing" his actions, as if they had some issue with the actor playing him. Finn Wolfhard has stated in several interviews that he disagreed with the direction of his character but was ignored, suggesting they had difficulty separating Finn from Mike when writing his ending.

Mike is most compatible with Will, but he does not end up with him. He tries to be useful to El, but that does not change anything. He is left alone, without the purpose of leading, which he valued most. He does not have the chance to prove himself, only to endure. His deep love and care for others are forgotten. He never gets the chance to move on with his life, leaving Hawkins with the rest of the party as he initially wanted, which would have made sense given how his arc began in season five. Once again, this is an example of how the ending of Stranger Things is completely disconnected from the rest of the show. Mike becomes the character he was terrified of being: a useless sidekick, now a widower to a superman, stuck in his fantasy world, never getting the chance to fulfill his character arc.

It is painful how much potential Mike had, especially in the first volume of season five, and in the end, they reduced him to a shell of his former self so they would not have to do anything bold with him. My dad, who is part of the general audience, put it best: "Mike only knows he has a best friend he now feels confused about, and a girl with whom he had a life-changing and intense relationship that transformed his young life, yet he is never given the time to work through this confusion. Growing up would mean letting go of his childhood fantasy and choosing Will, and the writers never allow him to grow up."

The Vanishing of Will's Queerness

From the very beginning of the series, it's clear that while the story unfolds primarily through Mike's perspective, Will is both the driving force behind the plot and its emotional anchor. The creators even went as far as to say Stranger Things is about him. The casting team has even acknowledged that they were looking for a young actor who could immediately capture the audience's sympathy — someone viewers would want to see rescued, even with just a few minutes of screen time.

They also needed an actor capable of handling the intense possession storyline in season two, and Noah Schnapp fit the bill perfectly. Of all the kids, he stood out to me the most, and I'm genuinely pleased to see his talent finally being recognized. I still remember sitting on my dorm room floor after finishing season two, thinking his performance was so powerful that he deserved an Emmy.

Will's arc in the first two seasons felt natural and compelling. In season one, he's abducted and trapped in the Upside Down, yet his cleverness shines through as he communicates with his mother using the lights. Season two delves into the aftermath of that trauma and his possession — not much happiness for Will, but the storytelling felt true to his character. I was among the few who immediately picked up on Will's feelings for Mike — not just from the early hints about his queerness in season one, but also because their friendship echoed the quiet, unspoken bonds I had as a kid: writing love poems to my best friend and feeling a possessive closeness to her. I appreciated how sensitively and thoughtfully the show handled this dynamic.

Unfortunately, season three is where issues with Will's character began to surface. He was pushed to the background, neglected, and denied any real chance to process or heal from his trauma. The wardrobe choices seemed designed to hide Noah's maturing appearance, artificially stalling the character's growth.

Most significantly, the writers intensified the queerbaiting surrounding Will. While season three centers on puberty and changing relationships, Will clearly isn't experiencing the same heterosexual attractions as his friends. He calls out Mike for abandoning him, and Mike responds — out of character and harshly — by saying, "Well, it's not my fault you don't like girls." Narratively, this should have been the season when Will came out, since the original script censored the scene in which his jealousy of Mike and El's relationship was revealed.

Learning that Will Byres's character was inspired by a childhood friend of the Duffers who struggled with "sexual identity issues" clarified much about his portrayal: he is written as a scapegoat. Will Byers' arc parallels Harry Potter's — a child marked by a monstrous villain with an abusive past — but while Harry is ultimately rewarded with happiness and a family, Will's story falls flat. This contrast shows how homophobia and narrative contempt can undermine storytelling.

Watching Will's breakdown after destroying Castle Byers in season three, I thought his pain was relentless and unnecessary. The absence of any levity to counter his suffering makes it feel as though you're witnessing someone repeatedly pushed to the brink, with no relief. I always thought about how cruel it was to make Will say he wasn't going to fall in love when his mum told him, "I don't think you'll find it gross when you fall in love," in the same season he starts realizing he's in love with Mike, only to make him actually feel gross about loving him. It's one of the reasons I stopped watching Stranger Things midway: I hated how Will was being treated. His queerness was relegated to subtext, all while using him as a punching bag. Noah even had to lie about it in interviews when asked if his character was gay. I only returned hoping he would finally get fair treatment — unfortunately, I was wrong.

