Dear Evan Hansen,
Today is going to be a good day and here 's why: yesterday will never happen again. Getting on stage was a mistake. Thinking you could sing in front of people was a mistake. You knew your limits, and now you know the consequences of trying to stretch past them. Not only did you embarrass yourself, you lost the only friend you have. Dr. Sherman always talks about life teaching us lessons, some harder than others. This lesson is just… harder than most. You'll get through this.
Somehow.
Sincerely, your best and only friend,
Me
Evan sat on the couch in his living room, staring blankly at his laptop. It was Saturday afternoon. His Mom woke him up before she left for her six am shift to say goodbye, not that Evan had been asleep. He'd spent the entire night replaying everything all at once. Sitting in the ambulance holding Connor's hand as the microphone from the audition boomed. The air rushing by his ears as he fell from the tree while Connor Murphy screamed his name from the stage. His cast getting cut in half as Connor whispered "more" from his bed at Elm Saint Peter's. Everything was such a mess. Why, oh why, had he ever sung for Connor Murphy?
"Honey, are you doing okay?"
He loved his mom. But she always asked these questions with concerned eyes when she was running out the door. Shouldn't she know Evan better by know? Shouldn't she know that he would never say anything to keep her from work or school? Evan spent every second of his life feeling like a waste of space, an inconvenience. His Mom was one of the few people who (probably) liked him—the last thing he wanted to do was say or do anything to make her resent him. So when she asked if he was doing okay when he knew it was a twenty minute drive to work at it was already 5:37, Evan said, "I'm fine." And even though he hadn't said it with a "can-do attitude," his Mom gratefully accepted his answer and rushed out the door.
The morning and afternoon crept by in the manner it always did. Evan turned on the TV (not to watch, but to make it seem like other people were living there, filling the space), he intentionally avoided his Mom's twenty-dollar bill on the table, and he grazed the pantry and refrigerator, filling his stomach with dry cereal, some questionable baby carrots, and turkey jerky. He finished his homework, did a few chores, and when he got desperate, he wrote Dr. Sherman's letter. But now, he had nothing. How was he going to fill the rest of his weekend? How was he going to drown out everything in his head?
Desperate, he pulled out his cell phone to text Jared, only to find four text notifications waiting for him. They'd been sent about an hour ago, which was about the time Evan had done the dishes. He quickly opened the messenger app and found they were all from Jared.
JARED: Let it be known that I, Jared Kleinman, am a big enough person to admit when I've been a dick.
JARED: And I, sir, have been a dick.
JARED: If Connor Murphy murders you, know that I will write the most beautiful eulogy at your funeral.
JARED: God speed, Mr. Hansen. God speed.
Feeling a sense of dread, Evan quickly typed a reply that Jared thankfully immediately answered.
EVAN: What did you do?
JARED: You know how I've recently become an awesome rockstar who happens to be in a band with the Murphys?
JARED: I maaaaay have given your address to the more murdery of the two Murphys.
EVAN: Why would you do that?!
EVAN: He probably hates me after what happened yesterday.
JARED: Don't get your penis in a twist. You saved his life, remember? He'll probably just yell at you, break some of your property, and then go get high.
JARED: Just do me a favor and make sure he doesn't leave too angry. Band mates can't die of drug overdoses until the first platinum album, kapesh?
EVAN: You shouldn't joke about stuff like that.
There was a knock at the door and Evan dropped his phone. A lazy two knocks. Definitely not Mrs. Lindgren's perky four raps, or the mailman's firm three. He took a deep breath. Found it didn't help. And walked to the door.
"Who's there?" His throat was too thick, trapping his words. So Evan coughed, said it again, and winced at how panicked he sounded.
"It's Connor. Open up."
Evan snatched his phone off the floor and desperately texted.
EVAN: He's here. What do I do?
JARED: Answer the door like a normal fucking human?
EVAN: Not helping.
JARED: Then by all means, keep texting me and keep Connor "Gets-In-Bar-Fights" Murphy waiting on your doorstep.
Connor knocked again. "Evan. Come on. I want to talk to you."
"Just a minute," Evan called. He looked at his clothes. He was wearing jeans with worn hems from his volunteer park ranger days. He didn't even have a polo on, just a plain blue t-shirt with some bleach stains on the back. And his hair. God. What did his hair look like?
