Chapter Text
Connor wakes up to the sound of someone blowing leaves outside his window. It’s only the ungodly hour of Seven a.m., and someone’s already trying to piss off the entire neighborhood.
At first, he tries to ignore it. Just rolls over, tugs the blanket over his head like that’s going to do anything to stop the high-pitched whine of the leaf blower drilling into his skull. But it's no use. The sound slices straight through the fabric and whatever thin layer of sleep he was clinging to.
He lets out a groan, muffled by the pillow, and opens one eye. The room is dim, tinted with early morning gray-blue. His brain is foggy, but his body’s too wired to sink back under. Typical.
For a few seconds, he just lies there. Blinking slowly. Staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. Over the leaf blower, Connor can hear noise coming from downstairs. Muted voices. The coffee grinder. The sound of a pan being tossed into the sink. It’s all too familiar. Things he thought he wouldn’t have to hear again.
But no, Trust him to screw up something as simple as dying. Couldn’t even do that right.
It’s been a week since then. Seven days since the first day of school, when he tried—really tried—to finish things for good. Not something impulsive, like when he crashed his car back in July. Something planned. Something he was sure would work. But no. Of course fucking Zoe would find him before he’d even passed out.
He rolls out of bed, brushing a few tangled strands of hair from his face. What a perfect way to start off the day. And the day he’s being thrown back into that hellhole called school, no less.
He gets up and throws on a jacket he got from goodwill just to piss off his dad, and an old, worn, dark gray hoodie with fraying sleeves. It not like his parents can’t afford to buy him new clothes. Hell, they could probably buy him a whole new closet worth of clothes and it would hardly make a dent. But it pisses off his dad when he buys them from some crappy thrift store and that makes it worth it.
He doesn’t bother changing out of the jeans he slept in. Just grabs his bag and heads down the hall. In the bathroom mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself—hair tangled, dark circles under his eyes, skin a little too pale. He rakes a hand through his hair, wincing as it catches on a few knots and tugs at his scalp. Whatever. Not like anyone’ll bother to really look at him anyways.
He forces himself to keep moving, footsteps muffled on the carpet as he passes the photos lining the hallway—frozen moments of a family that doesn’t really exist anymore. Summer vacations, forced smiles. After a while he disappears from the too-perfect photos. He glances away before he can feel anything.
Downstairs, the kitchen light is too bright. Cynthia is flitting between two pans on the stove, one with eggs and the other with bacon. She doesn’t turn around when he enters, just flicks a glance over her shoulder, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Larry—his parents just love it when he calls them by their first names—is sitting at the table, scrolling through his email. He doesn’t look up either, but it's not like Connor was expecting him to.
“You want something to eat?” Cynthia asks, voice too light, too cheerful. “I’m making eggs and bacon.”
He shrugs, chewing the inside of his cheek. “No. Not really.” She sighs and turns back to her cooking without another word.
A minute later Zoe comes hurrying down the stairs. Hair in a braid, makeup done, purple backpack slung over one shoulder. She sits down at the table with a quick, “hey,” not directed at anyone in particular.
“Morning honey.” Cynthia says, setting a plate of food in front of Zoe, who just starts eating without another word. After setting down two more plates, his mom fixes herself a plate and settles into the chair in between her husband and daughter. Connor just stays standing in the corner of the kitchen, debating whether or not to escape back to his room.
After a moment, Larry finally looks up. “Are you going to sit with your family, Connor?”
Connor, despite how much he doesn’t want to, slides into a chair and lays his head on his arms. He doesn’t have the energy to have a fight right now. The clock over the stove ticks loud in the silence, each second passing in painful silence. Connor stares at the back of his eyelids, waiting for someone to say something that matters or maybe for the universe to grant him an excuse to leave. But the only thing that breaks the quiet is a car horn outside, muffled and distant. He hears someone set down their fork, and then Cynthia clears her throat.
“Larry, Zoe, put down your phones.” She says, still in that fake-cheerful voice. “Lets just talk for a minute as a family.”
Connor shifts so one eye peeks above his arm, just enough to see Larry and Zoe set down their phones, Larry looking impatient and Zoe mildly annoyed.
“Zoe, do you have anything interesting going on at school today?”
Zoe looks like she’s resisting the urge to roll her eyes, and her gaze flicks back at her phone for a second. “Not really. Band’s fun I guess. Got a history quiz. Second week of school, yay.”