The Duffers, with their condescending straight male perspective, seem to have affection for Will — at least enough to keep him alive. Yet, his supposed "safe" happy ending is only safe from a heteronormative perspective. Will's eventual self-acceptance as gay is unconvincing — there's no narrative weight, and the pacing is terrible. He is the most abused and isolated character, denied happiness, and left pining for his best friend for five seasons, without resolution or a proper love interest. He is the only main character denied reciprocated love, echoing what was already denied to queer children in the 80s.

The Duffers claim that "his story was more about him" and that "they didn't want an external character affecting his journey," yet they never show this on screen. Will's queer journey is constantly tied to Mike, and even when the story tries to be about "getting over Mike" or realizing that “he is more than just his failed relationship,” it's still centered on Mike. This leads the audience to hope that Will ends up with Mike, the one thing he’s wanted throughout all the seasons, so he can make up for his suffering and pining, because why else would he be put through all of that, with no reward at the end?

Cole McKensie from Anne with an E is a good example of an effective coming-out story just focused on self-acceptance and empowerment: he faces bullying for being different, is adopted by an elderly lesbian, and leaves his hometown. Stranger Things' approach, by contrast, is poorly written because it tries to have it both ways.

What's especially painful is that in Volume One of Season Five, Will finally received a storyline that deeply resonated with queer viewers. He gained confidence, asserted himself with his mother, saw a positive portrayal of queer love, and built a meaningful, supportive friendship with Robin, who encouraged him to embrace his identity. This sense of empowerment recalled how lesbians often supported gay men during the AIDS crisis. At a pivotal moment — just as Mike is about to be attacked — Will's powers manifest, and he saves him. One reactor described it as Will finally loving and accepting himself, realizing that Mike is the person he loves, and feeling ready to confess, regardless of how Mike might respond. It was a striking turning point: the abused boy seizing agency over his own body and refusing to submit to his abuser.

Yet in the following volume, this progress is abruptly reversed: Will is again subjected to abuse, loses his confidence, is exploited, clings to his mother, is forcibly outed, and is sidelined. He's compelled to sympathize with his abuser, and his bonds with Robin and Mike are suddenly severed, completely erasing all the development he achieved earlier. The repetition was especially frustrating — Will had already experienced a breakthrough in self-acceptance when his powers awakened, so making him relive the same arc felt redundant. His coming-out scene would have made more sense before that moment, providing true closure to his self-acceptance storyline. If that had happened, his relationships could have naturally taken on greater significance in Volume Two and The Finale. Instead, the Duffers seemed unwilling to allow him more depth than a token gay character, resorting to inconsistent, superficial writing.

Will's coming-out scene is anachronistic and humiliating, staged like a press conference that would have been genuinely dangerous for a young boy in the 1980s. He is forced to come out before he is ready, exposing his vulnerability to a room full of people, half of whom he barely knows because of his abuser, who he says has been tormenting him with visions the viewer never sees. He admits his feelings while never saying Mike's name, then immediately downplays them to a meaningless crush he claims to have gotten over in twenty-four hours, all while on the verge of a panic attack — and never once says, "I am gay," and gets a cringeworthy reaction from the crowd. In stark contrast to his earlier boldness at the end of episode four, where he looks his most attractive, you almost stop caring for him here because he shows zero backbone.

Will barely accepts himself. He is forced to say, "I am normal like everyone else," rather than being proud of who he is. He is made to rationalize and beg others to see him as normal, while the other characters are celebrated simply for not being homophobic. Whether you're gay or straight, this is neither a relatable situation nor a powerful scene of self-acceptance. It feels as though he is not even a person, with his autonomy so thoroughly stripped away. I cannot discuss this scene without trembling or grimacing, because it genuinely triggered me. Even though Noah gave a great performance, it was very traumatic to watch, especially given the backlash it received. It was the opposite of empowering.

Most offensively, Will's love is reduced to a fleeting, almost insincere hallway crush. With that in mind, his arc in Seasons one to four becomes a humiliation ritual. Will gets hunted, abused, burned, and possessed. The only solace he had was his friendship with Mike, and even that was taken away, leaving him to prop up Mike and El's relationship and serve as their therapist.

