Chapter Text
Evan Hansen is a loser. He has one friend who isn't even a proper friend. He gets bumped into at school—not on purpose—but because the other kids never see him standing there as if he's a ghost roaming about the halls. The only reminder that he is not, in fact, a ghost is the sharp pain in his left arm under his cast.
Evan wakes up with a groan as his digital alarm clock honks irritably at him, blinking red abrasive numbers until he slaps the off button, leaving them sitting starkly still at 7:00 AM.
He sighs, rubbing his palms into his eye sockets. His head is splitting with a migraine, or perhaps he's just dehydrated again. He waits until he hears his mother hop out of the shower down the hall before rolling to his side, sliding his feet pitifully over the side of his bed and sitting up agonizingly slow.
First day back at school and gravity refuses to let him sit up. Another few attempts finally leave him sitting up, glaring at his opposing wall. He blinks in slow motion as he cranes his neck, his eyes interlocking with his daily medicine. Evan reluctantly takes his pills with the gross dusty glass of water sitting by his bedside. He moves with heavy limbs to his closet and gets dressed in khakis and a blue striped polo shirt—struggling to put it on with his clunky white cast—and sits down on his bed to write his stupid therapy letter. He types a few lines before grimacing, erasing it and starting again.
‘Why is today going to be a good day? Why is any day going to be a good day?’ He shakes his head. ‘No, no. Dr. Sherman spoke about this, remember? Don’t feed into the negative thoughts. Positive thinking. Think happy thoughts.’
Dear Evan Hansen,
Today is gonna be a good day because…
‘Nope, no,—backspace backspace backspace—Not positive enough, Evan. Try again.’
Dear Evan Hansen,
Today is going to be an amazing day and here’s why. Because today all you have to do is just be yourself.
But also confident. That’s important. And interesting. Easy to talk to. Approachable. But mostly be yourself. That's the big—that’s number one. Be yourself. Be true to yourself.
Also, though, don’t worry about whether your hands are going to get sweaty for no reason and you can’t make it stop no matter what you do because they’re not gonna get sweaty, so I don’t even know why you’re bringing it up because it’s not going to happen, because you’re just—all you have to do is be yourself.
I’m not even gonna worry about it, though, because seriously it’s not like, it’s not going to be like that time where you had the perfect chance to introduce yourself to Zoe Murphy after the jazz band concert last year, when you waited afterward to talk to her and tell her how good she was, and you were going to pretend to be super casual like you didn’t even know her name and she would introduce herself and you’d be like “Wait, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you. Chloe, you said your name was Chloe?” And then she would be like “No, it’s Zoe. I said, Zoe,” and you would be like “Oh, see I thought you said ‘Chloe’ because I don’t even—I’m very busy with other stuff right now is the thing.” But you didn’t even end up saying anything to her anyway, because you were scared and your hands were sweaty, which they weren’t that sweaty but you started worrying they were sweaty, which made them sweaty, so you put them under the hand dryer in the bathroom, so they weren’t just sweaty, they were also very warm now, as well.
“Evan, are you ready for school?” Heidi’s distant voice snaps Evan from his erratic typing.
“Y-yeah, Mom! I’ll be down in a second!” he replies, slamming the laptop shut and sliding off of his bed. He quickly combs his hair and stares at himself in the mirror, wringing his hands on the edge of his shirt with twisted lips. His posture is terrible and his body is oddly lanky, even though he gained a bit of muscle from his summer job at Ellison Park. It only just made him look—somehow—even more awkward since it didn't necessarily bulk him out like the jocks at his school. He is a frail-looking boy with a pudgy tummy, and his shoulders hunch inward, making him appear shorter than he truly is. He sighs, scooping up his bag, and retreats from his haven into the outside world.
He stalks down the stairs and leans against the counter as his mom shuffles through the kitchen wearing her purple scrubs. He realizes he forgot to brush his teeth. 'Great, they're all gonna think you're gross—even though nobody actually notices you, anyway. But you don't want people to suddenly notice you for that if someone decides to actually talk to you—'
"So, honey. First day of senior year? That's exciting!" Hedi exclaims conversationally, turning around with two sandwiches in Ziploc bags.
"Mhmm, oh y-yeah," Evan replies, tapping his fingers on the counter sporadically and forcing a smile. "Very ex-exciting."
Hedi considers him with furrowed brows, handing him one sandwich before putting the other in her purse. "C'mon, Evan. Remember, we talked about this with Dr. Sherman? Let's seize the day with some optimism and less sarcasm?"