The knocking became more forceful. "Evan!"
Finally deciding it was worse to keep Connor waiting, he unlocked and opened the door.
"He-Hey, Connor."
Connor walked in, slightly pushing Evan with his shoulder as he stepped by. It wasn't gentle. But at least it wasn't a punch in the face like Evan initially prepared for.
Without asking for permission, Connor pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and patted the back of the seat harshly. "Sit."
Evan didn't hesitate. He sat in the chair. Connor grabbed the other chair, pulled it directly in front of Evan, and then sat down with the back of the chair facing his chest. Then he stared. No, not stared. Examined. His bloodshot eyes didn't leave Evan's, leaving Evan no choice but to notice that they were brownish-green like Zoe's—Zoe, who showed her eyes, smiles, and face to the camera, and Connor, who always hid behind a curtain of hair. With the proximity, Evan also couldn't help noticing the musky, skunky smell of pot. And weren't those the clothes Connor wore yesterday? It's hard to tell since his outfits were so similar, but he vaguely recalled Connor's t-shirt under his hoodie being the same New York skyline as the day before.
"Have—have you gone to sleep?" Evan asked hesitantly.
"Nope." Connor popped the "p," just like Zoe had done the day she drove Evan to Elm Saint Peter's. He still stared, unblinking.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
Connor shook his head once and kept silent. Evan scratched his legs through his jeans than stopped after he realized what he was doing. Then he bit his nails before he stopped himself again. He really needed to learn how to sit down and—how had Jared termed it?—act like "a normal fucking human."
Finally, Connor folded his arms on the back of the chair and leaned his cheek against the crook of his elbow. "You look like shit, Hansen."
Connor speaking gave Evan permission to respond. He found himself blurting out the first thing he was thinking, so relieved he was to break the silence. "You don't look much better." His eyes went wide, and he only resisted slapping his hands over his mouth because Jared informed him that it made him look like a toddler about to get in trouble.
Connor, on the other hand, relaxed further into his arm and even laughed a bit. "Fair."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said that."
"You said it because it's true. I look like shit. So do you."
"You don't look like—"
"So you really don't sing in front of people?" Connor rolled his chin across his knuckles and when he looked up at Evan his eyes looked droopy and sad.
"I really don't," Evan said softly.
"Not even for your best friend?" Evan blinked, a bit confused, wondering if he needed to clarify that Jared was a family friend. Then Connor dramatically pouted his lip and Evan realized Connor was talking about himself.
"You still want to be my friend?" Evan said, scarcely believing it.
Connor pouted more. "Clearly you don't want to be mine."
And then it finally clicked. "You're high."
Connor's pout was replaced by a bright smile. "I am high. Thank you for noticing. "
Evan looked behind him, trying to peer through the windows in the kitchen to the driveway. "Did you drive here?"
"Nope."
"Oh. Good."
"I drove to Ellison and then I walked here."
Evan's heart hammered at the mention of the park. He tried to act casual. "That's like a four mile walk."
"Right? I'm like a fucking... what's an animal that walks a lot? A camel?"
Evan leaned forward a bit, trying to distract Connor. "Why were you at Ellison Park?"
"Camels are boring, though. How about a llama? Or are you more of an alpaca man, Hansen?"
He couldn't keep the desperation out of his voice. "Why were you at Ellison State Park, Connor?"
Connor pulled back from his chair and smirked. "You didn't drive me to suicide, if that's what you're worried about, Hansen."
Evan slumped and dropped his face into his hands. Yes, Evan's blood sugar was a bit shot these days and he hadn't a decent night's sleep since before school started but even was surprised by the sudden and violent dry sob that escaped his throat. He turned his hands into fists and held them to his forehead, blocking his face, trying his best to control himself.
"Hansen?"
Evan couldn't speak for a full minute. He knew because he counted each agonizing second until the muscles in his face could relax enough to form words. When he was finally convinced that he was (mostly) in control, he spoke, even though he was not brave enough to drop his hands to face Connor.
"I don't know how you deal with it," Evan admitted.
"With what? My overdose?"