Instead of respectfully ending this storyline — if a romantic relationship with Mike was never intended, the writers could have had Will and Mike have an honest talk to reaffirm their friendship, letting Will move on and find someone else. But suddenly, without explanation in Season five, Will becomes hopeful, is indirectly rejected, and never tries to confess or communicate his feelings. He decides, on his own, that he is wrong and rejects himself — twice. And to add on to the humiliation, they allow Mike to be sitting across from him, with the camera zeroed in on Mike's reaction as Will admits this to his face, in front of a crowd, using derogatory phrases like 'I had this crush on someone even I know they're not like me'". The message is clear: Will should be ashamed of loving Mike and must apologize for it. And the Duffers made it very clear that they thought this was a weakness that he had shed. They made him suffer for so long, all for him to accept himself in the end.

Some believe Will's emotional bond with Mike stems from trauma, which is a fair assumption. However, issues arise when a straight writer, unfamiliar with the subtleties of queer love, depicts this storyline without knowing what the hell they're talking about. What upset me the most was how they pathologized and demeaned Will's feelings, treating them as a phase instead of valid — much like the rhetoric found in conversion therapy manuals. Many other queer viewers I spoke with found this storyline distressing: it suggested they have no real chance with those they love, making them hesitant to confess their feelings out of fear of rejection.

Speaking from my own experience with a "Mike" when I was younger: she was my first true friend, the first to show me unconditional love, and the person who helped me realize my attraction to women. I would never dismiss her by saying, "She was just my Tammy," or imply it wasn't about her — that's nonsense. Many queer individuals relate to Will's words to Mike in the van speech: "You make me feel like I'm not a mistake at all, like I'm better for being different, and that gives me the courage to fight on."

From a straight perspective, it might seem like "You're just looking for answers through someone else; you're not loving yourself." However, after experiencing intense self-hatred, having even one person who truly sees and accepts you can make a significant difference. Loving someone of our own gender requires more strength and courage than for straight individuals, and sometimes it fills us with pride. Being gay isn't just about hugging yourself, but the Duffers are trying to tell you that's all that there is, and that doesn't sit right with me. Those first loves haunt you as an adult; they don't disappear overnight. The Duffers reduced that experience to a joke.

It feels particularly harsh that they waited until after the 'coming-out' episode aired and after inspiring hope among queer viewers in Volume One to tell them, "You do not need your crush to like you back: even if it disappoints some people." Telling this to a group historically marginalized and denied romantic love by family and friends — especially now, when politicians are attempting to revoke gay marriage rights — is incredibly condescending.

Not to mention, The Duffer Brothers equated Will's gay experience with their own unsuccessful crushes, which proves to me that Will wasn't written for queer people, but for them — Why should queer viewers have to suffer just because of your shortcomings? Fans saw Stranger Things as a haven for outcasts, so this comment comes across as even more dismissive.

The way that they discussed it in interviews was baffling because gay people do not need to "learn a lesson" about unrequited love and be happy with themselves. That is the standard expectation. Will, as a character who spent five seasons hoping for love and always getting the short end of the stick, did not need to learn that lesson.

The Duffers never truly considered a reciprocal relationship between Will and Mike, despite years of building that story, and it ultimately went nowhere. They waited until the very end to downplay Will's feelings. People often wonder if Will and Mike were queerbating, but that term feels too mild. It actually falls into its own category—this was exploitation. Queerbaiting usually involves a false sense of ambiguity, with characters not confirmed as gay and no narrative lead-up. In this case, Will is denied love from Mike not due to story reasons, but because of homophobic writing.

Will's trauma left him stuck in childhood. True coming of age would have meant finding love and independence from his parental figures, but instead, he is forced to stop loving and spends most of season five tethered to his mother, who dominates his major scenes. Ultimately, it is not Will but his mother who defeats his abuser. The show even ignores his connection to the Upside Down and Henry Creel; by the story's own logic, he should have been in extreme pain or died when the hive mind was destroyed, but nothing happens — because "he was not the focus." A fake-out death, like Harry Potter's, would have sufficed. Not to mention he has hardly any reaction to being back in the upside down despite his trauma and it being the anniversary since he was taken.