Evan shrugs and tucks the sandwich in the smaller front pocket of his bag. It will probably get squished, but he hasn't used a lunch bag since freshman year—not since Jared ruined it by shamelessly dumping the contents of a tuna sandwich directly into it. Evan couldn't get the smell out and frustratingly threw away the bag. Heidi never seemed to notice. She never seems to notice anything that actually mattered anyway, so why would she notice he no longer has a lunch bag?
"Did you write one of those letters?" She asks while handing him a banana and silently urging him to eat it. "You know, 'Dear Evan Hansen, today's gonna be a good day and here's why'?"
Evan nods as he peels the banana. "Mhmm. I started one earlier. I'll finish it at school."
"Those letters will be good for you, Evan." She beams. "You know, it'll really help boost your confidence!"
"Right. Yeah," he replies, monotone, before taking a bite.
"Hey, I know," Hedi begins enthusiastically, her face lighting up. "Why don't you ask some kids to sign your cast?"
"O-oh, yeah. Okay," Evan replies, dragging the word, and raising his right arm in a half-hearted fist bump.
Hedi's face contorts as her smile becomes more forceful. "Hey, now. A little more enthusiasm wouldn't hurt, honey." She grabs her car keys and pulls out a sharpie from the cup of pens and markers on the counter, next to the post-it's that Hedi typically uses for leaving Evan reminders to stay positive, that she loves him, and that there is some takeout money and a: 'Sorry, honey. We can do dinner next week?'
Evan accepts the marker and slips it into his pocket with a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. He discreetly tosses his unfinished banana in the compost bin as she retreats from the kitchen.
Hedi drives him to school, rambling on about something he doesn't hear over his incessant internal self-loathing. He leans his head against the window, watching the trees pass by as they get closer to his school. 'She's trying so hard to help and you can't even pretend to be happy for her? You're pathetic. She would have been better off if you actually managed to—'
Evan blinks when she pulls through the school drop-off. She leans forward, flyaway hairs poking out of her ponytail as she glares at the traffic in the parking lot. 'She's gonna be late for work because of you. You're wasting her time. If you weren't here, still, she would be better off—'
"It's okay mom, I can get out here," Evan says, quieting the voices in his head momentarily.
Hedi smiles at Evan uncertainly before nodding. "Okay, honey. Have an amazing day!"
Evan grabs his backpack and trudges down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding other students as they exit their parents' cars. He nearly falls in the bushes when a car door nearly takes him out.
"Connor! Don't ignore me! I can't drive you two every day, so don't—" the door slams shut, promptly cutting off the woman yelling at him from the driver's seat. Evan gawks in terror as Zoe Murphy exits from the other side, lugging out her guitar case, and scoffing indignantly.
"Why are you such an asshole?"
"Why are you such a bitch?" Connor bites back sharply. The woman pulls away from the curb with watery eyes and a tense grip on the wheel.
"Can't you act normal for five minutes?" Zoe yells in retaliation as they stomp away together, ignoring Evan as he gawks at them, reluctantly shuffling towards the school behind them. Connor strides faster than her as he hunches his shoulders and grips his ratty satchel with white-knuckled fists. "If it weren't for you getting high again, mom wouldn't have had to drive us today! You can't just pull shit like that and retroactively fuck up all of our schedules because you're a brooding little shit who whines about not wanting to go to school!"
"Maybe you should get your own fucking licence instead of relying on your brooding little shit of a brother to drive you," he snaps back.
"I just turned sixteen, asshole. I literally can't," she scoffs.
"I shouldn't have to drive you everywhere," he grumbles as they stalk further away. Evan slows down so he doesn't walk so closely behind them. "You're not my fucking responsibility."
Zoe narrows her eyes and shoves past him, holding her guitar case against her chest so she can pick up her speed. He gives her a nasty look and trudges towards the entrance at a slower pace, both undisturbed by the few students walking around them, watching with low whispers.
Evan shakes his head and speed-walks through the doors as far away from the Murphy's as possible, making a beeline for his locker. He fumbles with his lock, having to awkwardly lift it before yanking it open because it had been jammed since his freshman year. Whoever had the locker before him must have slammed it constantly to dent it like this.
"Hey, Evan! How was your summer?" Evan startles violently and turns towards Alana Beck. Her hands are gripping her backpack straps and her eyes are wide and hopeful through her enormous glasses.
"O-oh, Alana. H-hi?" His voice raises as if asking a question. "It was, um, fine I guess? How was yours?"
