Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Okay, Evan. This is it. Senior year! Time to make some memories and make some friends!"

The familiar mantra plays in my head on a loop, still resonating with my mom's ever-hopeful tone. She woke up at the crack of dawn this morning to make me chocolate chip pancakes and shower me with words of encouragement, as if they might magically cure me of social anxiety. Her enthusiasm is a bit patronizing, especially in the context of the war zone that is my high school, but deep down... I hope she's right.

“Hey! How was your summer?”

The voice comes from my left. At first, I think it’s directed at someone else, but then I turn to see Alana Beck looking at me through her big, round glasses. Alana will talk to anyone and anything, sometimes even small animals and inanimate objects. She’s sweet, but admittedly not the best listener.

“Mine was productive. I did three internships and 90 hours of community service!” she says in her usual, chirpy voice.

“Wow, that’s really-” I start, but she continues over me.

“And even though I was busy, I still made some great new friends – or well, acquaintances more like.” She pauses to take a breath and I manage to spit out a full sentence.

“Do you wanna maybe sign my cast?”

She places a hand over her heart. “Oh my god, what happened to your arm?”

I’ve practiced the story. “Oh, well. I broke it. I was climbing a tree and I-”

“Oh really? My grandma broke her hip getting into the bathtub in July. It was the beginning of the end – the doctors said – because then she died… Happy first day!”

And there she goes, with a skip in her step, off to inform the next unsuspecting student of her summer affairs. My eyes follow her down the hallway as my brain struggles to understand what just happened.

"Can she even hear me? Can anyone?"

I look down at my blank cast and then back up at the crowded hallway. It’s buzzing with voices and the sounds of squeaking shoes and slamming lockers. Three years here and I still feel like no one really notices me. I'm like a ghost that haunts the school, observant of all but visible to none.

"Maybe that’s for the best. I mean, if they can’t see me, they can’t hurt me, right? " 

Unfortunately, ghosts are untouchable in more than one sense.

As I turn a corner, something catches my attention – a hand waving at me from down the hall. It’s a girl from last year’s history class. Lacey, I think. The corners of my mouth creep up and I start to lift my hand, but then another girl runs past me with her hand fluttering high above her head in a matching gesture. The two meet up and start gabbing excitedly about their summers… and I shove my hand in my pocket.

My locker smells like fermented gym socks. As I squat down and shove in my textbooks, I make a mental note to get one of those scented tree fresheners to put inside. After some unsuccessful organizing, I try to close my locker door, only to watch it bounce off my paraphernalia and swing back open. I push on it harder, bracing my feet against the tile and grunting with effort… to no avail. As a last resort, I step back, position the locker door just so… and kick it as hard as I can.

Immediately, I’m doubling over in pain and grabbing my foot.

"Idiot! Why did you do that?!"

A scene starts playing out in my head where I return to the ER for a second cast and the entire staff is laughing at me and shaking their heads. But then I realize that the pain isn’t throbbing in waves like it was that day under the tree, so… I guess it’s not broken. And, hey, at least my locker door is closed now…

"Look at me, being all positive."

Suddenly, an abrasive laugh meets my ears and I turn nervously to see another familiar face. Jared Kleinman. Thankfully he’s laughing at something on his phone and not at me. In fact, it looks like he didn’t see me at all, and thank goodness because – knowing Jared – I’d never hear the end of it if he had. Our moms have been good friends ever since they met in med school but Jared and I don’t… “click” quite like they do. Still, we at least have a history (even if that history is him creaming me mercilessly at Mario Kart). I take a breath and walk towards him, carefully avoiding the swarm of bodies and backpacks that weave around me. “Hey, Jared.” I practice the opening phrase in my head nearly a dozen times, but the inflection still comes out squeaky and far too quiet.

He looks at me and immediately takes on his usual snarky persona, with one eyebrow peaking up over his glasses and his mouth swept to the side in a smirk. “Oh. Hey there, Hansen.” He says my name like it’s the punchline of a joke. Then his gaze meets my cast. “What happened? Did you slip dancing in the shower or something?”

My cheeks go red. “What?! No! That’s not what happened! Obviously.” My stomach lurches at the thought of that visual – me naked, wet, and dancing wildly – playing out in Jared’s unkempt brain. “I was just- well, I was climbing a tree and I fell.”

He laughs loudly. “You FELL out a TREE?” What are you? Like... an acorn??”

"That’s right…"  I remember. "Jared likes funny. I can be funny!"

“Well, well, it’s actually a funny story though-” I say, my voice suddenly accelerating. “Because you see there was like a solid ten minutes where I was just lying there, uh, on the ground waiting for someone to get me. I was just ‘Any second now’. I kept saying to myself ‘Any second now. Here they’ll come!’”

I laugh nervously at the filtered memory, but Jared doesn’t join in.

“Did they?” he says doubtfully.

“No. Nobody came. That’s-” I take a breath. “That’s what’s so funny?”

“Right…” Jared says, his face a mix of judgment and confusion. He looks like he might bail from the conversation so I haphazardly throw in a question.

“How was- What did-” Awkward cough. “Did you have a good summer?”

It works. “Well, my bunk dominated in capture the flag and I got to second base with this girl from Israel who’s going to be in the army so…” he makes a smug face. “If that answers your question.”

"Gross… Okay, whatever. You still successfully engaged in small talk. Now ask him!"

“Cool, uh… D-do you want to sign my cast?”

“Why would you ask me that?” he responds, almost suspiciously.

“Well, I just- I thought ‘cause we’re friends.”

“We’re FAMILY friends,” he explains. “That’s like a whole different thing and you know it.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder consolingly and for a second I think he’s about to offer some compassion. “Hey… make sure to tell your mom to tell my mom that I was nice to you, or else they won’t pay for my car insurance.” 

I give an awkward half-smile and nod.

So that's two for two, rejection wise... Yikes, what is my mom going to think if I come home with no signatures? Maybe I can just forge some later…

“Hey, Connor, loving the new hair length! Very… school shooter chic.”