Additionally, his powers were used only a few times, and he played such a passive role in the final battle. Many story beats set up for him in earlier episodes, such as the child abuse flashback, are never mentioned again. They could not even fire Chekhov's guns and explain the painting he gave Mike, or have a proper conversation about it. The most we received was a jab at the audience. Mike and Will are not even allowed to maintain a platonic relationship, which feeds into the homophobic narrative that if you come out, you are to blame if the friendship is changed forever. Another example of The Duffers thinking his arc ended with his coming out.

After all the suffering he endures, Will isn't even given the karmic happy ending the story demands. His "peace" is the bare minimum: his ending is reduced to a fragment of Mike's imagination in a gay bar, where he pats a stranger on the arm, with his artistry and passion sidelined. Even his appearance is diminished in the final edit, and scenes that showed genuine happiness — like improvisations between Noah and his epilogue boyfriend — were cut for being "too much." The few moments where Will is happy and comfortable with his sexuality, like discussing Robin's girlfriend or flirting with Mike, are brief and quickly undone by more humiliation. Even in the end credits, Will's character is erased, which shows how much he was used to prop up their main straight couple.

Given that they claimed to be "blocking out noise" regarding concerns from queer people and the gay actor portraying this character– who ultimately just wanted Will to receive the same care and treatment as the rest of the cast– It became evident that they were not focused on portraying an authentic queer journey but were instead presenting their own fictionalized interpretation. In fact, the way his queer storyline was handled within the show and outside — particularly his "romantic arc with Mike" — led many queer fans to feel depressed and traumatized.

“..It was the coming out scene that gave me ptsd of when I was outed and basically kick-started a 1 month long depressive episode. Psychiatrist had to up my meds, and my psychologist had her hands full with me.” — *@wsrngr*

I myself fell into severe depression, to the point that I couldn't even watch the Finale. The entire experience felt heart-shattering, as hope for something genuine and natural was violently yanked away from us — only to be struck down once more.

The Duffers claim his story was more "nuanced" than a coming-out story and more about "being different." But in the end, Will's story is just another example of a queer story that is never allowed to be about queer love, only about queer pain and self-sacrifice. It's a story about being denied, about the endless work of self-restraint, and about supporting others while swallowing your own needs. That's not nuanced; it's the same old narrative queer people have been given for decades. Although he objectively receives a better ending than Mike and El, and is supposedly freed from all the drama, it remains the most atrocious portrayal of a queer journey I have ever seen on a show that is supposed to shelter outcasts.

Jane's Lost Autonomy

El, on the other hand, was originally intended as a one-season character inspired by Steven Spielberg's *E.T., as evidenced by the parallels between her powers and the government's pursuit of her.* Her first relationship, with Mike — the first boy to show her kindness — occurs before she truly knows herself or the world. This connection primarily propels Mike's development, as El was initially meant to die at the end of season one. It's unsettling that the Duffers' take on a Peter Pan-type figure is a girl who's abused, stripped of identity, and clings to their self-insert. I say this as someone who genuinely enjoyed their season one dynamic.

I personally feel Mike and El would have worked better as a slow burn, because it is hard to believe El's love for Mike is genuine given how quickly they entered a relationship, and, given her lack of independence, it just looks as though she imprints on Mike. But the Duffers did not initially intend for her to be a character who would span the entire series. However, El became so popular that they struggled to maintain the show's commercial viability without her. As a result, it seems they have wanted to write her out every season but have never managed to do so.

Because of this, she became more than just a symbol or an object; she became a person whom many grew to love and in whom they saw themselves. With each season, she became increasingly independent from Mike, to the point where her storyline was almost separate from his. Their relationship became nearly irrelevant, mentioned only in passing, making it hard to believe they were still together in season five. El's journey was no longer in service of the main male character; it became a journey of self-discovery, of finding family, and of discovering who she was outside her relationships with men.

She finds a family in Hopper, who adopts her as his daughter, and embarks on a journey to find her mother and then her lost sister. As El grows out her hair, improves her speech, forms friendships with peers, and discovers her own tastes, she finally embraces her femininity. Season three stands out for El because it's the first time she's allowed to be a normal kid and experience happiness after so much trauma. Notably, her happiest moments occur when she's apart from Mike. Her friendship with Max is a highlight, helping El find her voice, recognize she is more than Mike's girlfriend, and explore her own interests. By this point, the idea of her original ending feels like it would serve only as shock value.