Evan nearly lost control again. The nonchalance in Connor's voice nearly undid him. "I can't stop thinking about it." He hadn't told his mom that. He hadn't even told Dr. Sherman. "You were dying. You were dying right before my eyes. And I can't. Stop. Thinking about it."
"It's not like it would have been your fault if I did." And even though Evan wasn't looking, he could hear Connor's shrug.
"That's not the point. I... you asked me to be your friend. And then I made you upset. And then I was upset and went to Ellison Park because I didn't know what else to do so I climbed a tree and I sang and then you were there and dying and I couldn't... I couldn't..."
Evan's shuddering breaths filled the kitchen. His chest hurt so much from the strain of keeping the worst of his feelings in. Connor had already seen so many bad parts of him; he couldn't stand the idea of Connor seeing just how deep his weakness ran.
"Hansen..." There was a heavy sigh and Evan was grateful that the airy attitude had finally left Connor's voice. "Look, a lot of things drove me to that park. You were a molecule in the huge mass of shit that made me take those pills. So forget about it. It doesn't matter."
"It matters." Then Evan did something impossibly brave. He lowered his hands, faced Connor, and said, "You matter."
Evan had seen Connor in a lot of bad moments over the past few weeks. There was the park. There was the hospital. There was the day at school when everyone found out about the park. Never once did Evan seen Connor look vulnerable. Until now.
He had leaned away from Evan, his face looking almost confused and childlike. He wondered if this was the face he would have saw if Evan had sung to Connor's face that day in the hospital. Because when he said, "A little over the top there, don't you think, Hansen?" his voice was as soft and shaky as his singular plea for Evan to keep singing.
Evan shook his head once, fiercely. And then Evan did his second brave thing that day. He gave his best smile (which, in the state he was in, probably looked more like a grimace) and said, "What are friends for?"
Connor abruptly got up from the chair. He paced a bit, looking more confused than ever. At least he wasn't mad. The one good thing about Connor's temper is that Evan never had to second guess when he did something upsetting. Evan kept still, waiting for Connor's cue on what to do next.
He deflated when Connor walked to the door and swung it open. "I really need to walk off this high."
"Oh. Okay." When Connor kept standing there, Evan got up from his chair slowly. "Are you going to be alright?"
"Yeah."
He still didn't move. Connor just stood there, holding the door, waiting. Evan didn't get it until Connor said, "So are you coming with me or what?"
The walk was surprisingly nice. They talked about random things that started with Connor asking his opinion on lawn gnomes (Evan: against, due to horror movies; Connor: for, due to horror movies), which somehow segued into an argument over aliens (Evan: non-believer, because he didn't have room in his brain to be anxious over extraterrestrials as well as everything else on Earth; Connor: believer, because it would suck if humans were the most advanced being in the entire universe). It was the type of conversation Evan always imagined friends would have. But even though it was nice, even though the conversation flowed smoothly, it didn't feel quite real. By unspoken agreement, they hadn't talked about any tense topic. But leaving it unspoken didn't wipe away their nerves.
The closer they got to the park, the faster the two of them talked, as though anxious to not let one moment of silence fall between them. When they passed the entrance gates, Evan was talking so fast it was leaving him almost breathless.
"—now, the oak trees here, at least the fully mature ones, are about 150 years old, give or take a few decades, but the Pechanga Great Oak Tree is over 2,000 years old! Crazy, right? It's probably the oldest oak tree in the entire world, and it's right here in the United States. Can you imagine being able to visit something like that?"
"Couldn't possibly imagine," Connor said distractedly as he dug into the pocket of his jeans.
"And you think these trees are tall, at about 60 feet of height? Well, the English Oak in the UK gets as tall as—"
"As adorable as your tree enthusiasm is Hansen, I'm gonna have to cut you off." Connor interrupted.
Evan visibly deflated. "…Because I'm a giant nerd?" How long had he been talking about trees? He had a habit of losing tack of time when it came to something he loved. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. Oh, jeez. It had been two hours since him and Connor left his house and he had probably talked about trees for at least a quarter of that time.
Connor's smirked and lifted a set of keys out of his pocket. "Because we're here."