I look behind me to see the subject of Jared’s… comment. A few lockers down from the two of us, Connor Murphy slowly turns his head and glares at Jared. When he doesn’t let up, I start to wonder if he’s actually considering the idea… and mentally adding us to a list of potential targets.

Jared backtracks. “I was… just kidding. It was a joke.”

“Oh no, I’m laughing. Can’t you tell I’m laughing?” He says coolly. Then he steps closer and raises his voice. “Am I not laughing hard enough for you?!”

I stare anxiously at the floor, trying to disappear from the confrontation. This isn't the first time I've witnessed a tense interaction between Jared and Connor, but it's the first time I've been stuck directly in the middle of one. I try to pinpoint what the awful feeling so I can "explain the nature of my anxiety" to Dr. Pierce during my next therapy session. She always loves a good metaphor.

"I feel like - a fly caught in a spiderweb..."

"Or a turtle whose head is too big to pull into its shell..."

"No, no. More like a tree that remains helplessly rooted to the ground as a forest fire consumes its surroundings and it can feel the heat getting closer and closer and all the animals are running past it but it can't move 'cause it's a stupid tree and it just has to accept the inevitable approach of death..."

"Yeah, that's it."

You see, Connor Murphy is the kind of enigma that most people are smart enough not to poke with a stick, but I think Jared was born without the part of the brain that filters out poor choices. Otherwise, you think he’d know better than to say something like that, especially after going to school with him for almost twelve years. Throughout all those classes and all those grades, I can probably count the number of times I’ve spoken to Connor on one hand. In the third grade, Shauna Thomas asked him if she could borrow a pencil and he threw it at her head like a dart. Ever since then, I’ve tried to steer clear of him. (Then again, Shauna Thomas was a manipulative gossip, so maybe she had it coming.)

Jared mumbles something about Connor being a freak and, out of the corner of my eye, I see his tennis shoes turn and walk off. The black combat boots, however, stay planted right where they are. I’m tempted to keep my head down and ditch the situation, but part of me feels bad for Connor. I know firsthand just how painful some of Jared’s “jokes” can be.

"Maybe I should say something..."

I look up and immediately regret my decision. Connor’s eyes lock with mine and suddenly every ounce of courage in me disappears. Every English word vanishes from my brain and is replaced only with a multitude of alarms and sirens. I stand there frozen with my mouth hanging open like an idiot. Nothing comes out, not even air. I’m too scared to breathe. 

“What are you looking at?!” He yells, shaking hands tightening into fists.

“N-nothing. I- I just…” I finally get a few words out, but it’s too little too late.

“You think I’m a freak?!  YOU’RE the FREAK!!”

And with those words, he slams me into the lockers and storms off. I crumple to the ground and wince at the pounding in the back of my head. Through tears, I look up and notice that people are staring at me.

If they can see me, they can hurt me.

I run to the bathroom.

Chapter Text

Alone in the girls’ bathroom, I wipe at the tears in my eyes and try to keep from hyperventilating. My fingers brace against the edge of the sink. 

"Why did I think I could do this? I can't. I can't. I can't."

The warning bell rings above me. I sigh and brace myself as I look in the mirror. My hazel eyes are tinged with red and still watering. I rub at them haphazardly and try to fix the wayward strands of light brown hair that hang awkwardly around my shoulders. Nothing seems to help the mess staring back at me.

"Maybe I'll just spend first period curled up in a bathroom stall... or maybe I should just find another tree or a tall building and-"

Before I can finish the thought, the door opens and a concerned girl with long brown hair steps in. Not just any girl, though.

"Holy crap, it's Zoe Murphy."

My idol. My role-model. My paragon of perfection. Even though she’s a year younger than me, I can't help but esteem her. Happy and uninhibited, she’s everything I wish I could be and everything I could ever want in a friend. And she also just happens to be Connor’s sister.

“Hey, I’m sorry about my brother. I saw him push you. He’s… a psychopath.”

I quickly wipe at my eyes, hoping I look at least half-way decent, and just sort of nod in response.

She takes a breath and says “Evan, right?”

My brain short circuits as the once-familiar name takes on a new identity in her gentle voice.

“Evan…” I mumble distractedly.

“That’s your name?” she continues.

I snap out the daze. “Yes, it is! It’s Evan. Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” she asks.

My voice accelerates, awkward and awestruck. “Because you said Evan and then I said it – I repeated it – which is just so annoying when people do that so…”

“I’m Zoe,” she says sweetly, offering her hand.

I suddenly realize that my own hands are incredibly wet from a mixture of tears and sweat so I swipe them on my pants. “No, I know.”

“You know?” I look up to see her hand retracting.

"Oh no, she thinks I’m weird."

I panic and start spiraling. “No, it’s just that I’ve seen you play guitar in jazz band. I love jazz band! I love jazz. Well, not all kinds of jazz, but definitely like jazz band jazz.” I falter and trail off. “That’s so weird – I’m sorry.”

By some miracle she seems unfazed by my nervousness and simply says, “You apologize a lot.”

“Sorry, I mean-” I try to play it off coolly. “You know what I mean…”

The bell rings again. She smiles and takes a step back. “Ok, well-”

“You don’t want to sign my cast, do you?” The second the words are out of my mouth I wish I could take them back.

"What are you thinking? Zoe freaking Murphy? Why would she sign your cast? You're just setting yourself up for rejection!"

Before Zoe can even turn around. I spit out more words and pretend it never happened, “What? What did you say?”

She looks at me confused. “I didn’t say anything. You said-”

“What? No way… Jose.” I cringe at my choice of words.

But then she says, “Okay… Jose” and I’m reminded of why I admire her so much. Zoe never misses a beat. She goes with the flow. She lives freely without fearing what other people think of her and yet still manages to be popular. As I watch her leave the restroom, I feel the small hope of having a friendship with her slip away. She could never like me... and I could never be like her.

The day drags on and each class provides a much-needed distraction from the destructive thoughts that crowd in the back of my mind. They fight for my attention but I drown them out with mental notes about Shakespeare and Calculus. It’s only when I’m alone in the hallway, alone at lunch, and alone after school that I feel vulnerable to them again. I struggle as they tear apart my wounded ego, taunting me for the blank cast and all it stands for.