The best-written arc for her is definitely in season four. Although the Byers adopt her, she is then horrifically bullied and deprived of any friendships, even in Lenora, leaving her feeling as though she does not belong anywhere and is once again being treated as a lab rat. I felt as awful as she did when I saw her beautiful long hair, which she had worked so hard to grow out, chopped off again. The positive aspect of this plotline, however, is that over the course of season four, she becomes independent rather than dependent. By the time Mike arrives to "save her," she has already defeated the villain and no longer needs his protection, which Mike fears she didn't in the van. She discovers her own power and finally stands up to Dr. Brenner, the man who tortured her from birth, leaving him to die without apology or forgiveness, thus ending the cycle of abuse.

So when Mike finally delivers the "I love you" speech — which she had been demanding from him since the start of the season — I find it contrived and regressive by the time he says it, even if it supposedly keeps her fighting, because it's actually the opposite of what El needs to hear. She is no longer seeking anything from him, which highlights how much she has grown. For the first time, El tosses a packet of egos in the trash and walks away from Mike and closes the door on him at the end of the season, with Mike confirming that they are barely talking.

This growth is abruptly discarded in season five with the introduction of another Dr. Brenner lookalike, and El's humanity is sidelined. She barely emotes, her hair is slicked back, and her individuality is erased, making her resemble the version of herself from season one despite all her previous growth. El has minimal interaction with the rest of the party and is reduced to a plot device, so her death carries little emotional weight. Her final costume — a wetsuit — further dehumanizes her. The only glimpse of her acting normally is in Mike's imagination, underscoring how she's never allowed to exist outside of being a weapon or someone's girlfriend. She is not even called by her birth name. Her ending should have been about breaking her own cycle of abuse and living freely, not just sacrificing for others.

Now I understand that El was constantly hunted by the military and constrained by storytelling mandates, which limited her options. However, what seems even crueler is the way the writers toy with the audience about her ending: she finds her sister Kali in the lab after years, and new possibilities open up for her. She finally has the chance to forge her own identity, reclaim her name as Jane rather than the names given to her by the men in her life, and start over with Kali. It would have been easy for her to fake her own death and escape– serving as a neat parallel to when she left Kali to save her friends at the end of 'The Lost Sister' episode, but this time she would be going with Kali and saving herself.

However, instead of developing her relationships with other women and them teaming up to fight Vecna together, Kali acts as a grim reaper and claims to El that the only way to break the cycle of abuse and get past her trauma is through suicide, with El refusing at first but then slowly coming to terms with it. The creators openly admitted to toying with the audience regarding this plot point: "We think she's made the choice to live, just kidding, she hasn't."

Not only is this unrealistic in the real world, as nothing ever goes back to normal just because a few people die or a powerful leader is removed, but it is also an atrocious message to send to struggling young people. How can erasure be a solution when the main theme in the first four seasons centers on rebuilding oneself and loved ones fighting to bring you back, especially when the rest of the world considers you disposable?

It's worse when you realize the Dr Kay subplot only exists to corral El into a corner where this is her only option. It makes me so sick to think about El in season four saying the words "I don't belong…anywhere," and they went and proved her right.

The Duffer brothers clearly did not consider this, as they never viewed her as a person; they were so intent on seeing her as a vapid E.T. character and merely as an extension of Mike, which is what she is reduced to in her final moments, when he kills her to "move on" with his life.

Her last scene highlights how inconsistent and poorly directed Season Five was: instead of a sincere goodbye, we are shown a version of Mike and El that never existed. El says, "You understand me better than anyone," when the central issue of Season Four was that El felt Mike did not understand her, and that never really gets resolved, not even in Season Five, as they barely have any meaningful conversations. Their previous problems are never addressed. They constantly feel responsible for each other, which only exacerbates their insecurities. The way Mike treated her as a tool is ignored by both her and the narrative. It makes it pretty clear that their relationship was born of wish fulfillment and nothing more.

The worst part of all of this is that, deep down, I could see she was being written as a manifestation of some kind — but I thought it was more creative, in that she was a part of Will that got magicked into existence as a result of his kidnapping and trauma, splitting himself in two, and by the end, she returned to his mind. Not the magic of childhood going away or whatever that means. It would have been less problematic, for sure.