Cynthia smiles in that fake, honey-sweet way. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. What about you Connor? Anything interesting at school?”
Connor looks up just enough so they can see his blank expression. “I have no idea. I was only there one day, remember?”
That shuts her up quickly. Her gaze moves to her plate, and she takes a bite of her bacon.
“I like art.” Connor says after a minute, but everyone stays silent. He lays his head back on his arms. Zoe starts talking about some book they’re reading in English, probably just to fill the silence.
And then when she’s done talking, they return to silence. Larry picks up his phone again. Zoe puts her plate in the sink and disappears upstairs. No one tells her to come back, so Connor guesses that means it’s probably okay for him to escape back to his room.
He stands, chair scraping softly on the tile, and leaves without a word. The hallway is cool and shadowed after the kitchen’s yellow light. At the top of the stairs he hesitates, peering down the empty hall. A couple inconsistent guitar chords echo from Zoe’s room. Larry’s phone buzzes from downstairs.
Connor slides into his room and quietly shuts his door behind him. He crosses to the window and leans his forehead against the glass. Outside, the street is washed in morning blue. There’s a bird perched on the tree that sits against his window, but it flies off as soon as it notices him.
He wonders what it would feel like to be that free. To be able just fly off into the wide blue sky and go where the wind took you.
He sits down at his desk and pulls out his sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. He fills it with little doodles within ten minutes. A tree here. A few spirals there. Something that was supposed to be a cat that turned into some kind of nightmare monster. A bird. A random pattern that takes up half the page. It’s nothing special, but it’s freeing. He likes the way it feels to be in control of the pencil.
“Connor we’re gonna be late!” Zoe yells from downstairs. “If you’re not down here in two minutes I’m leaving without you!”
Yet another perk of being him. His little sister has to drive him around because apparently taking your kid’s car for trying to kill himself will ‘teach privilege’ or something. Whatever. It’s not like he’s got many places to be anyways.
He grabs his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and pauses at the door. For a second he considers ignoring Zoe, just refusing to leave his room like he used to, but the idea of having to face a screaming match makes him head downstairs
Zoe stands by the front door, backpack over one shoulder, arms crossed and her foot tapping a silent rhythm against the tile. She glances up, eyes narrowing, but Connor can’t tell if it’s irritation or relief that flickers across her face. Maybe both.
“Ready,” he mutters, brushing past her and out into the brisk morning. For a moment, as they walk toward the car in silence, Connor looks up at the sky and wonders again what it’s like to be a bird, weightless and unbound, vanishing into the blue. But then Zoe unlocks the car, breaking his quiet daydream, and he slips into the passenger seat.
The car smells faintly of Zoe’s vanilla hand lotion and yesterday’s fries. Connor fumbles with the seatbelt, the metal tongue catching for a moment before snapping into place. Zoe doesn’t speak as she starts the engine, just turns up the radio to fill the silence with a swirl of pop melodies and static. They back out of the driveway, and the familiar houses slide past on either side.
Connor rests his elbow against the window, his breath fogging a patch of glass. The sun is climbing, striping the street with pale gold. He watches someone walking their dog, a kid wobbling on a bike, and wonders how many mornings have played out like this for them—routine, effortless, unremarkable.
Zoe takes the corner a little too fast, focused on the road ahead. Connor doesn’t mind. The speed feels like something close to flying, the world blurring just enough.
They turn into the parking lot and the car comes to a stop. Zoe kills the engine and gets out without a word. Connor slides out but just watches for a moment as she waves to a group of girls, and they all quickly surround her. Smiling, laughing.
Connor lingers for a moment, clutching the strap of his bag, letting the thrumming sound of engines and distant voices settle around him. He pulls his hood over his head and walks toward the entrance, listening to his steps, counting the cracks in the pavement—things to help him ignore the tightness in his chest.
The halls are already buzzing, lockers slamming, friends calling out to each other. Connor keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, weaving through the crowd, invisible but oddly safe in his own little orbit.
He slips into his first class just before the bell rings and chooses a seat by the window. Outside, the morning unfolds—cars trickle in, someone drops a book on the sidewalk, a flock of birds soar overhead.
