I Guess They Never Disappear

Prologue (Beginning of Part One)

I choke back the white tablet with a gulp of water. 

Standing up fully, I slowly move down the stairs towards the tiny kitchen, pouring myself a bowl of cereal unenthusiastically. These days I eat breakfast everyday, mostly due to the fact that Heidi Hansen has made a resolution to do a better job of mothering, which includes checking to see that I eat three meals everyday. That also includes 'enforcing' it if I don't, which isn't so terrible, except for the fact that I can't focus on my meal because I've disappointed her, and that's all I ever do, and even though she says I don't that has to be true, because what sort of nineteen year old still needs to be told to eat three meals a day?

Putting my bowl in the sink, I climb back up the stairs to my bedroom.

My laptop is sitting at my desk, reminding me that I have to write yet another letter, because today is a new day, and with a new day comes a new letter, and a new struggle to tell myself why today will be a good day. 

Above the desk is a map. Eighteen months ago, that map was filled with pins, and plans. Fifteen months ago, every pin but one got removed from the map. And one month after that I took out the last one. 

Next to the laptop is a clock, which informs me the time: 8:10 AM. My shift at Pottery Barn starts in an hour and twenty minutes, which means I have an hour to get ready, not that it would ever take that long. So I turn my attention to the laptop, preparing to write.

"Dear Evan Hansen,

Today is going to be a good day, and here's why."

Of course, this is how every letter begins. A year ago I dreaded typing these words, but they have become a sort of anchor in my world now. Things change from day to day, this I know for sure, but this will stay the same: I find comfort in this.  

"Today you are just doing what you do every day. Nothing's going to be different, but it'll be better. There's something important in finding comfort to your routine. And if you can't just take it for today, but you have to think about tomorrow too, that's fine as well. You're going to have a small victory today, because people see you for you."

It's easier to write it in my mom's voice, the one that I hear all the time reminding me to take my meds and write my letters and forgive myself for all that I've done. 

Of course, if Jared was here, he would make fun of the fact that I was writing about Pottery Barn in my 'weird sex letters'.

But he isn't, and he hasn't been here, not since I told him what happened at the Murphy's that night. I tried to message him afterwards, hoping that he was just taking the news poorly at the moment. He didn't respond, something that hurts me more than I thought it might, although I'm absolutely certain it didn't hurt him in the slightest.

"And it's important to remember today, Evan, that people want to see you and not some fictional character that you come up with. People like you, Evan. You're bold enough to own up to your mistakes and people learn to love you even more for that."

His number is still in my phone. I don't really know why. It doesn't fit in with the charade we played the rest of senior year: polite, but avoiding interaction, just as ex-lovers might. 

Alana's number isn't in my phone anymore, not after what happened. I don't think I ever really told her what I really did, which makes me feel all the worse. The orchard opened months ago, all under her direction. I didn't have the energy to come to the opening, and from the few photos I saw, it is clear I wasn't missed.

Zoe's number is there too, but I haven't thought about pressing on her icon. It might be a while before she wants to talk about what I did, or maybe never, but I'm not nearly brave enough to send her an apology she doesn't want to hear.