"No one came. No one’s coming. You were alone then and you always will be…"

My phone rings.

“Hey, mom.”

“Hey, honey, I know I’m supposed to pick you up for your appointment today, but Erica called in with the flu and I’m the only nurse’s aide here, so I volunteered to pick up a shift.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly, even though it’s not. I’m starting to feel like my own mother is avoiding me.

“Um, also, go ahead and eat without me because I won’t be home ‘til late. I’m going straight from here to class.” Yep, definitely avoiding me. “We’ve got those Trader Joe’s dumplings in the freezer,” she says in a hopeful tone, as if it might make me feel better.

“Maybe.”

“Hey, did you write one of those letters yet? Dr. Pierce is expecting you to have one. Dear Evangelie Hansen, it’s going to be a good day, here’s why…”

I stare at the blank Word document in front of me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I uh- I already finished it. I’m in the computer lab right now printing it out.”

“I hope it was a good day, honey…” 

“It-” I falter. Part of me wants to tell the truth, but I know it'd only hurt her. “It was great.”

She sighs a breath a relief and chuckles. “Great! Great… Oh, I feel like this is going to be the start of a great year! I think we both could use one of those, huh?”

"If only it were that easy."

“Oh, I gotta run. Bye.”

She hangs up.

“Bye…”

I sigh and set down my phone. I only have thirty minutes left before I need to leave for my therapist appointment. I start typing:

Dear Evangelie Hansen,

Today’s going to be a great day and here’s why…

The typing symbol blinks at me, waiting... waiting for reasons I do not have.

"Here’s why… here’s why… why? Why do I have to lie to myself about how I feel?"

I tap on the backspace key and start writing honestly through watering eyes.

Dear Evan Hansen,

Turns out this isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year, because why would it be? People rarely see me and when they do it’s because I’m a source of shame. I wish things were different. I wish I was different. I wish I was part of something. I wish anything I said to anyone mattered. I mean, face it - would anyone even notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?

I read the words over and over again and old feelings begin to set back in. Feelings of hopelessness. Feelings that overwhelmed me this summer. I type the closing, almost sarcastically. Not caring.

Sincerely, your best and most-dearest friend,

Me

I press print and pull my backpack up onto my shoulder. Beside the open doorway to the computer lab, I wait as the printer whirs and buzzes and takes its sweet time printing out one measly piece of paper. It spits my letter onto the floor and as I reach down to get it, a pair of black combat boots step in front of me. I grab the paper, stuff it into my bag, and stand up to see Connor Murphy blocking my only exit. Inside, I start panicking.

"If I call for help will anybody hear me? Will anybody come?"

I take a step back.

“So, um what happened to your arm?” he asks.

"Oh… That’s it?"

Suddenly I realize that the Connor who’s talking to me is somehow different from the Connor who pushed me this morning. His gaze is flighty, almost nervous… and his voice is soft and genuine.

“Oh, I um I fell out a tree,” I say cautiously.

“You fell out of a tree?” I nod. “Well, that is just the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Oh my god.”

He laughs a little, but not unkindly. It reminds me of Zoe.

I chuckle, “I know...”

“Uh, no one’s signed your cast.”

I look down. “No, I know.” 

“Well, I’ll sign it.” He says, stepping closer.

“You don’t have to.” I say quickly. I stand there in the brief silence that follows, waiting…

Waiting for him to change his mind.

Waiting for him to leave.

Waiting for him to push me again.

“Do you have a sharpie?”

I look up at Connor. His brown eyes are soft and pained as they look into mine and - for once - I feel like someone really sees me. Sees me as more than just another person in the hallway, as more than a bucket of awkward nerves, as more than a disappointment…

I hold out the Sharpie. As he takes it, I feel a trace of sweat on his fingers. He uncaps the marker and pulls me by my cast closer to him.

“Ow,” I accidentally let out.

“Oh. Sorry,” he says. I smile to show I’m fine and he starts writing. My senses seem to heighten as I realize just how close he is to me. With his head down, his long brown hair hangs in front of my face and I have the sudden urge to touch it. It smells faintly like a men’s shampoo that I accidentally bought once.

I almost make the mistake of verbalizing this observation, when I suddenly see his finished product. In giant letters, the name “CONNOR” takes up nearly the entire cast, making my cheeks flush slightly. “Oh, great. Thanks…” I say, not yet knowing how I should feel about this.

“Yeah well, now we can both pretend that we have friends.” He says it casually, but I can hear the subtle sadness behind his playful tone.

“Good… good point.”

Connor clears his throat and starts shifting uncomfortably. “I, uh… I’m really sorry about earlier today,” he says, hanging his head in guilt. 

“I have these…” he gestures vaguely and searches for the word, “um really bad ‘moments’ - my mom calls ‘em – and I shouldn’t have taken everything out on you, especially since you uh… well, you didn't do anything wrong and I mean geez you already have a broken arm..." He scratches the back of his head. "I just, uh, I wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”

The honest remorse in his voice triggers the beginnings of forgiveness.

“Me? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. You’re fine. It's fine.” I say, as if he had just accidentally bumped into me, and not shoved me into a bunch of lockers.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. Thanks, uh… sorry, what’s your name again?

“Oh, uh m-my name’s Evan. Well, technically, it’s Evangelie, but I uh-” I can feel myself start to accelerate again so I pause and take a breath. I glance up nervously at Connor but he’s not annoyed or weirded out. In fact, he looks…interested. So I continue, but I control my pace, “Well, I guess some people get tired of using all four syllables, so they call me Ev or Evie or Angel, but I like Evan the best – even though my mom says it’s a “boy’s name” – because Evan rhymes with seven and seven is my favorite number... so.”

A hint of a smile creeps onto Connor's face, shy amusement in his eyes. “Cool,” he says, his gaze dropping for a moment. "You know, you're a lot different from that Jared kid... I'm kind of surprised your friends with him."

I spit out something resembling a sentence. "Oh! Well, he- uh, I mean we're not REALLY friends. We're just "family friends", which is like- a whole other thing, you know?" 