Honestly, her final moments would have resonated more if she had shared them with Will. As narrative foils who launched the series' central mystery — El mistaken for Will, Hopper tracking her thinking it was Will — their connection deserved closure. The line, "You understand me better than anyone," would have fit their dynamic far better, a point even Millie Bobby Brown has made. Hopper, too, would have been a more meaningful presence in her last scenes, given his role as her adoptive father and their time together in season five. Instead, the show disregards these relationships, reducing her life montage to a superficial highlight reel of her and Mike, further undermining her character's journey.

Her independence is forced by circumstance, not by choice. She never chooses to leave Mike; she is compelled to. What sickens me is learning that when the Duffers discussed an ending in which she lived, the only scenario they could imagine was her marrying Mike at eighteen, rather than living freely on her own. It is such an outdated, straight-male playbook that the only two options they considered for her ending were marriage or death.

Even the aftermath of her death is grotesque, as no one but Mike mourns her. It is reduced to a story of 'Maybe she survived, maybe she did not,' whether she is killed by the bomb or taken away in the middle of nowhere, far from her family and friends — essentially reducing her to a mere concept. Perhaps, deep down, they do not truly believe this character should be central to the narrative. This has made El's storyline appear abstract, detached, inhuman, and unforgivably cruel.

The years of her being an underserved, chronic victim of abuse, experimented on by men in power, with no control over her own autonomy, followed by her eventual freedom and discovery of a found family, culminating in her horrifically becoming "the magic o" childhood that has to go away for the rest of the boys to move on with their lives," is deeply sinister. I found it disgusting that the cast and crew carried this narrative forward by discussing El's fate: whether she survived or not after the Finale. There is no universe in which a teenager offing herself should be glorified for that reason or in that way. How could she be the magic of childhood when she barely had one? She was born a weapon and died as one, allowing the Cold War-inspired military to get what it wanted. For a show that David Harbor once said was "meant to rebel bullies," the bullies won in the end.

I have seen these endings before, where all the magic must disappear at the end of the story for the characters to grow up. For example, in His Dark Materials, Lyra Silvertongue loses her ability to read the alethiometer naturally, and Will Parry must break the subtle knife. Despite falling in love, they are forced to separate forever to save the universe, leaving them alone in the world and as empty shells of themselves. Very similarly, the ending does the same as Stranger Things, where the gates to the other worlds are destroyed to return everything to normal and end the cycle, and other characters must be sacrificed for this to happen. This approach erases the story's consequences and stakes, inevitably returning everything to square one so that it all falls flat at the end and disregards realism, despite aiming to be realistic.

In this day and age, is the message we want to send really that the only way to grow up is to extinguish childhood magic, snuff out our flames, or even end our lives to break the cycle of abuse? This is a dangerously reductive message, especially in a world already hostile to those who are different.

Why This Ending Matters

You can imagine my horror when I woke up to that interview that Gaten Matarazzo did when he said the reason “El committed suicide was so that her friends and family could live normal lives,” and it really does capture everything that is wrong with the ending. Everyone is too content, and everything that once made the characters unique is stripped away. So much so that a theory went viral about “conformity gate,” in which everyone believed the final battle was a Vecna-created vision making the characters believe they had won, and the epilogue showcased that the characters were now conformed versions of themselves trapped in Camosotz, which would have explained why all the relationships were destroyed.

I do not want to give the Duffers more credit than they deserve. The behind-the-scenes season five documentary reveals that many narrative decisions were not given much thought. The only plausible explanation for the series’ conclusion is that the Duffers never intended for either relationship to succeed. Mike and Eleven’s attempt at romance falters due to poor timing and emotional confusion, causing their youthful love to wither. Notably, “Purple Rain,” by Prince, which plays during their finale montage, is about falling in love too soon and losing the chance at genuine friendship.

Meanwhile, Mike and Will’s relationship mirrors this trajectory. Their lifelong friendship, once effortless and sincere, fades when deeper feelings emerge. According to Noah Schnapp, the Duffers intended Will’s coming-out scene to conclude Mike and Will’s arc, which I see as paralleling Eleven’s suicide in the final season. Will’s public coming out echoes Eleven’s public act, delivering Mike a double blow — abandonment in both friendship and love. In the end, Mike offers his blessing to the distant Will and Eleven, left isolated and alone.