She rolls into a speech about her volunteer work, making Evan wonder silently if she had this interaction scripted in her head. He waits for a lull in the conversation to speak again. "Oh, that's, uh, nice." He takes in a shaky breath. "Hey, um, did you maybe-wanna-sign-my-cast?" He blurts out in one breath, speaking too fast even for his own mind to comprehend what he said.
Her eyes shoot towards his cast and her eyebrows rise in surprise. "Oh, my goodness! What happened?"
He blushes, coughing timidly. "I fell out of a—a tree."
"Oh, wow. My grandma broke her hip this summer after falling out of the bathtub. The doctor said it was the beginning of the end because a few months later, she died," Alana replies, her face scrunching in a flash of sombreness before flitting on her beaming smile again. "Well, it was nice talking to you! See you later!" She offers a little wave and pivots on her heels, walking in the opposite direction.
"Hey, what's it like being the first person on the planet to break their arm while jerking off?" Booms an aggravating voice from down the hall.
"J-Jared! T-that's not what happened!" Evan retaliates with a flushed face and pursed lips. He grips the door of his locker indignantly. "Quiet down before s-someone hears you," he adds, keeping his voice hushed.
"Relax, dipshit. Nobody cares." Jared leans against his locker. "Were you watching all of Zoe Murphy's music vines on your weird off-brand phone when it happened?" He added snarkily, not missing a beat in his perpetuating brashness. "I didn't peg you as having a guitar kink, seeing that most are made of dead trees—and we all know how horny you are for trees."
"N-no! I said that's not—I didn't..." Evan sighs, frustrated. "F-for your information, I fell out of a tree a-actually."
Jared's bemused features twist into confusion. "Wait, really?" He barks out a laugh. "What are you, like an acorn or something?" Evan makes a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat in exasperation. "Of course you were in a tree," Jared adds cheekily. "Did you spend your entire summer jerking off in trees?"
Evan's face burns and he shakes his head, wringing his hands in the bottom of his polo shirt, stretching it out even more than it already is. "That's not f-funny, Jared…"
"Whatever…" he folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the lockers casually. "Seriously though, how the hell did you manage to fall out of a tree?" Jared asks in a mocking tone.
"W-well, it's a funny story, actually, because a-after I, um, fell? I laid there, waiting for at least, like, ten minutes—waiting for someone to come. I thought to myself 'any second now. Someone will find me.'"
Jared raises a brow. "And?"
"And w-what?"
"Did anyone find you?" Jared elaborates with an unimpressed expression.
"Oh! That's the, um, funny part actually because n-nobody even...came…" Evan trails off, his arms hanging numbly by his sides.
"Jesus Christ, Evan. That isn't even remotely funny." He grimaces momentarily, and Evan almost convinces himself it's because of guilt. "That's pathetically sad."
Evan blinks, chewing the dead skin from his bottom lip. "O-oh."
Jared rolls his eyes. "Anyway, wanna hear about my summer? It was definitely more exciting than yours. And unlike you, I have an actually funny story to tell." Evan sighs, turning towards his locker to put his binders for his first few classes inside his backpack.
Jared goes off about his time at summer camp and how he had made it to second base with some girl...or something. Evan’s attention-span drifts after a while. Evan attempts to avoid frowning as he pulls out his phone and stares at his unread message to his father from a few days ago informing him about school starting soon.
'Your father can't even be bothered to pay attention to you. I mean, face it, Evan. He left you for a reason. He got out while he still could and only speaks to you out of obligation. He has a new family now. You'll always just be a burden to him—just a disappointment—' He stuffs his phone into his bag and slings it over his shoulder before body-checking himself into his locker to shut it properly.
"Hey, um, did you maybe wanna sign my cast?" Evan inquires meekly after Jared stops talking about his stupid friends and his stupidly amazing time as a camp counsellor.
Jared raises an inquisitive brow. "Why?"
Evan swallows the lump that abruptly clogs his throat. "Because we're, um, friends?"
Jared rolls his eyes. "We've discussed this. We're family friends. That's a totally different thing," Jared explains irritably. 'He only speaks to you out of obligation—They all do—'
"R-right, yeah. Sorry." Evan sighs.
"Tell your mom I said hi. Don't want her ratting out to my mom and getting my car insurance revoked," he added snidely.
Evan nods mutely, picking absently at his cast. 'Why would you even ask him to sign your cast you stupid, spineless, worthless, dumb—' He notices Jared turn his head and smirk deviously at something further down the hallway. Connor Murphy thunderously strides towards them, his eyes unfocused as he maneuvers himself through the crowd that parts for him like the sea to Moses. Evan scrunches his brow. Bad comparison.
