The next morning, in AP English, as Mrs. Kiczek is rattling off the images, characters, and themes she wants us to look out for in "Bartleby, the Scrivener," an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. Everyone, all at once, turns and looks at me.

I'm already on edge, even more on edge than I usually am, because for the third ay in a row I haven't heard from Connor. My phone is silent from any notification from him, and I haven't seen his face around school, neither have I seen his sister. His sister with the basically perfect attendance record. I would call this, what I'm in right now, full-on panic mode. I'm not really sure I've ever been this particular level of alarm. It's almost hallucinatory.

Even Mrs. Kiczek is looking at me. It takes more than a few seconds to realize why I'm suddenly the center of the class's attention. That was my name that was just called over the loudspeaker.

Me? Evan Hansen? I'm not the kind of person who gets called to the principal's office. Isn't that saved for, like, delinquents, class clowns, and fuckups? People whose actions affect others? I don't affect anyone. I'm nonexistent to all but one person, who I'm basically a ghost to know.

"Evan?" Mrs. Kiczek says, confirming that, yes, my ears are in working order. The principal wants to see me. Now.

My level of clumsiness is directly proportionate to the number of people watching. With roughly twenty-five sets of eyes now trained on me, I am squeaking my chair out, ramming it into the desk behind me, kicking the contents of my unzipped bag onto the floor, and nearly tripping over someone's foot while making my way through the aisle.

My mind is a slide show of worst-case scenarios as I walk through the empty halls to the main office. The thoughts rushing through my mind is hard to grasp, I can barely make out what the worst case is for me. The words and sentences muddle together into a tangle mess, barely able to string together two words, let alone a plausible reason why I'm called to the office.

In three years, I only had one interaction with the principal. When I was a sophomore, I placed third in some lame short-story contest and Mr. Howard presented me with an award at one of our general assemblies. My story was based on a childhood fishing trip I took with my dad and was basically a rip-off of Hemingway's "Big Two-Hearted River." I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Howard had to recollection of that day, because, really, the contest was that forgettable and third place is essentially the same as losing. But why does Mr. Howard want to see me today?

Reach the office, I try to wipe my palms on my shirt, but they won't dry. I give my name to the secretary and she points at the open door behind her. I inch my way towards it like a cop nearing a dark corner. Except I'm not a cop in this scenario. Principal Howard is the cop, which makes me the criminal. Dr. Sherman says that I tend to catastrophize and that nothing is as bad as I imagine it will be, but this right here is proof positive that all my worrying over the past few days was warranted. I don't know how it all adds up yet, or what's waiting for me on the other side of the door. But something tells me that Connor being missing, and Zoe not being in school had something to do with me, and this moment.

But how?

I poke my head into the room. I don't see Mr. Howard, but there's a man and woman sitting across from his desk. They look confused by my arrival. There's nothing or official about this room, definitely not what I imagined for the headquarters of a principal. But that's Mr. Howard's face in all the pictures, so I must be in the right place.

The man is bent over in his chair, elbows on his knees, thick shoulders filling out every inch of his suit jacket. The woman is in a daze, her bloodshot eyes turned in my direction but not quite seeing me.

"Sorry." I say, because it feels like I'm interrupting something. "They said on the loudspeaker for me to come to the principal's office?"

"You're Evan." The man says. Not a question, but not not a question, so I nod in affirmation.

He sits up and finally takes a proper look at me. "Mr. Howard stepped out. We wanted to speak in private. He gestures to a free chair. He wants me to sit down. I don't understand what's happening. Who are these people?

They look a little gloomy for college reps. Not that I have any clue what a college rep actually looks like. It's just, I heard Troy Montgomery, the star of our football team, had a few college reps come to our school to speak with him. He's an athlete, though, and apparently a very talented one, and I'm just a kid who placed third in a second-rate short-story contest once. So who are these people and what do they want with me?

I take a seat, even though the voice in my head is telling me to remain standing.

The man adjusts the end of his tie so it falls straight between his legs. "We're Connor's parents."

This is it, the worse case. I waited and waited, and it's finally here. Three days, three agonizing days. But I still don't know what it is. Why do Connor's parents want to speak to me? And in private?

It's weird seeing the people that produced Connor. If I look hard enough, I could maybe see where some resemblance stands, but it's hard to picture it. To really see the combination forms together to create him.

