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Dear Evan Hansen,
So, I’ve never been in therapy. It would probably help me, like it would probably help everyone, but I guess a good place to start is journaling. A ton of people have told me to journal to process things so I’m writing you a letter, in a notebook, which you’ll never read. If I’m writing to no one, I feel stupid. I’ve tried.
Why you, you ask? I’m sure you’re asking, you, that is, the invisible Evan in my head that’s reading this. It is NOT because you wrote that letter (you know, THE letter) to yourself, and now the “dear Evan Hansen” thing is in my head. There’s a little bit of irony in it, I guess, because I did just write it at the top of the page, but if we’re being honest—and this is my diary here, so why the fuck would I not be honest?—that letter makes me fucking depressed and it’s not funny to me. I know I know! Why would I make so many jokes about it if it wasn’t funny to me?
I don’t know. Yeah, that’s right. I have no fucking clue. I guess that’s where therapy would help me out, isn’t it? I would say about 90% of the things I say to you I don’t mean. Stuff like “I want pizza” I obviously mean. But things like when I told you yesterday the tan lines from your cast were so unsexy, you should continuously wear long sleeves so no one has to look at them, yeah that kind of thing I mean 0% of the time.
Which gets back to the question of why you. Because I’m in love with you. Fucking. Obviously.
Okay so here’s the thing. I’ve never written that down fucking anywhere before. I know no one is ever going to find it, so it’s fine.
It’s fine.
Anyway. As for the reason I started to journal today, well, you were there.
I saw you in the corner of the classroom looking like the saddest pile of shit I’ve ever seen. I mean, Evan, seriously. You were in the beanbag, which you have never once been brave enough to go sit in, and your hood was on, inside, and just from the way you were looking around, I knew people had been saying things to you. Like the CIA was hunting you or something. I’ve never seen you that fucked up. I’ve never seen you that fucked up and apparently you’ve wanted to kill yourself before, so you’ve been pretty low.
But I saw you there, and the things I wanted to do, Evan, oh my God.
I wanted to, like, grab you and march you out the door and take you home and make you instant ramen or something, and like bury you in blankets and turn on the TV. And I’d hold you all night. (In my imagination, you’re comforted by being held by me. I know that in reality you would probably be weirded out.) I would’ve kissed your forehead (I know, I know, like a mom, shut it). I wanted to, like, IDK, wash your hair?? I imagined pouring warm water on you, and you could sit there at peace while I took care of you, and I wouldn’t even say anything stupid and mean, because in my imagination, I’m never stupid and I’m never mean.
So I started this journal because it’s unbearable how much I want you, I mean it’s fucking RIDICULOUS, and I just need somewhere to say AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH HOLY FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS I CAN’T EVEN LOOK AT YOU AHHHHH THE FUCK???? If you know what I mean. I mean. That’s really how I feel. I can’t even look at you. Jesus Christ.
And I started this journal because I watched Jake go the long way around to the Chromebook cart just so he could lean over you and kick the beanbag and watch you flinch, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even do you the courtesy of looking—I looked away, like your pain wasn’t real to me.
I guess I’m trying to understand why. Why didn’t I do anything or say anything, or even catch you after class and ask if you’re okay? Like, yeah, okay, we haven’t spoken since the whole Connor thing blew up, but I’m the one who stormed out on you, so….
I thought writing this out would help me get it. I don’t know. I don’t get it.
I love you,
Jared