"Hey, Connor. Loving the hair length. Very school shooter chic," Jared teases suddenly, catching Evan off-guard. "And the dark nails, lovin' the nineties grunge-stoner look." Connor stops in his tracks and glares darkly at Jared. "Jeez, lighten up a little, will ya?" He adds quickly, shrinking under the taller boy's piercing blue eyes. "It was a joke."
"Oh, yeah. So fucking hilarious. I'm sorry, am I not laughing hard enough for you?" Connor replies, deadpanned.
Jared scoffs timidly. "God, you're such a freak." He scurries past Evan, bumping his shoulder lightly as he flees.
Evan forces out a strange smile, hoping to be casual. He chokes out a timid laugh under his breath as if to say, 'Wow, so...Jared, am I right?'—not knowing how else to react under Connor's scrutinizing gaze. He pales when Connor steps into his personal space, his face contorting into one filled with rage.
"What the fuck are you laughing at?"
Evan flinches at his rising voice. "N-no, I-I-I wasn't—Connor, I—"
"Stop fucking laughing at me!" He roars, gaining attention from a few passerby's. Evan shrinks into himself, ducking his head downward and staring pointedly at Connor's grey button-up underneath the bleach-washed black jacket. The taller boy leans closer, their faces mere centimetres apart. "I'm not the freak! You're the fucking freak!" He slams his hand against the locker beside Evan's face—who twitches painfully—to punctuate his point before stomping away.
Evan shudders and completely folds into himself, wondering if he can bend himself in half like a napkin as he begins hyperventilating. He stares, wide-eyed at nothing in particular as he focuses on his breathing. 'He's right, you know. You are a freak. You can't even interact like a normal person. You try and you try but to no avail. They'll never see you. And if they do, they'll hate what they see. You should just give up already—'
"Hey, are you okay?" Evan snaps his head up to see Zoe Murphy standing in front of him, watching him with furrowed brows and her hands gripping her bag that is slung over her shoulder. "I'm sorry about my brother. He's a psycho."
Evan shrugs. "He's really not…" Zoe frowns at this, tilting her head. "I mean. It was my fault. S-sorry."
"No it wasn't?" She replies, baffled. "You literally did nothing wrong." Evan shrugs again and Zoe lets out a deep breath. "You're Evan, right?
He blinks vacantly at her. "Evan."
"That's...your name, isn't it?" She queries with concern.
"No!" Evan blushes bashfully. "Wait, y-yes—I mean—sorry!—That's my name. Evan." He scratched his ear, hoping to cover how red his face is probably turning. "I'm so sorry. That's super annoying because, like, you said my name—then I repeated it back to you and it was so weird and—I'm sorry."
"You apologize a lot," she notes with a small chuckle.
"Y-yeah…" he chews his bottom lip aggressively.
She shifts her weight. "You wanna say it again, don't you?"
"Very much so, yes!" He blubbers out abashedly, speaking faster every second.
"Well, I'm Zoe," she says, changing the subject and proffering a hand.
Evan gapes at her outstretched hand and subconsciously wipes his hands on his shirt. "Yes, I know."
"You know?"
Evan might start hyperventilating again. "It's just that I know you from, uh, jazz band? I like jazz. Well, not jazz-jazz but, like, jazz band jazz—Oh my god, I'm rambling again. I'm sorry!"
"It's fine," she mumbles. "Are you, um, sure that you're okay? You sound like you can't breathe."
Evan could feel himself sweating through his shirt and he realizes horrifically that he might vomit from his ragged breathing. Instead of responding, he simply bolts down the hallway and sharply takes the corner, out of sight.
He runs blindly, the hallways blurring with his teary vision until he finally pushes through the threshold of the restroom. Evan's heart thumps against his ribcage like a carving knife on Thanksgiving as he locks himself in the farthest stall from the door and dry-heaves into the toilet; nothing comes up. He probably doesn't have enough food in his stomach to even expel.
He flops on the cold tile floor, distantly aware that it's shiny from a summertime polish, and he numbly reaches in his bag for his backup inhaler. Evan shakes it before taking two greedy puffs from it, then lays his head against the cool-metal stall divider, closing his eyes and focusing on the prickling goosebumps the chill causes.