Mr. Murphy places a hand over his wife's. "Go ahead, honey."

"I'm going as fast as I can." She hisses. They way the speak, carry themselves, even the way the dress connects a few pieces in the stories I've been told.

I thought it was uncomfortable, when I was younger, watching my own parents argue. Turns out, watching other people's parents do it is exponentially more awkward. I'm assuming I'm about to learn why Connor has been absent from school the last few days. And if they're interested in telling me of all people, then it has to connect to Connor and I's friendship, right? But how would they know?

It's interesting how they introduce themselves as Connor's parents, rather than Connor and Zoe's. So then of course this is about Connor, and if it's about Connor, that leaves the question, what happened?

After a long silence, Mrs. Murphy removes something from her purse and presses it into my palms. "This is from Connor. He wanted you to have this."

Before I even look, I know what it is. It's a simple piece of paper, and if there's any paper Connor would want me to have it's a letter. What else could it be? If Connor wanted me to have this, why didn't he give it to me himself? Why didn't he email it to me like usual? Where is he?

"We had never heard your name before," Mr. Murphy says. "Connor never mentioned you. But then we saw 'Dear Evan Hansen.'"

Something squeezes tight in my chest. How, why would Connor have a letter printed, and lying around for his parents to find. Where is he and why hasn't he told me anything himself.

"We didn't know you two were friends." Mr. Murphy says. We are, but you two shouldn't know that. No one should. Except Jared, the only person I went to him about it. "We didn't think Connor had any friends." Had?

That's what everyone thinks, but Connor has two friends. Two different sides of his life. Me, and the other kid. He wasn't as alone as everyone thought. Just like everyone thought about me.

"But this note," Mr. Murphy says, "it seems to suggest pretty clearly that you and Connor were, or at least for Connor, he thought of you as..."

He pauses again. I thought I had a hard time getting my words out, but Connor's parents are really having a difficult time getting to their point. I need to know now, what all this is about.

He gestures to the letter. "I mean, it's right there: 'Dear Evan Hansen.'"

I put so much effort to stop myself from fidgeting, the itch my leg to start bouncing it is hard to ignore, but now didn't seem like the time. I want to say something, ask them what's going on but I can feel the tight grip on my throat. The panic I had when I entered hasn't left me yet, my blood drummed through my veins. I want to know, but I feel like if I asked, I'll hate the answer.

"Go ahead, Evan. Read it."

I open my mouth for the first time since entering the room. But I don't know what to say. I don't know if I want to know what's on the paper.

"It's okay. You can open it. It's addressed to you." Mr. Murphy says. "Connor wrote this to you."

"These are his last words." Mrs. Murphy follows up.

I look to her. To him. The weight getting more unbearable with every passing second, oxygen just seemed harder to get into my longs with every passing second.

"I'm sorry, what do you mean last words?"

Mr. Murphy clears his throat. "Connor is gone."

I don't know what that means. Sent to boarding school? Ran away and joined a cult?

"He took his own life," Mr. Murphy says. He clenches his jaw. She dabs her eye. Devastation rolling off of them in waves.

"He... what?" I say. He couldn't have. He wouldn't. We have a deal, we have a plan. He's supposed to hike with me the week after graduation. We were just talking about the future. How could he...

"It happened two nights ago." Mr. Murphy says. "I know it's a lot to take in."

The night I waited for him, the night we were supposed to meet. No email, no contact, he just... left me. Alone. I need a minute. I need hours. This isn't real. This can't be real.

"The letter is all we found with him." Mr. Murphy says. "He had it folded up in his pocket."

I finally look at the letter.

"You can see," Mr. Murphy says. "He wanted to explain it. It's all there."

I read the words on the page. The words that feel like Connor is just speaking to me, no one else. Words running together in lines. Written well, thought out, no error in the words. This couldn't have been a spur in the moment, that thought draw angry from me. A spur of the moment would be an email, hastily typed out, with errors and everything.

Mr. Murphy recites his words from memory. " 'I was everything was different. I wish I was strong. I wish I could be there for you."

"Let him read it by himself, Larry."

"I wish that anything mattered, but does it ever."

"Larry, please."

"I don't exactly know what I mean by that, but I mean it."

The room goes quiet.

