"Hey–you okay?"

Flinching at the unexpected intrusion into my apparent decision to stare at my best friend's locker kitty-corner to the current position I occupy leaning against my own, I force myself to look at the person that stands at my side, a soft sigh escaping as I realize my apparent distraction has garnered some concern.

"I–yeah. Yeah, Barb. I'm good."

"You don't sound very convincing."

"I just–"

"You just what?" Barb asks, stepping in front of me, and effectively blocking my line of sight to the locker I have been watching for far longer than is probably healthy, "Cami, what?"

"Jonathan isn't here."

Barb turns to look at my best friend's locker herself, then, her brow furrowing for a moment before she turns back to face me once again. For a moment, I force myself to meet her gaze, despite the flush that warms my cheeks in response, knowing that the idea of anyone being late to school is hardly a foreign concept. Knowing that my reaction, with that in mind, is probably a bit overdone.

But this is Jonathan Byers we're talking about, here. Unless he's sick, he never cuts school. Not even a single class.

If he isn't here, and he didn't call me beforehand to let me know I needed to grab his homework and bring it by after school–which he didn't–then something must be wrong. Seriously, horribly wrong.

My heart feels like it is practically collapsing in on itself over all of the possible scenarios that could have kept my friend from school, but apparently I am the only one that feels that way, Barb's expression turning from mild worry to full-blown apprehension as she reaches out a hand and places it on my shoulder in seconds, flat.

"Cami, listen, I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he had–car trouble, or something."

"Yeah. M–maybe."

"He'll probably be here in time for second period. There's no way he'd miss the review day before Kaminski's quiz."

"Yeah," I nod along, teeth digging into my lower lip as I try to pull myself together. I can't shake it. The sensation that something is not right.

Suddenly, the thought of suffering through school is entirely too much, and without another thought, I turn on a heel and start walking toward the entrance by the main office down the hall, ignoring Barb's cry of protest as I go.

"Cami! Cami, where are you going?"

I ignore her. I hate myself for it, but I do, my steps speeding up until I am in an all-out jog toward the door, my heart hammering against my ribs along the way. I can't be here. I can't. Not until I know that Jonathan is okay.

That is all that matters, now, and so I choose to focus on that fact to get me out of the doors and into the parking lot. I don't know if anyone in the office notices my departure, or even really cares. But before I can make it too far away from the front doors, I catch myself slamming into something solid, my feet staggering back from the impact until I very nearly land flat on my ass on the pavement.

Or at least I nearly land on my ass until a pair of hands latches onto my wrists, keeping me upright for long enough to give me a chance to look up at who I have collided with, my heart sinking as soon as I realize I know exactly who it is in next to no time at all.

"Cami?"

"Get. Off," I hiss, wrenching myself away from the hands that steady me as though I am being burned, "Why the hell are you–"

"Why the hell am I what? Trying to keep you from falling on your ass?"

"No. Why the hell are you talking to me?"

"Didn't realize that was something I wasn't allowed to do anymore," Steve replies, clearly not as put off by my harsh inquiry as I predicted, given that he almost immediately moves to follow after me as I brush past him, taking special care to knock against his side in the process, "Hey! School's that way."

"Wow, no wonder you're such a hit with the ladies. You're like a walking, talking map."

"That's–that doesn't even make any sense, Cam."

"And why doesn't that surprise me?" I grouse, wishing I could somehow ignore the sound of Steve's footsteps scuffing along on the gravel as he hurries to catch up with me, "Look, not that I owe you of all people an explanation, but I just–I'm not feeling the whole school thing today. That alright with you?"

"Where are you going?"

"You actually care?"

"Listen would you just–would you just stop for a second?"

"Why?"

"Because, I–I just–you don't look so great, okay?" Steve says, the concern behind the words distracting me enough that I am forced to stop in my tracks, whether I really want to or not. I stand, rooted to the spot in the middle of the parking lot, squeezing my eyes shut as I fight against the mix of panic over Jonathan's absence, and the strange twist of guilt in my stomach as I realize Steve hasn't decided, by some miracle, to leave me to my own devices and head back to school.

I need to make him leave me alone. I need to get to Jonathan.

My stomach sinks knowing what I have to do, but I grit my teeth, and force myself to do it anyway, knowing that I have no other choice.

"Steve, maybe your memory is impaired because of the weight of all that hair bogging down your brain, but I dumped you. So you should probably just suck it up and leave me alone."

"Cami, c'mon."

"Steve. Leave. Me. Alone."

"So, what, you're just–you're just gonna walk home? That's–that's insane."

"No more insane than standing here, talking to you," I retort, chewing the inside of my cheek to ward off the sudden and unwelcome burning that has formed at the corners of my eyes, "Go back to your fanclub, Harrington. I'll be just fine out here on my own."