He tucks away his inhaler and miserably wipes his tears and snot with bunched-up toilet paper, sniffling before getting up to rinse his face in the sink. After a few splashes of cold water, his heartbeat calms considerably at the cold sensation; he glares at his decrepit face. His reflection appears translucent to him. Perhaps he is a ghost, banging and screaming in an invisible box, waving frantically through it, yet nobody seems to notice...or care.
'When you're falling in a forest and nobody's around, do you ever even crash or even make a sound?'
The abrasive shrill of the warning bell ringing startles him out of his trance. This is gonna be a long day.
Dear Evan Hansen,
It turns out, this wasn’t an amazing day after all. This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because… Why would it be?
Oh, I know. Because there’s my mom and her overbearing nature. I wish I didn't burden her so much and I know she's trying, but every day I see how hard she works to keep everything together. I end up hating myself a little more each day since I know I am the cause of all her problems.
And there's my dad, who refuses to talk to me. Really talk to me. I haven't had a proper conversation with him since I was 7… before he checked out of my life and decided I must be a lost cause. An unwanted burden that he'd rather forget.
And then there's Zoe. All my hope is pinned on Zoe. Who I don’t even know, and doesn’t know me. But maybe if I did. Maybe if I could just talk to her, then maybe I could be normal… or maybe nothing would be different at all.
I wish that everything was different. I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said actually mattered to anyone.
I mean, face it: Would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?
Sincerely, your best and most dearest friend,
Me
Evan slides the mouse to click on the print settings, his arm moving against his will. He blinks a few times in terror as his actions finally register. Why did he print this at school? His legs bounce sporadically under the table. It’s done. Might as well intercept the printer line before it's too late—
“What happened to your arm?” Evan twitches painfully, looking across the table, and finding Connor Murphy sitting across from him at another computer, his expression unreadable as he glances at Evan’s cast briefly.
“Oh, um—I just—I, um, fell out of a tree?” Evan replies, his fingers absently scratching at his cuticles as he forces the words out.
Connor raises an eyebrow before snorting amusedly. “That’s—wow, that’s the saddest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”
Evan laughs nervously under his breath before shaking his head, pulling his lips in a straight line to force himself to stop. “Yeah, I know.”
His stomach sinks, not wanting to deal with him again today—not after he got yelled at for simply existing. 'Don’t speak, don’t breathe. Don’t bring any attention to yourself.' He urgently grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder, looking away from Connor as he power walks around the table and hurries towards the printer. He stops behind the two people waiting in front of the printer, hissing quietly when he digs his nail too deeply into his cuticles, causing his finger to bleed.
“Um, sorry—I printed something…?”
“Yeah, we’re all waiting,” the girl in front of him replies, deadpan, before turning around.
He ducks his head and rambles under his breath. “Right, yeah—sorry—”
“Nobody’s signed your cast.” Evan turns sharply, staring owlishly at Connor. He points down at his cast, causing Evan to follow his line of sight and cradle his arm close to his chest. His hands are getting sweaty.
“Yeah, I—um—wanted to keep it clean?” He gulps. “I mean, it’s not like anyone asked anyway so—so it doesn’t really matter, um—” Shut up.
“I’ll sign it,” Connor replies flatly. His expression is painfully neutral as he looks at his dirty boots. Evan stares at the mud-caked into the doc martins—a rather expensive brand, he notes. He has knockoffs that he wore at work over the summer. When he climbed the tree. When he fell.
“Oh-oh, no,” Evan stutters sheepishly. “You don’t have to…” He flinches as Connor steps forward. Why can’t he just act like a normal person? Connor is acting civil, all things considered, and Evan is just a floundering disaster. “It’s okay, really…”
“You got a sharpie?” Connor asks, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. Evan automatically rubs his damp hand over the pocket of his khakis containing the sharpie his mom gave him this morning and shakes his head. Connor’s lips twist as he struggles to keep his features vacant, Evan realizes. He’s annoying him already.
“Nope. No, I don’t. Sorry. It—it’s fine, really. You don’t have to if you don’t want to!” Evan feels his shirt dampen under his arms. The AirCon is blowing directly onto him from above, yet he still sweats buckets as he fumbles with his words.
Connor glances at the librarian's desk beside them. “Oh look, no need. There’s one right here.” Connor grabs the enormous sharpie from the plastic pen holder; black and shiny like Connor’s chipped nail polish.
Evan sighs, relenting as he awkwardly raises his broken arm for Connor to grab, nowhere near gentle. “O-ow…” Evan groans and Connor winces before loosening his iron grip on the anxious boy.