He laughs and look back up at me, wordlessly, before suddenly averting his eyes and shifting toward the door. “Uh, well, see you later… Evan.” He lifts his hand in a miniature wave and turns to leave.

“See ya!” I say, hope settling into my voice. I watch him turn the corner and try to process everything that’s just happened. Maybe I'll make it through the year after all.

Chapter Text

Standing outside my therapist's office, I feel a pressure build up in my chest. It's as if my entire rib cage has been clamped into a vice that's slowly tightening, slowly suffocating me. I know I shouldn't feel so tense about these sessions, but I can't help but feel like I'm about to go through surgery, every question an incision into my mutilated psyche. I would probably be more inclined to participate if I knew the ordeal would result in a personality transplant, but progress is never that simple.

I knock on the door.

"Evangelie, I'm glad you could make it."

I give a half-smile to Dr. Pierce and walk past her into the operating room office.

"Please, have a seat."

One thing that I do like about therapy is the couch. Its plum-colored material is ridiculously soft and its padding morphs around you. As I sink into the comfortable cushions and pull a small patterned pillow into my lap, I begin to wonder if there's a social equivalent to therapy couch comfort. I try to visualize a scenario in which talking to someone could feeling as relaxing as this marvelous piece of furniture, then quickly dismiss the fantasy. No, my conversations will probably always feel more like a ten year old futon that some desperate college students pulled out of a dump.

"So today was your first day of school?" Dr. Pierce sits in her own expensive chair and brings a steaming cup of coffee to her lips. Her mug says, "Please don't confuse your Google search with my Psychology degree." 

I nod.

"And how would you rate it?"

My eyebrows pinch together in thought as I try to place a value on the sum of events today. Finally, I settle on, "Um… a D+?"

A sad smile from Dr. Pierce. "That's a pretty low score. Would you say that’s because of bad experiences or a lack of good experiences?"

"Both, I guess."

She nods and writes something down.

"Well, why don't you give me some examples of the bad experiences and describe how you felt in those moments."

As I launch into the details of the day, my eyes settle on the flickering flame of a candle that sits between us. It releases a sickly-sweet aroma that seems oddly in conflict with the connotation of my monologue. Dr. Pierce scribbles in her notepad, nods her head, and sips her coffee. Every once and awhile, she pauses me to ask a follow up question:

“Does Alana typically have trouble sharing the conversation?”

“Do you want to be more than family friends with Jared?”

“Do you feel like Connor’s aggression was displaced?”

“Is this the same Zoe you mentioned a few months ago? The girl you admire?”

It almost feels like I’m being interviewed… or interrogated, but Dr. Pierce has assured me in the past that treatment is dependent on understanding. I'm at least grateful that she doesn’t just make assumptions about me and my issues. My last therapist couldn't even get my name right and yet he still managed to shove prescriptions and fortune cookie advice at me in the most obnoxious way possible.

Dr. Pierce finishes her note. "Did anything else significant happen today?"

“Well, after school, I went to the computer lab to work on my letter. You know, the ‘Dear Evangelie Hansen, today’s going to be a good day blah blah blah-’” Dr. Pierce looks up at me over her glasses and raises an eyebrow at my sarcastically happy tone. I clear my throat. “Well, after everything that happened, I just couldn’t bring myself to… fake that mindset? I just stared at the screen for a while and then I um-” I pull the folded paper from my backpack, resting it carefully in my lap. “I wrote this.” I bend the corners of note anxiously, not wanting to unveil the vulnerable pieces of darkness inside. Before Dr. Pierce can ask for it, I continue the story, letting my voice gain momentum. “B-but after I printed it, uh - I mean, I guess this is important so I’ll just go ahead and tell you – Connor came into the room and he was actually nice and he started talking to me and he, uh-” I raise my left arm slightly, “he signed my cast and apologized. I- I guess he has anger problems or something, because he seemed like he really regretted yelling at me and... I don’t think he has any friends either...”

I nervously run a finger along my cast as I talk, tracing the scrawled letters that make up his name. Dr. Pierce seems to notice this because her next question is laced with hesitant interest. “Would you consider… Connor… as a potential friend?"

“That would be weird, though, wouldn’t it?" The words come spilling out. "I mean I forgive him for pushing me a-and yelling at me, but still, he’s kind of unpredictable and I don’t know if he’d even want to be friends-”

“Evan.” She interrupts me, bringing the runaway train of thought to a halt. “I’m not asking you to make a blood oath or sign a contract here. I just want you to consider whether or not it’s worth it to get to know him more, to find out if he’d make a good friend.”

I swallow, dropping my eyes. “Oh.” 

A heavy silence sits between us for a few moments. Finally, Dr. Pierce speaks up, her words intentional and lingering. “Evan, loneliness manifests itself in people in different ways and with different symptoms. For you, it might be anxiety. For Connor, it might be anger. For others-" she glances at her notepad, "it might be an achievement-based mindset or faked self-confidence." She takes a breath and looks back to me. "My point is that people aren’t as simple as we sometimes make them out to be. I want you to try to focus less on finding a friend and focus more on finding someone who needs a friend. When you do that, you’ll realize that you actually have the power to cure loneliness, in both yourself and in others.”

I hum in response, and twist a ring on my finger. The room is filled with another heavy silence, but inside, my thoughts are screaming.

"She wants ME to find people who need friends!? As in, like, walking up to strangers and sputtering out unintelligible introductions until I find someone as desperate as me? Isn't that like the blind leading the blind? The sick treating the sick? Next, she'll be telling me to run for class president!"

“May I see the letter now?”

My thought bubble pops. I focus my gaze back on Dr. Pierce and see that she's gesturing toward the paper in my lap. I hand it to her hesitantly. As she unfolds the letter and reads its contents, I become hyper-aware of my heart beat... and the ticking of the wall clock... and the distant whir of a vacuum down the hall. Her eyes fill with concern.

“Do you still feel this way?”

I lift an open hand and twist it silently, as if to say "sort of..."

She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Then let’s adjust your assignment. I want you to keep this note," she hands it back to me, "and as you progress this year and these statements lose their accuracy, I want you to cross them out, one at a time." She forces an optimistic smile. "And we’ll make it our goal to eliminate every line by the end of the school year, okay?”

