Chapter Text
Dear Connor Murphy,
I just wanted to let you know that
Evan pauses, his pencil pressing too hard into the stationery paper that’s carefully aligned with the edges of his desk. The tip breaks, and it makes him jump- has him gnawing at his lower lip hard, harder, until he thinks he tastes iron and there’s red beading there.
“Crap.”
Flattening his palm out over the stationery, he draws it up in one swift motion, crumpling the paper into a ball and promptly tossing it into the small metal trash beside his feet. Crossing his ankles, he makes an attempt to still the shaking in his leg as he evens out yet another sheet of paper on his desk before he once again begins the header, just as he’s been taught in therapy, or in the twelve years he’s been in public education.
Name. Date. Greeting.
Dear Connor Murphy,
I know we don’t talk that often anymore, but I just thought that it would be good for you to know that I
It’s not good enough. He can’t manage for it to sound right, and eyes trail off of the paper, up the tip of his pen, and to the side where his prescriptions sit lined up carefully on the back of his desk. His gaze lingers too long on one bottle, and his eyes narrow slightly as he fights to remember if he even took his medication today. Deciding that it doesn’t matter right now, he disregards the bottles, looking down at the paper once again. The black ink isn’t sitting with him well, and he repeats the same motion in order to crunch it up, watching as it joins the other in the trash, leaving a pair of two absolute failures.
They’re just like him.
Shaking his head, he ignores the invasive thought before he turns once again to the letter- or, really, the lack thereof. He clicks the pen a few times before he closes it and puts it back in his pen holder, and there’s a pause before he pulls out his favorite blue one, noting just how low the ink is. He figures that he should probably actually ask his mom to bring him out to the store so that he can actually get a few new ones.
The stationery that he lines up this time feels loaded with a million words as he carefully writes his name in the top right corner, the date under it, and it’s only then that he realizes that it’s the end of August, and school starts up in another week or so. Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he shifts uncomfortably, eyebrows furrowing as he puts his pen to the paper once again. Third time’s the charm , he thinks to himself, starting the letter once again.
Dear Connor Murphy,
Since senior year is coming up, I thought that I’d actually write to you again. I know it’s been a while, and I’m sorry, I’m still getting used to this cast, but maybe we should hang out again. If you want to, I mean. I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked, but things have been crazy, and I swear I’ve been meaning to get to you. Before school starts up, I just wanted to let you know that I really do care, and I would love to keep in touch this year, because you’re my best friend.
He puts his pen down, staring hard at the paper like he’s waiting for something to happen. For the words to jump out and smack some sense into him, or for it to settle in that it sounds ridiculous before he folds it up to stick in an envelope.
It doesn’t happen.
Within a second’s time, he’s picking the pen up again and signing his name at the end- or, rather, not his name.
Sincerely, Me.
Idly doodling a little tree beside the ‘name’, he traces a finger over the perimeter of the stationery before he carefully folds it into thirds and tucks it into an envelope, sealing it with a star sticker he’s probably had since he was eleven. It’s gold, like the sun, and the way that he felt the day that he was with Connor in the tree when he--
His train of thought is broken as his mother opens the door without knocking. Again. Turning quickly, he looks at her, pushing the envelope between two books on his desk. He greets her with a wave, curt and fast and nervous as he glances down to his cast. She's in her scrubs, which means she's leaving for work, and he doesn't feel guilty when he can't bring himself to look up at her again.
“I'm off to work, honey. I'll be home later tonight, I hope. There's money on the table, if you want to…” A pause. “Or, there's a frozen pizza in the freezer.”
Evan makes a mental note that he knows what he's going to go with.
“Got it, mom. Thanks. I'll talk to you later.”
His voice is quick and rushed and as he talks he feels his face heat up, because he wasn't really looking to talk to anyone today. There's a reason he's writing a letter and not just walking down the street and knocking at Connor’s front door like a normal person would. He straightens up to turn around when he sees her slink back into the crack of the door, but he freezes when she speaks.
“I love you, Evan.”
Oh. Fantastic. He clears his throat, nodding. “Yeah. Love you, too, mom.”
It's then that he hears the door click shut again and he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It’s only a little past noon, but suddenly he’s exhausted. He knows he should deliver the letter, but... When’s the last time he’s actually hand written something? Does Connor even check the mail? Who sends letters anymore, Evan Hansen? He shakes his head carefully, eyebrows furrowing before he addresses the letter, stands up, and promptly goes outside to put it in his own mailbox, flipping the little red flag up.
He’ll expect an answer in a day or two, and when he goes back into his bedroom for what feels to be the rest of the day, he tries not to think about it.