The sharpie scent bursts through Evan’s nose and he sniffles, hoping to not gag or sneeze as the inked tip impacts the rough material of the cast. It squeaks a little and Evan flinches, watching as the taller boy scrawls his name in big, blocky letters. It lasts for forever until he finally lets Evan go and recaps the sharpie; the scent lingers. Evan notices Connor smells a bit like a skunk—he furrows his brows as he pulls his arm closer, carefully twisting it. He also oddly smells like alpine-scented old spice.
Evan gapes at the six letters encompassing the entire forefront of his cast, bold and impossible to miss from across the room: CONNOR
“There,” he says as he casually plops the sharpie back into the penholder on the desk beside them. “Now we can both pretend to have a friend.”
Evan looks up at Connor and laughs nervously. He shakes his head abruptly, tensing his jaw to force himself to stop. “Sorry. Yeah.” Evan wishes the out-of-date periwinkle carpeting would swallow him up and spit him into another dimension. Preferably an empty one. "I mean, we don't have to pretend," Evan blurts out in a jumbled stutter, too quick to register. "Sorry!"
Connor lets out a breathy laugh through his nose. He rolls his eyes but then freezes. He sighs, scratching his neck as his eyes dart around wildly, avoiding eye contact. “You do that a lot.”
"What?"
Connor regards him with an arched brow. "Apologize. You do that a lot."
Evan flushes, ducking his head. Zoe said the same thing, earlier. "Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry—" he cringes. "I mean—"
"It's fine," Connor breathes out awkwardly. Evan swallows the pit in his stomach. Connor shuffles by, nodding firmly as if to affirm he is done with this discussion. “Well, see ya around, I guess.”
“Y—yeah, see you t—tomorrow.” Connor pauses at that, staring at Evan. He jerkily nods and turns around, instantly noticing the page on top of the printer and snags it. The lineup had miraculously vanished. “Oh, ‘Dear Evan Hansen’. I think this is yours?”
Evan’s eyes bulge from his sockets and he furiously nods. He completely forgot about his stupid letter. “Yes! That’s—that’s me—I mean—mine. That’s mine!”
As he reaches for it, though, Connor’s eyes squint and he holds it away, scanning the page with tense shoulders. “And then there’s Zoe…? Why is my sister’s name in here?”
“Sorry, It’s just—it’s for an assignment. Can I—”
“What the fuck is this? Why are you writing creepy shit about my sister?”
Evan blushes, looking around at the people staring at them. Oh god, why are they staring? His fingers claw at his cuticles again. He struggles to inhale. Why can’t he breathe? “No, Connor. It’s not—not like that—I didn’t—”
“You knew I would look at the printer,” Connor replies, his irritation causing his voice to rise in volume. “You knew I would see this and get angry. You just wanted the freak to explode, right? So you can tell that shitty friend of yours and laugh?” Evan shakes his head timidly, praying everyone looks away. How many are even looking? He saw two heads but it could be the entire library now for all he knows.
“No. Connor, please—”
“Fuck you!” Connor tightens his fist, crumpling the paper slightly as he shoves it in his pocket. He storms off out the doors and into the hallway.
Evan’s feet move before he even comprehends what he’s doing. He follows him into the empty hallway and calls after him. “Connor, I’m so sorry—I need the letter back. Please, just give it back. I didn’t mean to—”
Connor turns sharply and shoves him.
They gape at each other in shock as Evan whimpers on the floor, cradling his broken arm and trying to not wince at the sharp pain riding up his lower back. He does not want to cry, but that thought only causes his eyes to water. He sniffles pathetically and scrubs his face with his good arm, praying for the tears to stop.
Connor continues to ogle down at Evan, seemingly unable to move as the situation finally registers in his brain. His face melts into something devastating, scrunching as he sniffs. He turns around, and Evan swears he catches tears beginning to roll down his cheeks as he sharply turns a corner, escaping the broken boy sitting helplessly on the floor.
It takes another moment for the epiphany to strike. 'He's gonna post it online all over social media. He's gonna print out copies and scatter them around the school so everyone sees the freak that you truly are—'
The bell rings and Evan stumbles to his feet, hurrying towards his locker before anyone can see his pathetic display on the floor.
“I’m freaking out, Jared! It’s been three days since Connor’s been at school and I still haven’t gotten my letter b-back!” Evan grips the phone tightly, curling his finger through his hair until it coils tightly, sending a sharp pain through his scalp that grounds him. “W-what am I supposed to-to do?”
“I still don’t understand why you were printing some weird love letter to yourself at school. I always saw you more like the Lorax rather than the Onceler, myself,” Jared replies, his voice distant from the speaker. “You know, horny for trees and not for yourself.”