I nod, looking down at the note one more time before folding it again. Then my voice comes back to me.

“Dr. Pierce?”

“Yes?”

“About the whole… curing other people’s loneliness thing. I just, uh – how? How do I talk to people? I mean, without word vomiting or freezing up?”

She thinks for a moment and then answers my question with her own.

“Who knows you the best, Evangelie?”

For once an easy question. "My mom.”

“Do you have any verbal difficulty when you talk to her?”

“No.”

“Well then, there you go,” she says, gesturing simply.

Her meaning is lost on me. “You… want me to be friends with my mom?”

“No, no.” She says, holding back laughter. “I only meant to point out that you experience less social anxiety when you feel that the other person already knows and accepts you. You might be able to foster this same feeling with other people through imagined interactions.”

I nod confusedly. I know all of the words she's saying but still don't understand exactly what she means. She takes notice and tones down the vernacular. 

“Imagine yourself having a deep and honest conversation with a potential friend and then imagine them responding positively in return. Hopefully, this will take some of the pressure off when you’re actually talking to them, and make you feel more at ease.”

The word "ease" lingers on my ear and I lightly touch the fabric of the cushion beneath me. 

"Maybe that's the secret to therapy couch comfort..."

"Well, it looks like we're out of time for today. I'll see you in a few weeks, Evan."

* * *

As I walk out of the office building, my thoughts are busy with everything that's been discussed in the past hour. I can feel the vice slowly releasing its grip on me and I take a deep breath to stretch out my lungs. As I release the air, a quiet whisper comes with it.

"I have the power to cure loneliness."

I consider the statement, but it doesn't quite sit right with me. Denial quickly seeps it and draws my attention away, but still the thought is there... carefully planted in the back of my mind like a seed. As the evening sets in, a subconscious determination slowly rises up inside of me to see that seed grow and flourish. It may not be today... it may not be soon... but one day, I know, that seed will become something strong and rooted and unmistakably alive. 

Chapter Text

The kitchen is dark and quiet, save for the microwave.

Its golden glow shines on my face as I lean down, watching the tray of dumplings rotate and sizzle to the mechanical hum. My mind is still lingering on today's session with Dr. Pierce and I consider her suggestion to imagine positive interactions. To be honest, I've been guilty of fantasizing before - letting shiny, manufactured images dance through my head to compensate for a dull reality. Through the years, many of them have centered around Zoe. In my mind, we'd hang out together and laugh and she'd smile when she saw me. When I was younger, I used to imagine my dad coming back home, wrapping his arms around me and crying with regret. Then there was that time last year when I almost got hit by a car because I was distracted by thoughts of kissing the cute cashier I had just seen at Target...

Suddenly a loud beeping brings my attention back to the microwave. I grab a spoon and pull out the dumplings, alternating my fingers on the steaming tray as I walk upstairs to my room. There's a calm silence that saturates the house on nights like this, but my thoughts never fail to fill the void.

"None of my fantasies ever really include talking, let alone 'deep and honest conversations'. They're more like... cinematic montages with dramatic music in the background."

I stuff a dumpling in my mouth, trying to imagine a real conversation with Zoe, an honest heart-to-heart that could somehow end well. It's harder than it sounds. With each bite, I'm restarting the mental interaction, trying to rearrange my words, and struggling to think of Zoe's responses. Just picturing the uncomfortable scene is making me sweat. Then a few self-depreciating thoughts slip in and interrupt the dialogue, leaving me both discouraged and distracted. I sigh audibly and lean back onto the bed, pushing the empty tray aside. 

I have a love-hate relationship with words. In my mind and out my mouth, they always seem hopelessly awkward and fragmented.

But when I'm in front of a computer and time is on my side, I have control. I can carefully construct and edit messages that are coherent and even a little poetic at times. I think about the original letter assignment Dr. Pierce gave me and lean over to the bedside table to get my laptop. Maybe instead of thinking up conversations, I can type up correspondence - write letters that'll never be seen by anyone but me. I begin tapping away at the keys, and the things I've left unsaid slowly come to light. 

Dear Zoe Murphy,

There are so many things I've wanted to tell you over the years. I guess I've always been too scared or too embarrassed to approach you, but now, despite all that, I'm speaking up because... you're worth it. So, here goes:

Ever since I saw you in that middle school production of Cinderella, I knew you were special. You came out on stage, glowing with personality and caked in glitter, and I remember wishing to myself that I could have a fairy godmother just like you. One time when we were passing in the hallway, you smiled at me, and it completely changed my day. I don't think you realize how wonderful your smile can make someone feel. And that's not even the half of it. There are so many other amazing things that I can't help but notice about you, like the face you make when you're playing guitar or the way you speak your mind so effortlessly. And at the homecoming dance, two years ago, you had these amazing indigo streaks in your hair and you spent most of the night cheering up your friends and convincing them that a dance could be fun even without dates. You were up there on the dance floor in your Converse, embracing the music like the rest of the world wasn't there and laughing like you just couldn't hold it in.

I want to know what that's like. I want to dance with you and laugh with you and talk with you,  but I feel like... I can't. I feel like we're a million worlds apart, like we're on different planes of existence or from alternate universes. I mean, how could a lavish garden ever reciprocate the admiration of a simple bug? To be honest, I've given up on the possibility. But I will not complain of the cards I've been dealt. I'll gratefully live in your shadow, safe from the sun and savoring the smiles. That's enough for me.

Sincerely,

Evan Hansen

I read over the document, nitpicking and editing each sentence until I'm finally content. Finally, all of the thoughts and feelings that were once so jumbled in my brain have been nicely organized and expressed accurately. I sigh a breath of relief and smile at my cathartic masterpiece.

"Not bad. And it only took me -  good grief, over an hour? I haven't even started the response yet-" 

I quickly tap the enter key, shifting down to a new page and type:

Dear Evan Hansen,

I stop. This is the hard part. Obviously, I know how I feel about Zoe, but how does she feel about me? How could she respond positively to something so vulnerable? I feel kind of weird putting words in her mouth, but at the same time I want those words so badly. I want to hear them from a peer and not just from my mom. I want to hear them said genuinely and not out of pity or obligation. I want to believe them.