Desperate to get away before my resolve can fracture completely in the wake of my panic over my missing friend, I turn and start stalking toward the far edge of the parking lot, my breaths coming easier as soon as I realize Steve is remaining exactly where I left him, just as I had hoped, the words he hurls after me causing me to wince despite the fact that I know they are probably well-deserved.

"Yeah, go ahead, Cam. Run away. That's what you're good at, isn't it?"

I don't want to admit it to myself, but I know, somehow, that Steve Harrington is probably right about me…

And that is something that terrifies me more than anything else has in a very, very long time.

I finally make it to Jonathan's house what feels like ages after leaving school, my feet aching–throbbing, really–in time with the rapid pounding of my heart. My best friend's car is still in the driveway. A good thing, I tell myself, since it means unless he walked somewhere like I just did, he's at home, not off on his own, possibly in danger. But Joyce's car is there too. Which is odd, considering I know she usually has the day shift…

If she stayed home from work, something is definitely wrong. My initial gut feeling was probably correct.

I don't want to go up to the door. I don't want to find out what has me so terrified I can hardly breathe. But I need to be there for my best friend. For his mom, who's been like a second mother to me pretty much ever since I moved to Hawkins with my dad.

I can do this. I have to do this.

I can do this…

Exhaling forcefully through my nose, I force myself to walk to the front door of the Byers' home, my fingers curled into fists so tight I practically wince over the sensation of my nails digging into my palms. But just as I am raising my hand to knock on the door, it wrenches open, my eyes going wide as I look over my best friend's appearance and notice three things almost at once.

One. Jonathan Byers has been crying, his eyes red and blotchy, though I can tell he's been trying to get that under control with just a single look at his face.

Two. He is trying to smile at me. He really, really is, but his mouth wobbles midway through the attempt and then falls back into a worried frown.

And three. He hasn't even tried to say anything about the fact that I am not in school, despite the fact that if my dad doesn't have the time to bring me in before going to work, Jonathan is usually the one dragging my ass to class, come hell or high water.

All of these things on their own would have been enough to convince me that something was not right, but the thing that breaks my heart the most is the brokenness that is so apparent in Jonathan's tone as he says my name, stepping forward and tugging me into his arms so that I am given no choice but to wrap my own around his waist while my nose gets squashed against his chest.

"Cami–"

"What–what is it? Jonathan, what happened?"

Jonathan doesn't say anything for a moment, his arms tightening around me and forcing mine to do the same around his waist. But as much as I can feel my desire to get to the bottom of the panicked feeling I've been dealing with ever since realizing he was not in school, I also know on some level that Jonathan must need this. Contact. The security of a familiar feeling when everything else so clearly seems to be falling apart all around him. And so, I curl even further into his embrace, shifting so that my cheek rests against his chest while I become aware of the sensation of his chin resting against the top of my head.

"It–it's Will. He's g–gone."

"What?"

"He's gone," Jonathan repeats, loosening his hold so I can pull back just a bit and peer up at him with a mix of disbelief and abject horror written all over my face.

"Gone?"

"He never–he didn't come back from Mike's last night. And I was–"

"You were what?"

"Working. I didn't get home 'til late, and figured he was already asleep, and–"

"Woah. Stop right now."

"Cami–"

"Stop it. I mean it," I press, forcing all of the uncertainty and nervousness I am feeling to the side in favor of giving Jonathan a look that all but dares him to try and do anything other than what I am telling him to right now, "This is not your fault."

"He came home to an empty house, Camille."

"And he's done that at least a hundred other times, right? But nothing's happened?"

"Well–"

"Yes or no, Jonathan. Will has come home to an empty house before, and he's always been fine."

"Yeah. Yeah, he has," My best friend finally admits, swallowing around his next words as soon as he realizes I have narrowed my eyes up at him, knowing what it is he is likely to say next, "This just–I don't know, it just–"

"Feels different?"

"Yeah. How'd you–"

"How did I know?" I finish for him, biting my lower lip as I try to figure out how to explain something I do not fully understand. I can't decide if Jonathan will think I'm insane for this feeling I've been having, or if he'll accept it without a second thought. But before I can come up with a decision on what to tell him, we are both distracted by the sound of another voice, coming from behind where Jonathan still stands in the open doorway, causing me to break away from my best friend's arms in next to no time at all.

"Camille? What are–sweetheart, why aren't you in school?"

"Jonathan wasn't there."

"Oh sweetheart–" Joyce breathes, somehow gathering everything I am unable to say from just those three words, her expression still haggard–worried over Will's absence–despite the concern for me that flickers across her features as well, "Come here."