Evan can hear a bit of his video game in the background, the sounds unintelligible, but he still groans at the fact that he’s just on speaker phone like Jared doesn't even care. ‘It’s because he doesn’t care, Evan. You know this. He told you so. Multiple times—’
“Seriously though, there’s nothing you can do. If he posts your weird love—”
“—It’s not a love letter!—”
“—letter online, there’s no stopping it.” Evan’s eyes bulge and he tugs on his hair again. His hands are getting sweaty. “Regardless of what you do, you’re fucked. So just accept it and move on.”
“Jared I can’t j-j-just move on!” Evan replies, exasperated. He releases his hair and paces around his room, gesticulating wildly. “You know I-I-I can’t just ignore stuff like this with m-m-m-my—”
“Jesus, Acorn. Chill. If it’s beyond your control, there is nothing that weird brain of yours can conjure up to undo what’s already happened—Fucking Tyler! Stay in your goddamned post, you little piece of shit!— sorry, as I was saying.” Evan rolls his eyes and flops down on his bed, refreshing Connor’s admittedly minuscule Facebook page on his laptop. “There’s nothing you can do but wait or to just let it go—motherfucker!” Evan hears the distinctive game over sound effect and purses his lips, his eyebrows scrunching together as he refreshes the webpage again.
“He still hasn’t posted it on his Facebook. He hasn't updated his Facebook in over a year,” Evan says, mostly to fill in the silent dread that his brain likes to take advantage of to relentlessly bully himself. “Do you think he’s gonna print copies and post them all over the school?”
“Connor Murphy is many things,” Jared comments dryly, his voice rising in volume as he seems to pick up his phone. “A Regina George reject is not one of them. Seriously dude, relax.”
Evan snorts, his face devoid of emotion. “Telling someone with chronic anxiety to relax is like telling someone missing a leg to just walk it off.”
“Comparing yourself to amputees is probably offensive.” Evan frowns at his phone. “That’s beside the point. Try to do something to distract your mind. Wanna play the next round with me? I can boot Tyler cause he’s a little bitch.”
Evan shakes his head and sighs, resigned. “No. I think I’ll turn in for the night. Maybe I’ll get some homework done and get some sleep.”
“Suit yourself. Talk to ya later, loser.” The phone line goes dead before Evan can respond. He groans and tosses his phone carelessly onto his bed, flopping himself backwards onto it and staring up at his glowy stars with his arms folded across his chest.
Evan trudges into school the next day with heavy limbs and bags under his eyes. He rubs them with a wide yawn before opening his locker, nearly dislocating his shoulder to do so. ‘Stupid stuck locker. Stupid Jared. Why did you have to do that letter at school? Stupid stupid stupid stupid—’
“Hey, Acorn! What’s crack-ah-lackin’?” Evan spasms, gripping his locker door with gritted teeth as Jared materializes beside him, talking way too loudly for this early in the morning. “Jesus, Evan. What the hell happened to you? Did you get any sleep at all last night?”
Evan glares at Jared and he lifts up his hands, palms out, and waves them cautiously with squinty eyes and a wicked grin. “Okay, you’re definitely sleep-deprived. I don't think I’ve ever seen you give a death glare like that. It was kind of cute. You’re too adorable when you’re grumpy.”
Evan exhales loudly and for far too long before resting his head on the neighbouring locker. The cool metal soothes the dull throbbing in his head momentarily. “I couldn’t sleep over the letter.”
“What did I fuckin’ say, Evan? You have to let that shit go—”
“Jared, p-please don’t—”
The intercom screeches to life, echoing through the halls and causing Evan to flinch and hiss. “Evan Hansen to the principal’s office. Evan Hansen to the principal’s office.”
Evan throws his locker door shut with a bang; if he wasn’t in so much pain, he would have been impressed to see it closed perfectly without throwing himself into it to unjam its hinges. Jared gives him a bewildered look but says nothing as Evan readjusts his backpack and turns on his heel to slog his way towards the front of the school.
His locker is near the front, thankfully, so he finds himself inside the secretary’s office soon after being called in, glancing nervously at the principal who seems to have been waiting by the secretary's desk. They both have closed-off expressions the moment Evan makes eye contact with them. He can tell they have been whispering about something. About him, most likely as they regard him with something akin to despair and sympathy. Great, he’s probably gotten in trouble for that stupid letter. Connor probably told them it was a bullying thing and now he’ll get suspended and have to explain to his mom why he’s such a failure—
“Evan, how are you feeling, son?” Mr. Porter asks with a low, calm voice. He’s always had such a gentle voice. It’s usually why the Vice Principal handled the troublemakers—she was outright terrifying.
