Chapter Text
The silence was deafening, but then, it always was.
His thoughts spiraled as his heart thundered in his chest, the anticipation heightened by the clock tick-ticking away on the mostly-barren walls.
He instinctively went to chew on the end of his nail, but found them already bitten to the quick. Rather than draw blood (and attention) he elected to chew on the inside of his cheek instead.
The clock continued to tick-tick-tick away, the minutes fading together as he paced around the living room. This wouldn’t be bad, right? Sure, his anxiety was skyrocketing, and sure it sucked to be this nervous, but it was all paranoia, right?
Even he couldn’t fuck this up. It was simple. He didn’t even have to say much, he just had to open the door and force his mouth around the words that were almost certain to get caught in his throat.
Music always helped, but of course he managed to misplace his headphones, and if he played his music out loud he’d be judged for it for sure.
Thank you, have a nice evening! No, that sounds too stiff and adult. Thanks, have a good night?
Thanks, have a good night. Thanks, have a good night! Thankshaveagoodnight!
The practiced words swirled around his head, his cheeks and ears burning a bright red as he pick-picked at his cast, the tick-ticking of the clock mimicking his heart.
He contemplated turning on the TV for a moment, maybe something to take his mind off of his impending doom. No, no, his taste in shows would be judged too. There really wasn’t a single piece of him that was normal.
He couldn’t tell if the pit growing in his stomach was hunger, fear, or some fusion of the two.
It was usually some fusion of the two.
The doorbell rang, and suddenly all of his thoughts careened to a stop, as if they were a car that collided at full speed with a tree.
Gripping the money in his sweaty palm, he opened the door and tried to mask his anxiety.
“Delivery for Evan Hansen?” The pizza man didn’t seem to be paying much attention, and for that Evan would be eternally grateful.
“Yes,” he muttered, the metalic taste of blood leaking into his mouth due to the incessant biting of his cheek.
“That’ll be $13.21,” the pizza man’s bland tone and tired demeanor was quickly lost when Evan shoved the twenty-dollar bill in his hands, rushing out a “ Thankshaveanightgood!” as he grabbed the pizza, slamming the door closed and leaning against it as soon as it was shut.
He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing and silence the thoughts that ricocheted through his head.
It was over. It was done.
Now maybe he could have his night in with The Sound of Music, and let the music pour over him and wash everything else away.
Maybe the music could wash away all his flaws and imperfections, wash away the way his ears turned red at any mention of his name, wash away the panic and the flinches whenever someone moved too suddenly or spoke too loudly. Maybe the music could wash away everything that made Evan who he was, and leave behind someone better, just for a little while.
Or maybe he’d just eat bad food and forgo sleep while he watched musicals and read shoddy books online to ignore his problems. Y’know, both are valid options.
***
When people thought about depression, they tended to think about love, and loss, and regret.
Fuck that.
It was more like an angry pit that couldn’t be filled, no matter how hard Connor tried. It sucked away his energy, his hope, his happiness, even his sadness. There wasn’t anything left, not really. Nothing but hollow mimics of the things he used to feel.
He used to like to read. He used to love to write. Nothing good, of course, just shoddy poetry and half-baked stories that he never found the motivation to finish.
In recent months, he’d never even gotten the motivation to start. It would crumble and fall apart, like everything he tried always did. It would morph into something that would hurt someone, like everything he tried always did. He’d never show what he really thinks to anyone, because nobody would care what he thought, like they always didn’t.
Connor used to think words were powerful. He used to believe that they could shape minds and hearts, and maybe someday he’d use his to do something meaningful.
Fuck that.
He couldn’t even reach his own family with his shitty, half-baked words. How could he hope to reach a stranger?
The thought still clung to him though, orbiting the raging hole and inching ever closer, but never quite reaching it.
Reaching for his laptop, he gave a defeated sigh.
Am I really doing this?
Fuck, I’m really doing this.
He didn’t even know where he started, only that it poured out of him as quickly as the idea had come. Word after word strung together, loose threads of ideas and feelings that wove into some kind of shoddy-looking mimic of a story.
Without thinking, he posted it and slammed the laptop shut. He rolled over, closing his eyes and trying to force himself to sleep.
Instead of sleep he came upon memories of light and regret, haunted by shadows of what was and what could have been.