"But Will–"

"Would want his big sister to get a hug. Come here, Cami. Please."

Unable to do anything but obey, I walk forward into Joyce Byers' outstretched arms, the familiar combination of cigarette smoke and her perfume nearly bowling me over. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. The fact that Will is missing. And although a part of me wonders if I've done the right thing, coming here, when most other people would probably insist that Joyce and Jonathan need to be on their own, as a family, without outside interference, as soon as I feel Joyce's arms pulling me close, I know that there is absolutely nowhere on this green earth that I would rather be.

These are my people. My family.

Anyone who tries to say otherwise can go to hell.

Some time later, Jonathan and I have settled onto the sofa to look for a picture of Will to use for the 'missing' posters Joyce wants to put up around town. I'm staring at the pictures, trying to imagine that I'm selecting them for anything else. Anything, because I can't face the reality of what it is I'm actually doing. Will is missing. Sweet, innocent, sensitive Will is actually gone. And I know what this world can do to kids like him. It can tear them apart. Beat them. Bruise them and leave them bloody, and the kid that returns won't be a thing like they used to be…

I know, because that's exactly what happened to me after Sarah died. It's what's still happening to me.

I can't bear the thought of Will being a shadow of who he was. Of never seeing his eager smile as Jonathan and I sit on either side of him to watch a movie together.

I can't honestly tell how I am going to get through any of this, but one look from the corner of my eye at where Jonathan sits at my side, and I know I have to. I have to hold it together, for his sake, and for his mom's as well. I have to be strong for them, even though I can't seem to be that for my dad, no matter how hard I try.

"What about this one?"

Leaning over to look at the photo in Jonathan's hand, I try and fail to ignore the tight feeling in my chest, my heart squeezing as I recognize the photograph, and think back to the exact moment it was taken. My dad had been called in to work on Christmas, so Joyce took it upon herself to make me a part of her own celebration plans with Jonathan and Will. Jonathan is in the frame with his own camera, while Will pretends to skewer me with a toy replica of Bilbo Baggins' sword, Sting. But the threat falls short, given the open smile on his face, and the laughter apparent on my own…

"Yeah. Yeah that's–that's a good one. Just cut me out of it, would you? This should be about–"

"About him," Jonathan finishes for me, nodding in understanding as he sets the picture aside, and runs a hand through his hair, all of the fight seeming to go out of him in one go. On instinct, I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together and giving a small squeeze. Honestly, it's killing me seeing him like this. Beaten down. Broken. But what hurts even more than that is the fact that I really have no idea what to do or say to make it any better.

Somehow, repeated assurances of 'he's gonna be okay' don't seem like they're going to cut it.

"Cami."

"Mm?"

"Stop."

"Stop what?" I murmur, honestly bewildered over the sudden hard edge to Jonathan's tone, though as soon as I get a good look at his expression I can't help but feel an almost overwhelming surge of affection in its place.

"Trying to think of something to fix this, and then berating yourself when you can't find anything."

"How do you know that's what I'm doing?"

"Because I know you, Cami," Jonathan sighs, abandoning his task of flipping through the photographs strewn across the coffee table in favor of removing his hand from mine and looping his arm around my shoulders, instead, "You don't have to fix everyone all the time, ya know?"

"Maybe it's my way of compensating for the fact that I can't seem to fix myself."

Oops. Didn't mean to say that out loud.

I could have predicted the almost immediate concern that would make its way into Jonathan's expression, and I cringe internally as I try my best to prepare for the line of questioning my haphazard comment will most likely provoke. But before he can actually act on any of those questions, we are both distracted by the sound of shattering glass, both of us twisting to look at where Joyce stands by the door, her gaze fixed on something that must be coming up the drive in spite of the shattered vase lying in pieces on the floor at her feet.

God, please–please let it be Will…

Of course as soon as Jonathan and I stand from the sofa and hurry over to Joyce to look at whatever it is she's seeing for ourselves, we realize it is not Will heading up the drive at all. Instead, police cars park at haphazard angles, gravel spitting from their tires as they come to a full stop, and I find my hand unwittingly seeking Jonathan's once again as I recognize one figure in particular that is getting out of a very familiar vehicle and heading our way.

So much for my dad not finding out I skipped school.

Hello, everyone! And welcome to chapter two in Cami's tale! I'm so, so excited to get this story rolling, and I'm beyond thrilled to see that the first chapter was a worthwhile read! Special thanks to everyone who took the time to give it a shot, or a follow or fave as well! And of course I also owe a huge thank you to Luvreading67 for leaving a review! I'm so happy you like the story so far, and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as the last!

Until next time, lovelies…

MOMM