Evan eases up at the prospect that maybe he might not be in trouble if it’s Mr. Porter and not Ms. Kirkinelli. “I’m o-okay, I guess?” He flickers his eyes between Mr. Porter and the Secretary. “Am I in trouble?”
“No, Evan. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy are inside my office here to speak with you,” Mr. Porter replies, his smile barely there. Evan’s heartbeat quickened. His hands are sweaty. If the Murphy’s want to speak with him then why wouldn’t he be in trouble?
“Okay…” He mumbles before he is led into the office, Mr. Porter closing the door behind him.
Evan feels hot all over as Mr. and Mrs. Murphy turn around in their seats to scrutinize him, their eyes examining his frail frame with apt curiosity. Mrs. Murphy’s eyes are red-rimmed and she is clutching a tissue box on her lap, dabbing her wet cheeks respectfully with her other hand. Mr. Murphy is starkly opposite; his features stoic and his lips in a hard, thin line as he waves silently to the couch across from them.
Evan’s wobbly legs manage to get him to the couch before he sinks onto the edge of it, placing his bag beside him with twitchy hands. He tugs at his hoodie sleeves before scratching his cheek, feeling the heat emanate from his skin. “Um, h-hello?”
“Hello,” Mrs. Murphy offers with a warm smile.
“Evan Hansen?” Mr. Murphy says instead; blunt and succinct. Evan nods, his head feeling lighter than a feather as it bobs back and forth. “I’m Larry, and this is my wife Cynthia.” Evan attempts to swallow the growing pit in his throat, but it only makes it dryer.
They exchange a brief glance and Mrs. Murphy digs into her purse, sniffling before pulling out a partly crumpled piece of paper. “We came here to speak with you because, well...”—she hands him the letter and he accepts it with shaky hands. He flickers his gaze downward and opens it, his eyes expanding at the opening line, ‘Dear Evan Hansen’—“Connor, he wrote these words...for you.”
“His last words,” Larry Murphy emphasizes with a deep tone.
Evan’s eyes scan the page, moving quicker along with his rapidly increasing heart rate. “I-I-I—Connor, he—what? What do you mean ‘last words’?” He’s talking too fast.
“Larry, don’t say that. There’s still hope!” Cynthia Murphy barges in, her expression exploding with fury as she turns to her husband.
“They were meant to be his last words,” he grumbles in response. Evan’s head ping-pongs back and forth as they argue.
“But he’s still alive—”
“I-I’m sorry.” Evan steals their attention, his breathing erratic. “W-what’s happening? What happened to Connor?”
“He tried to take his own life,” Larry states matter-of-factly, with an undertone of an unreadable emotion amidst Evan’s ongoing panic attack. “He’s currently at the hospital in a coma.”
“He wrote that for you, Evan,” Cynthia cuts in, motioning towards the letter.
“I-I-I—he didn’t—Connor—oh god—I’m so sorry,” Evan stutters out rapidly. He sniffles as he tries to resist oncoming tears. “This isn't—Connor didn’t write this.”
“What?” She turns her head to her husband with bewilderment. “Larry, what is he saying? W-what does he mean?”
“Sweetheart, he’s clearly in shock.”
“I-I can’t—” Evan struggles to articulate his thoughts.
“But those were—this is all we have!” Cynthia bursts into tears. “He—he didn’t talk to us and then h-he left only this—for you.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Evan pleads, leaning forward to hand over the letter. He can’t look at it, He can't be here. He has to go go go go— “Please, t-take it— I can’t—”
“No! He addressed it to you! ‘Dear Evan Hansen’, that’s what it says,” Cynthia taps the paper insistently before hesitating. Evan’s entire body may spontaneously combust at any moment as he remains frozen under their hard gazes. She looks into his eyes before looking back at his cast. He follows her line of sight, seeing that his hoodie sleeve had ridden up his arm a bit. She gently holds his hand and rolls the sleeve up, revealing in big, blocky letters:
CONNOR
She gasps with a watery smile. “My best and most dearest friend,” she whispers, awestricken as her eyes remain glued on his cast.
Evan stares at the two Murphy parents and swallows painfully, his throat not letting up the dry needles that have formed. His lungs squeeze in his chest and his fingers twitch under Cynthia’s soft hands. His mouth remains wired shut as the situation finally settles in.
Shit.