The Neverending Goodbye.

It occurs to me that maybe I’ve become too cynical. Maybe my attention span has finally been obliterated by The Algorithm and whatever the hell TikTok is. (If I ever download that app, someone please shoot me.) Or… maybe. Just maybe… the ending of Stranger Things didn’t need to be two hours long.

I just finished it, and I have some feelings. Just maybe not the ones I’m supposed to.

For the first hour, it worked. Action. Tension in the right places. The stakes were high, at least in the way the show wanted them to be, right until the climax. Then it’s over. Wooo.

Except it isn’t.

We’ve still got an hour to go.

Wooo…

That’s the fatal mistake.

After the climax, what follows is a prolonged, almost indulgent epilogue. A glorified Where Are They Now? montage stretched to nearly an hour. We jump months into the future. Tearful hugs. Slow-motion reunions. Earnest conversations. Every character, even the ones we barely tolerate, gets their own sentimental curtain call.

About ten minutes into this extended goodbye, I felt the itch. I unlocked my phone. Checked my email. Looked at the time. Scrolled. I wasn’t watching for the story anymore; I was waiting for it to end. And that’s the sign.

After the eighteen-month title card, what was left could’ve been condensed down to ten minutes.

Endings work when they end. We don’t need much. An ambiguous conclusion. A little silence. A taste of finality. Let us fill in the blanks. When you drag it out, you don’t deepen the meaning. You dilute it. What should feel heavy starts to feel awkward, then exhausting.

There’s an old rule in storytelling: leave them wanting more.

This felt like someone holding me hostage, hoping Stockholm Syndrome would set in before I realized. By the time the credits rolled, I wasn’t sad it was over. I was relieved it finally stopped.

I get it. Saying goodbye is hard. But sometimes you have to, because it’s the most respectful thing you can do.

Cut to black. Trust the silence.