When Connor clicked the unlock button, a dark green Honda Civic beeped in the gravel parking lot by the ranger station. Normally, Evan wouldn't be able to tell one car's make and model from the other, but he knew this car. It had been in the ranger station parking lot quite often throughout the summer. Evan had never seen its attached driver, but he had walked by it enough times to memorize the black and white bumper sticker that stated Republicans for Voldermort (which Evan guessed Connor got to anger his father, "Larry, the uber conserva-freak") and the smiley face scratched into the driver side door (which Evan always thought looked a little sad with its sloped eyebrows, despite its dramatic u-shaped mouth).
Connor opened the driver door and jerked his head to indicate Evan should open the passenger door. Evan's nose instantly wrinkled as he settled into the dark gray bucket seat, the smell of pot overwhelming his senses. As Connor plugged his phone into the car charger and placed it in the holding device attached to the center of the windshield, Evan nervously folded his hands on his lap and tried to tell himself the baggie of green stuff in the center cup holder was oregano and not pot, while also trying not to think how marijuana was illegal in the state of Wisconsin. By the time Evan was trying to imagine how he would survive in a federal penitentiary after a park ranger reported them to the FBI, Connor was reaching into the backseat, which was filled with clothes, a blanket, pillows, and empty fast food bags. He dug around a bit, pressing against Evan as he did. Evan fidgeted. He never knew what to do with his hands, or if he should move, or touch back when someone casually touched him, so he ended up tracing the slightly fogged passenger window to distract himself.
When Connor emerged, he was holding a ukulele. He tuned a few strings, took a slurp from a straw poking out of a fast food cup in the other cupholder next to the maybe-oregano, fiddled with his phone, and then turned to Evan.
"You know what I'm gonna ask you to do, right?"
Evan stopped his window tracing (which had turned into him playing a game of tic-tac-toe against himself and somehow losing) and sighed. "You want me to sing?"
Connor strummed the ukulele and grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."
"Connor, I can't… I mean, I tried—"
Connor held up his hands. "You're not on a stage. You don't have to try to impress my sister. Just sing to…" Connor pauses to look out the windshield and points. "See that tree with the weird seeds with hair?"
"The Bigtooth Aspen?" Evan tried to stall and gave a nervous laugh. "Did you know it used to be classified as a weed and now it's one of the most sought-after hardwood trees?"
"Neat." Connor slapped the butt of his ukulele. "Sing your audition song to Weed Tree."
"But, y-you don't have the sheet music."
Connor shrugged. "Don't need it. You ready?"
"Absolutely not."
"Too fucking bad."
Then Connor started to play.
The ukulele really put a different spin on the song than the piano and guitar ever had. It was already an incredibly lonely song, but the soft, high strings gave it a vulnerability that didn't exist with the lower strums of the guitar or the bass notes of a piano. Evan closed his eyes not only to gather his courage, but to sink into the music. Connor played the intro several times. Evan swayed his head, tapping his fingers against each other. Eventually he realized it wasn't just the instrument that made the song different, it was the way Connor played it. He emphasized things differently. He elongated certain sections that Mrs. Lindgren had played in a consistent tempo. It was different, melancholy, and… well.
Beautiful.
"Anytime, Hansen," Connor prompted.
Evan nodded a bit. When he was ready, he held up four fingers, descending them one by one, until he was ready to sing. He opened his eyes as he sang his first note, serenading the Weed Tree. Evan didn't sing the way he prepared it, not exactly anyway. He started softer, and used bits of falsetto in the beginning, which wasn't something he had practiced. But it felt right, like he was making something entirely new with Connor. Where Mrs. Lindgren's accompaniment felt like a backing track, Connor's music felt alive and present and desperate for a partner. When Evan started to build the intensity of the lyrics in a way the Smiths hadn't, Connor matched him, creating complicated melodies to fit Evan's depth and volume.
It was intense. He had always felt satisfied with his emotional release at home when he sung by himself, but this was on an entirely different level. And at one point, it got to be so much that he felt tears gather at the corner of his eyes.
"Sing me to sleep. Sing me to sleep. I don't want to wake up on my own anymore."