Perhaps the Duffers always intended for the group to drift apart, aligning with their original themes of growing up and leaving childhood behind. They might view this structure as poetic or even beautiful. However, for the marginalized communities these characters represent, such an ending is neither moving nor acceptable — especially for a show with such cultural influence in today’s fraught political climate. The Duffers justify their choices by appealing to realism and the notion that life isn’t always fair. But what message does this really send? Their version portrays a world where queer love is repressed, abuse victims must die to escape trauma, and women exist only for men.

Yes, we understand — life doesn’t always turn out the way we hope. But television is not real life; it’s a medium for messages, for storytelling with purpose. This series was meant to inspire hope and resilience in outcasts and queer people — to encourage them to keep pushing forward, not to give up, and to believe things can improve. For those who have faced bullying, rejection, violence, and societal pressure for not fitting in, the ending felt like a betrayal. The show lost its soul, reducing everyone to cookie-cutter conformists. It implies that happiness is only possible by blending in and hiding your true self — otherwise, you simply disappear.

In what universe is it good storytelling to have the three main characters fear loneliness and doom — only for those fears to be realized? Typically, when a story teases such outcomes, it subverts them; for example, an abused girl who fears she doesn’t belong ultimately finds acceptance instead of tragedy. If the narrative doesn’t challenge these fears, what is the point?

Ironically, this conclusion delivers the very story the Duffers claimed they wanted to avoid, even as they dismissed their queer fans as “noise.” In the epilogue, a final shot from Mike’s perspective shows him gazing at Will’s binder, which dominates half the frame, then placing his own beside it, running his hand along their spines, and breaking down in tears. For many, this scene confirms that Mike is closeted, loves Will, and feels he’s missed his chance because Will has already moved on.

Mike’s bleak ending was so unsettling for many viewers that it inspired some to come out themselves, determined not to repeat his fate. One father reflected that he realized too late he had his own “Will Byers” — someone who loved him, but whose love he only recognized after they’d gone their separate ways. Watching Mike’s story brought this realization. Instead of empowering its audience, Stranger Things left many queer viewers feeling seen only in their pain, not in hope — abandoned by the very principles the show once championed.

The relationship dynamics between Mike, El, and Will in the 1980s mirror real narratives from the height of the AIDS crisis: women stripped of independence and identity, pushed into relationships with men, while closeted gay men are denied love and pushed to society’s margins. Many interpret the Mike-El-Will story as inherently queer — not out of wishful thinking, but because it reflects the era’s realities. A truly revolutionary ending would have allowed the two men to love each other and for El to become Jane, forging her own path. Instead, the Duffers imposed their own version of “realism,” distorting the narrative to fit their agenda and sacrificing both history and hope for commercial gain.

The Duffers’ narrow perspective reduce Will and El to extensions of Mike and Mike their flat self insert rather than allowing each character to experience authentic growth. By projecting themselves onto these characters, the creators treat them as plot devices rather than fully realized people. After four seasons, both El and Will have outgrown their original roles, so the pre-planned ending feels forced and unearned — much like the finale of How I Met Your Mother, which ignored the real journeys of its main characters.

Instead of allowing the characters to develop naturally — Mike to mature, Will to find love, and El to gain independence — they all receive outdated endings conceived a decade ago, back when the characters were still children. This approach ignores how their stories have evolved. Rather than offering a meaningful resolution, we are left with a narratively empty storyline riddled with unresolved plot holes, ignored consequences, and a lack of emotional catharsis. This isn’t a bold or tragic ending — it’s a refusal to finish the story the show itself was telling. Stranger Things concludes not as a tale about misfits and outsiders, but as one where conformity prevails and all that is “strange” is quietly erased.

As Van on YouTube said, “This is not a resolution. This is not even an open ending; this is the Duffers driving a stake into the heart of queer people and twisting the knife. Because yes, sometimes we miss our chance and spend the rest of our lives regretting it. But that does not mean that this is a message that you need to be sending to the queer kids who are going to be watching this, who need a sign of hope, who need it now more than ever, and you instead show them a life of conformity and missed chances.”

No Duffer Brothers, this was not your story to tell. It’s ours.

From El