So I bite my lip and indulge myself.

Dear Evan Hansen,

If we really are from different universes, then please point me in the direction of yours. No one has ever written such sweet things about me before and I am overcome with gratitude and regret. I wish we could have known each other sooner. I wish I could have been there for you in the times you felt small and insignificant. I wish you wouldn't feel that way, because you're beautiful and you're smart and you care so much about others.

If you are a "simple bug" as you say, then surely you're a caterpillar, unaware of the beauty and grace you were destined for. I want to wrap you in reassurances and watch you blossom into the incredible girl you were always meant to be. Because what is a garden without butterflies? We compliment each other, you and I. So you don't have to be afraid anymore. You don't have to be alone anymore. 

Love,

Zoe Murphy

P.S. This year at Homecoming... you better be up there dancing with me. 

I know it's probably pathetic, the way I'm holding back tears as I read over the finished product, but I've needed this letter. I've needed to feel valued. And sure, it's fake, but it's somehow motivated me to keep going until it it's true. Maybe not with Zoe, but with someone. I want to be worth loving in the real world.

I hastily click print and run downstairs to retrieve the notes from our wireless printer. After presenting the first page, it buzzes for a moment and then beeps with a notification:

ERROR: OUT OF PAPER

I look around the study but can't seem to find anything other than the glossy red paper Mom uses to advertise for blood drives. After some consideration, I quickly decide that the color is far to loud and risky to use for a heartfelt, counterfeit letter, so I cancel the printing job. Resorting to Plan B, I take my half of the document back upstairs and copy Zoe's half on the back in my best handwriting. I flip the paper back and forth, looking at each side fondly.

"One paper is way better than two anyways. It's practical... more conservative. Ha, just think of all the trees who'll live to see another day because I didn't use a second piece of paper!"  I think, facetiously, and then... a bit more seriously... "I just hope I'll live to see another day after I actually talk to Zoe."  With a forced, calming breath, I fold the paper and slip it into my history notebook. "It'll be fine, Evan... I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"

My brain readily answers that question and I barely manage to sleep that night.

Chapter Text

I don't have any classes with Zoe Murphy since we're in different grades but thankfully we do share the same lunch period. The cafeteria is broken up into three levels that descend away from the kitchen, and if my memory serves me correctly, Zoe should be sitting on the second level at a table on the left with a small group of friends. Personally, I tend to vacate the chaos of the cafeteria during lunch to sit under a tree on the outer edge of the courtyard. It's peaceful out there and every now and then a squirrel will feel brave enough to venture over for a carrot stick.

But now is not the time to cower outside or try to justify my preference for animal interaction over human interaction. ("I mean literally every Disney princess gets away with it so why can't I?") No. Now is the time to seize the day, to make a move, to fight off my insecurities and make a friend for once in my life.

I have it all planned out. I'm going to walk up to Zoe's table and say (in my most casual voice): "Hey Zoe, I just wanted to say thanks for checking on me yesterday." I'll pause for her response... (probably something along the lines of "Yeah, no problem") and then, I'll ask her the big question: "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Right as I ask the big question, I'm going to pull out my phone like I'm getting a call and pretend to answer it. I have two pieces of dialogue prepared and will make a split-second decision based on what kind of reaction I'm getting from Zoe.

If she says yes or looks favorable, I'll say: "Hey! Can I call you back later?" and join the table. (This will also give them the impression that I have other friends.)

If she starts to say no or looks uncomfortable, though, I'll say: "Hello? ... Oh my gosh, yeah I'll be right there-" and make a run for it, thus relieving both of us of an uncomfortable rejection and also giving the impression that I am at least wanted and needed somewhere else.

In the event of a favorable response, I can take advantage of the group dynamic and speak at minimal level to reduce my social anxiety. I may not be able to provide stimulating or coherent conversation, but there is something else I can bring to the (both literal and metaphorical) table: sunflower seeds. I have seen Zoe eat these on multiple occasions so I know for a fact that she likes them. All I have to do is casually offer her some and then, surely, we'll be friends.  

"Just stay calm and don't screw it up."

At my locker, I quickly douse my hands in hand sanitizer and deodorant spray, hoping that the mixture of alcohol and antiperspirant will keep my hands from sweating. With lunch bag in hand, I walk towards the cafeteria in time to a comforting song that plays in my head. I pass the courtyard doors. I can her table now. Directly across from Zoe is an empty chair. I walk down the four steps to the second level. I take a breath.

"Hey Zoe!"

She looks up at me as I come to stand beside the table.

"I just wanted to say thank you for checking on-" someone fills the empty seat across from Zoe, "-me... yesterday."

She smiles and says something, but her voice sounds like its being muffled by water. My brain is pounding, panicking for a plan C. I reach for my back right pocket and nearly feel a spasm pass through my chest as I realize my phone isn't there. The extraneous variables close in, strangling me until I blurt out "Have a good lunch!" and continue walking. A minute later, I'm on the third level and my heart rate is slowly returning to normal.

"Okay, okay. So it didn't go according to plan, but it could have been worse! At least you talked to her! That's progress!"

The thought leaves me feeling a bit more at ease, but now I have to deal with where I'm actually going to sit. Escaping to the courtyard would mean having to backtrack through the cafeteria and I don't want to look like a disoriented Freshman. So I scan the third level tables before me, trying to determine which one would most likely tolerate my presence. There are only three that have at least two adjacent seats open (one for me and one for the comfortable barrier I prefer to keep between myself and strangers).

At one of the three tables, a few girls are vlogging and answering "questions from fans". Even though I'm pretty sure their fans are mostly nonexistent, I decide not to interrupt. There's also a table of super intense academics who study SAT booklets as they eat. Last year, I tried to sit with them but they had to "ask me to leave" because I was "chewing too loudly". The third and final table is almost completely empty, occupied by only one student who sits with his back to the rest of the cafeteria. It only takes me a moment to recognize the long, wispy brown hair as Connor Murphy's. I step closer and notice him counting something in his hand - pills, I assume, based on the orange prescription bottle in front of him. He doesn't take any, just dumps them back in the bottle and slips it into his bag.