He took a shuddering breath and for the first time looked at Connor, who had paused the ukulele at the same time. His look was unreadable, but full of something. Evan, for a moment, was transferred back to Elm Saint Pete's and Connor's soft whisper for more. Evan bit his lip, waited one more moment to swallow away the tears, and then lifted his head indicating he was ready. When he started to sing, Connor was there, ready to support him.
"Don't feel bad for me. I want you to know, deep in the cell of my heart, I really want to go."
Evan serenaded to the Weed Tree at the song's ending farewell. His voice rose in pitch and intensity with every repetition, until it came to the final six lyrics of the song—the word "bye" sung over and over again. Those he sang softly, as though he were actually falling asleep and not wanting to disturb the quiet of the night. When he stopped, Connor strummed a few lingering chords before letting the final notes fade into the space of the car.
Neither one spoke for a long time. Eventually Connor coughed, fiddled with his phone, and then sighed.
"Goddamn, Hansen."
Evan turned, startled to hear Connor's voice crack. His head was slumped against his headrest, looking wrecked. He wasn't crying, not something so embarrassing like Evan had nearly done in the middle of the song, but he looked the way Evan felt after an exhausting therapy session.
He expected Connor to do something. Something along the lines of yelling or demanding answers about his performance at yesterday's auditions. But he simply put his ukulele back in its case and turned the key in the car's ignition.
Unlike the walk to the park, the drive home was silent and for once, Evan didn't feel a desire to fill it with noise. The quiet had a strange dichotomy to it, being both comforting and electrifying. It made Evan both relax into his car seat and sneak nervous glances to Connor. Something had happened during that song. Something that changed their friendship into something a little less of an artificial title and into something a little more real. Connor had showed him something true—something that was normally armored with anger, sarcasm, and pot. Evan had been vulnerable, and he had been rewarded with an equal show of vulnerability from Connor. It made him feel (almost) special.
When Connor pulled into Evan's driveway, he put the car into park and turned in his seat. Connor took a deep breath. "Hansen… I…" He shook his head and laughed a bit, obviously trying to dispel the tension in his voice. "Making music with you…" He looked at Evan solidly in the eye. "It's a goddamn revelation. You felt that, right?"
Evan bit his lip and nodded.
"Is there any way, any way, I can convince you to be in mine and Zoe's band?"
Evan dropped his eyes to his hands. He wanted to say yes. He so badly wanted to say yes. But he learned his lesson. He knew the limits of his fear. And he knew if he made promises now, he'd only disappoint Connor later. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Connor sighed. "Yeah. Okay."
"I wish… I wish I didn't care what other people thought, you know?" Evan said. His voice was shaking so bad that his entire body trembled. "I wish I could turn that part of my brain off. But I can't. As soon as I think people might be watching me, I just… I panic. I freeze. I run away."
Connor didn't say anything. When Evan looked to him, Connor pointedly looked away and out the window.
Slowly, Evan unbuckled himself and let himself out of the car. But instead of closing the door behind him, he leaned down and said, "You don't have to be my friend anymore. I'll-I'll even white out your name on my cast if you want."
That awkward laugh came out of Connor once again. "I really want to take you up on that."
For once, Evan was prepared when the worst answer came. He couldn't see any other path forward for them, not when he kept denying Connor's wishes and betraying his expectations. So Evan nodded his head and closed the door. He walked to the front door, almost proud of his numb acceptance of his failed friendship. He would be strong. He would get through this without falling apart. But he only got a few steps when he heard Connor's window roll down.
"Hansen," he called, and Evan turned. "Need a ride to school on Monday?"
Evan blinked. "I walk to school."
"Okay. Do you want a ride to school on Monday?"
"Sure?"
Connor patted the side of his door. "Then I'll see you then."
In shock, Evan nodded and walked into the house. When he closed the door behind him, an incredulous smile fluttered on to his lips. For the first time since this whole thing with Connor started, he could envision a future for this strange relationship. It wasn't the friendship Connor had originally wanted, but maybe, just maybe, Connor might be happy with Evan, weaknesses and all, even if he didn't sing for his band. He walked upstairs to his bedroom, almost (dare he think it) happy.
And if Connor stayed parked in the driveway for a bit too long—if Connor stared at the Hansen home with a face washed in guilt—Evan was kept blissfully ignorant.