I swallow around the lump in my throat, trying to ignore the sting in my eyes. I'm not sure if his parents notice, but that last line Mr. Murphy says is from one of Connor's favorite book. One night when we were together Connor had went on about the book, we were swapping our current interest. I shared a documentary I had recent watched about a painter who was blind and no one trusted him to paint for them until he died and all his work was found in the basement of his home. Connor told me about Catcher in the Rye. I didn't completely get it, but after I listened to him go on about it, breaking down certain quotes he held close, I was interested. He gave me his copy that night, I never got to return it.

I try to speak, my words rumbling in my brain. I don't know what to say, I don't know how I'm supposed to act.

"This letter. Connor..."

"Connor what?"

"He wouldn't."

"He wouldn't what?"

"Write this."

"What does he mean Larry?"

"He's obviously in shock."

"No, I just... He wouldn't, not to me." I try to explain. My best friend, my only real friend, wouldn't do this. He wouldn't.

"It's right here." Mrs. Murphy says, pointing at the letter.

I hear a voice. It's been talking this whole time but I'm only now paying attention. Coming from within, louder and louder. Go, it's saying, leave.

"I'm sorry, I should probably..."

Mrs. Murphy seizes me, gripping my hands, the letter held in our collective grasp. "If this isn't... If Connor didn't write this to you, then..."

"Cynthia, please. Calm down."

I avert my eyes, I can't do this right now. " I should go."

"Did he say anything to you?" Mrs. Murphy pleads. "Did you see anything?"

"Cynthia, honey. This is not the time."

I loosen my grip, the letter is now in her hands alone. I want it, I want to read it over and over and try to understand why he would do this to me, but I need to get out. I need to leave.

"I really should go."

Mr. Murphy turns to me. "Of course," He says. "We understand. We just wanted you to be among the first to know. Being his only friend."

"I wasn't his friend." The words leave me before I could stop them. I don't want to be in this narrative. I don't want my only friend to be dead. I'd rather be alone.

Mrs. Murphy hides her face. She's done her best to hold it together. So have I, but I can't help her. I understand as much as I can what their feeling, but I can't help. I can't be here with her, with them, with myself. I need to leave. A look fills Mr. Murphy's face and I know I said the wrong thing.

I start to leave, I wanted out of here, but they catch me before I do.

"Before you go." Mr. Murphy removes a business card from his inside breast pocket, flips it over, and begins writing on the back side with on of Mr. Howard's pens. He returns the pen and, with his eyes holding mine, hands me the card. I'm already reaching for it before I know what it is.

"The funeral is for immediate family only," Mr. Murphy says, "but here's the information for the wake tonight, even if you weren't his friend... I think he'd want you to be there."

I don't know how to respond to this, nor do I have the time. Mrs. Murphy jumps up from her chair and grabs my outstretched arm.

"Larry. Look."

It happens so fast I can't stop it.

"Look at his cast."

He comes around to see what she sees. There, in permanent ink, is the name of their son.

Mrs. Murphy turns to her husband, an astonished smile forming. "It's true. It really is true. He's his best friend."

From the principal's office straight to the bathroom. I lean over a toilet, but nothing comes out. My guts are swirling, round and round, like I just sat in the passenger seat of a car driven by a blind person, the wheel jerking left to right to left. I want to get past this dizzy feeling, force it out of me, but it won't come up.

I don't want to think about it, I don't want to process what I was just told. I want to revert, go back to Evan Hansen before Connor Murphy entered my life. Alone. A loner with too much worry and not enough friends. When the only person I could turn to was my only family friend. Not someone who is now gone. Leaving me alone after finding out what it felt like to not be.

I push back the wave pushing against the back of my eyes. Instead I return to English class, but I never really return. I can't get back to where I was before I left. I can hear Mrs. Kiczek's voice, but not her words. The bell rings and I rise from my desk. I walk to my next class without my sneakers ever touching the floor.

My trance holds all the way to last period. Then, an announcement comes over the loudspeaker, repeating the news I learned hours ago but spent the entire day disbelieving. "It is with tremendous sorrow... one of our beloved students... services tonight from five to seven... and students who would like to talk to someone... Mrs. Alvarez will be available in the auditorium starting now."

The news begins to register in those around me. The shock in their faces breaks my daze. It's true. It's really true. Connor Murphy is dead.