"Does he take anxiety medication too?"

I remember what Dr. Pierce said about lonely people showing different symptoms... about how I could cure other people's loneliness.

"Hi Connor-"

He doesn't say anything, doesn't even turn around. My heart sinks for a moment until I notice that he's tapping his fork on his tray and bobbing his head.

Music. He's listening to music.

I take a determined breath and walk around to the other side of the table, not directly in front of him but at least in his peripheral vision.

A little louder. "Hey Connor!"

He looks up, eyes brightening as they catch on my deceptively casual wave. With a smile, he waves his fork nonchalantly in a single stroke and for some reason that makes my face warm up and I feel a desperate need to evacuate immediately. Without thinking, I turn to walk away.

"Evan, wait-"

I stop and turn around slowly.

"Yeah?"  

 I glance up for a moment and see that Connor has dropped his fork and pulled out an earbud.

"Did you... really come all the way over here just to say hi?" His eyebrows furrow at the question and my eyes quickly avert his gaze, landing on the poster-covered wall across from us.

"W-what? No, no. I was just, uh, you see - I came over here to read this poster about-" I gesture to the one closest to where I was standing "uh CPR..." My face warms up again as I notice the mouth-to-mouth visuals, "and you happened to be over here, so I just thought - you know - I'd say hi."

He glances between the poster and me. "Oh. Okay..." 

Suddenly my back left pocket vibrates and I want to smack myself in the face because - stupid me - I've had my phone in my other pocket this whole time. Before Connor can say anything else, I pull out the device, say "Oh, sorry. I gotta go. My, uh- my friend needs me," and sprint away. I quickly realize that this was a stupid lie because just yesterday Connor verbally acknowledged the fact that I have no friends. Almost as a confirmation, when I check my phone again, I see that there's no message, just a Pinterest notification.

"We think you might like these Pins."

Throughout the rest of lunch period, I try to convince myself that everything is fine. 

"Hey, at least you talked to not one, but TWO potential friends today!" The encouraging voice in my head sounds like an odd mixture of me, my mom, and Dr. Pierce. "And sure, not everything went according to plan and you kind of panicked a little and ended up eating alone in the courtyard again, BUT... you adapted to unexpected social situations without too much fumbling and that's a step in the right direction."

I shove the last bite of PB&J into my mouth, thinking about how this seemingly small step feels like such a giant leap. Sure, I'm not walking on the moon or anything, but I am exploring uncharted territory. It's new and exciting... but mostly terrifying.

As I return to my locker, I decide that I'm not going to try and take this at the same pace as everyone else. I shouldn't go in for a cannonball before I've even learned to swim (even if everyone else already learned how to swim years ago). No, I'll just take baby steps in this whole "making friends" thing.

As I open my locker, a note falls out.

Hey, I want to talk to you about something. Meet me behind the gym during free period.

- Connor

My heart nearly stops. Looks like I took a baby step right off the high dive.

Chapter Text

My head is spinning.

"Connor Enigma Murphy wants to meet me behind the gym? Oh my gosh, is this like a SEX thing? No, he said he just wants to talk. But why does he want to talk? And why did he choose such a secluded spot? Is he embarrassed to be seen with me? I mean, I wouldn't blame him but-"

The bell rings, signaling the end of 5th period.

I pack up my materials quickly and rush out the door, not wanting to give myself any more time to overthink the matter. After the failure of my carefully calculated lunch plan, I'm having a hard time trusting my brain, so I just listen to the weird feeling in my gut that me pushes me forward. As I walk towards the back of the gym building, a sensation comes over me that I can only describe as being covered from head to toe in a thick layer of Icy Hot. I'm shaking with apprehension yet burning with curiosity and overall just tingling with the knowledge that someone actually wants to talk to me. 

I arrive at the meeting spot first and after a few minutes of restless pacing, I settle myself on the ground and lean against the brick wall. Across from me, the school property fades into a forgotten wooded area. Tree branches intertwine and blend together, creating a roof of mismatched leaves. I imagine Connor and I strolling in the shade, sharing stories and laughing as we escape into a world where people like us don't have to be alone.

Then I hear voices.

"Oh my gosh, the freak is here."

"I knew she'd buy the note. I mean check out her cast."

I look to my right and see them walking towards me. Two girls and a boy with matching smirks that communicate something very clearly to me.

"Connor isn't coming..."

I stumble to my feet and try to back away, but a pair of hands grab me from behind.

"Going somewhere?" the boy jeers, leaning in to speak directly into my ear. I flinch at the invasion and fight against his hold on my upper arms.

"St- ah! L- let me go-" I mutter, wincing as his grip only tightens. The other three are closer now and I vaguely recognize them from the classes we've shared in the past three years. Kyla, Dillon, and Emily. They've picked on me before, but never like this.

Emily places a hand over her heart condescendingly. "Aw... still a stuttering mess, aren't you, Evan?"

That shuts me up. 

"Don't worry-" Dillon says. "We'll help you speak clearly." 

As if on cue, Strong Arms - I don't recognize his face - suddenly pushes me up against a tree. Kyla pops her gum and pulls out a roll of duct tape. My body is squirming and my mind is screaming but my mouth remains shut for fear of stuttering again and making things worse. 

"First of all, hunch back, you need to learn to stand up straight."

She places the end of a piece of tape on the bare skin above my chest and wraps it around the tree two or three times, securing my shoulders to the base. Strong Arms finally lets go and I can feel the tape straining against my chest as I start to hyperventilate.

"Tight. Too tight. Please stop. Please. I need everything to stop."

"And you're always fidgeting with your hands," says Strong Arms, "so we'll keep those at your sides."

Another round of tape. I'm crying now.

Dillon barks, "Stop looking down!" and shoves my head back, banging it against the tree. A sob breaks out and though my eyes are closed in pain, I can feel the attitude shift, like this wasn't the reaction they were expecting.

"Geez... calm down," says Strong Arms, almost guiltily.

Emily is less sympathetic. "Whatever. We're trying to help you, Evan. Suck it up!"

She attaches the final piece of tape tightly around my forehead to keep my head raised. Tree bark digs into the back of my skull. I think I'm bleeding.

"Are you familiar with operant conditioning, Evan?"

I'm still just sobbing and hyperventilating, so Kyla takes it as a no. She places a hand forcefully over my mouth to quiet me but it only makes the breathing more difficult.

"It's a type of learning in which behavior is controlled by consequences." She pops her gum inches away from my face. "In this instance, you will be asked to say three phrases clearly, without stuttering or stumbling. As positive reinforcement, we will let you go if you succeed."

She finally removes her hand and I gasp for air. Emily speaks with her arms crossed.

"As with most disciplines, however, mistakes will be met with negative punishment."

My stomach clenches at the thought and I try to control my crying. I don't want to find out what the punishment is.

"Let's start simple, shall we?" says Dillon. "First we want you to say: 'I'm a friendless loser.'"

The words sting, and in my hysterical state, two lines of thought begin to argue in my mind, overlapping and overwhelming me.

"No, no! I'm not friendless! - They're right. No one wants you. -  I talked to two people today! -  No one cares. No one-"

A hot flash of pain strikes my cheek. "Say it!"

I try to push out the words, "I... I muh fr- friend-AGH!"

Someone punches me in the gut. I can't tell who at this point. "You stuttered. Try again."

My lungs ache as they try to gather the air that was knocked out of me. In between the sniffing and whimpering, I breathe out each word as clearly as I can manage, "I'm... a... friendless... lo-" but my voice breaks on the last word.

Someone stomps on my foot, impatiently. "Do it!"

That's when something breaks in me. 

The physical pain shoots up from bottom to top, mixing with the emotional agony along the way, and erupts out of my mouth.

"I'M A FRIENDLESS LOSER!" I scream. It comes out like the cry of a wounded animal, ugly and terrifying. The sobs return, turbulent and unstoppable now. I lose almost all perception of the other students as I collapse in on myself, aware of only the pain and the fear and the sorrow.

"I want to go home. I want to go-"

"Worthless piece of-"

"I want to die. Leave me alone. Please. I just want to die."

Something warm and soft presses into the side of my head, followed by a dark, lingering whisper. "You failed, Evan."

Then I'm alone again. 

Time passes at an indiscernible rate as I slowly return to reality. The pain is more noticeable now and I can hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

"I can't get my cast wet," I think absently to myself.

If it does rain, though, there's not much I can do about it. I'm still secured to the tree and anytime I try to fight against the bonds, all it does is leave splinters and rough abrasions against my exposed skin. I hear a bell ring. School is over now, I guess. 

Eventually, Strong Arms comes back. He doesn't say anything. He just cuts me loose and tosses the scissors to the ground as he leaves. Dropping to my knees, I gingerly pull the tape off and stretch my aching body. Then my eyes land on the scissors. 

I've never cut myself before. I've never really understood the appeal until now.

Here in the silence, I feel exhausted and empty and emotionally drained. It's weird to think, but somehow the throbbing in my muscles and head feels right. Like I deserve it. It distracts me, at least, from the waves of hopelessness that ebb and crash into me unpredictably.

I pick up the scissors and hold them open with my left hand. I gently trace a blade against the inside of my right arm, in brief, noncommittal strokes. My veins twitch under its touch. I imagine making tiny red lines.

"Maybe I can make them spell out 'CONNOR' so that my arms match."

I trace the invisible name, thinking about how stupid I must be to think that he would actually want to talk to me.

"What's the point of good moments if they're only ever outweighed by the bad ones?"  I wonder.

And then, for just a moment, I consider it. I consider trying to end it again.

I lean back against the tree, and then laugh dryly to myself because "Why are trees always involved in these awful times?" 

Then my mind turns back to the first time and how it all went wrong. How it didn't end anything. How it only created more pain, more guilt, and more reasons for my mother to worry. My grip tightens around the scissors, and for a few painstaking seconds, I dare myself to get it right this time.

Instead - out of bravery or cowardice, I'm not sure - I throw the scissors as far as I can. They land out of sight, behind a bush somewhere. I cover my face and groan into my hands as it finally starts to rain. When I look up, a few drops grace my cheek, replacing the tears that have long since run out. 

"I can't get my cast wet."

I calmly walk back to my locker and retrieve my belongings. Inside is a jacket that I wrap around my cast. I look at my phone and see a few missed texts from Jared.

From: Jared | 1:19 PM

Yo Hansen, where you u at?

From Jared | 1:21 PM

If you miss class then we're both screwed because I don't understand this crap.

From Jared | 1:39 PM

Seriously, Mr. E is talking about imaginary numbers? Like what the Hell???

7th period Calculus is the only class Jared and I share this year. He always texts during class but the fact that he texted me must mean that today's class was especially boring...

To: Jared | 2:56 PM

Sorry, I was busy.

I walk back towards the school entrance, trying to avoid the eyes of a few students who exit the auditorium. Extracurriculars must be wrapping up. 

From: Jared | 2:59 PM

Okay, Vaguey McVaguerson

I ignore the text and shove my phone back into my pocket. I can't tell anyone what happened. Well, maybe Dr. Pierce because she's bound by therapist-client confidentiality and she might actually care. Jared, on the other hand, would just laugh and Tweet about it.

The rain is pouring now, but I walk outside anyway, letting the water wash over me. It's only a ten minute walk home.

"Hopefully I'll catch a cold so I can stay home tomorrow."

But the world seems to have other plans. Before I can even turn the corner, a light blue car slows down next to me.

The window rolls down and I hear my name.

"Evan?" My eyes grow wide as I turn to see Zoe Murphy leaning over from the driver's seat. "Do you want a ride?"

"It's a trap," I think. "Life is just trying to torment me with hope before screwing me over again."

But then as I look at Zoe, my mind replaces her concerned face with one that's younger and much more sparkly - the same face that enraptured me during the middle school play - and I can already feel myself giving in.

I need a fairy godmother right now.