The teacher comes in and starts his droning lecture. Connor never caught his name on the first day of school, he was too distracted. He lets his gaze linger on the sky beyond the glass, tracing the birds’ swooping patterns—an easy, effortless choreography. The teacher’s voice, muffled and distant, drifts through the room, but Connor barely registers it.
A packet of paper lands on his desk. Connor jumps, blinking up at the teacher’s expectant look before mumbling an apology. He flattens the paper beneath his palm, tracing the printed letters absently with his finger, his mind not quite there. Around him, voices murmur, chairs scrape, pencils tap steadily. He tries to focus and do the work. He really does. But everything blurs together and he finds himself just doodling on the margins anyway. At the end of class, he turns it in half-finished, and the other half filled with little drawings and scribbles.
The hallway between classes is a loud, jostling, river of bodies and backpack zippers and conversation. Connor merges with the current, drifting past posters for the fall play, announcements about clubs, and the smell of floor polish mingling with something fried from the cafeteria.
A couple of students brush past him, their laughter echoing down the hall. He hears Zoe’s voice somewhere nearby—higher, animated, the axis around which her friends seem to orbit. Connor keeps moving, shoes scuffing the tiles, until he reaches his next classroom.
He sits near the back this time, away from the windows and the flow of light. The teacher is younger, sharp-voiced, writing out instructions in looping script. Connor’s hand hovers uncertainly over his notebook, but the words refuse to settle. Instead, he watches dust motes swirl in the sunbeam slicing across the desk, glinting like tiny worlds of their own.
A girl drops into the seat beside him, offering a quick nod. Connor manages a polite, not-quite smile, more reflex than intent. He listens to the rhythm of the lesson—phrases rising and falling, pauses filled with the scratch of pen on paper. He tries, again, to focus—to grasp onto something real and solid. But everything feels slippery, distant.
***
At lunch, he heads to the library for some quiet. Finds a book he heard good things about and opens it to the middle. Starts reading but not really seeing the words.
After a few minutes, Connor starts to feel his neck prickle, like someone’s staring at him. Its not unusual, but when it doesn’t go away after a few minutes, he sneaks a glance behind him.
And it’s none other than that kid from the disaster that was the first day of school. Evan Hansen. His eyes wide as they bore into Connor’s skull, fingers picking relentlessly at his cast. The cast with Connor’s name scrawled across it in big, messy letters. Connor had almost forgotten about the whole disaster incident in the computer lab, and he’d kind of hoped Hansen had too. Clearly not.
Connor turns around with a blank stare. “Can I help you?” It comes out harsher than he means it. Typical.
Evan startles, then sort of freezes in place. “I uh-.”
“No I get it. Had to see if the school shooter was really back.”
“O-oh. No, no! I didn’t mean to stare sorry.” Evan sputters, looking like he’s about to throw up. “Uhm you uh, you took my letter and Ireallykindofneedthatbacksorry.”
Connor blinks. “What?”
Evan’s gaze darts to the door, like he’s trying to decide whether to bolt. “My uh-, my letter? I kind of need it back. S-sorry.”
Connor raises an eyebrow. “The letter with the creepy shit you wrote about my sister?”
Evan’s face turns an impossible shade of red. He shakes his head, hands trembling as he fumbles with the strap of his backpack. “No, it’s not like that, I swear. I— it was an assignment. For therapy. I was supposed to write about like, why today is going to be a good day and stuff. I only wrote about Zoe because she was nice to me, I promise. You weren’t—you weren’t supposed to see it, or—or anyone else.”
Connor leans back, skeptical, watching Evan stammer and shuffle his feet. Evan opens his mouth, closes it again. He swallows hard. “I just… I really need it. Please. If you have it. It—it has my name on it.”
Connor studies him for a long moment, the edges of his irritation softening, just a little. “Yeah, well, I don’t have it,” he says finally. “I tossed it. Or maybe someone else found it. Not my problem.”
Evan’s eyes widen in panic. “Wait—someone else? Who? Did you—did you show it to anyone?”
“No,” Connor says flatly. “I don’t care about your letter, okay? Just…don’t write weird stuff about my family next time.”
Evan nods, shoulders hunched, shrinking beneath the fluorescent lights. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I— Sorry.”
An awkward hush descends. Connor shifts in his seat, the weight of the encounter pressing in on all sides, while Evan lingers for a moment more before turning to leave. “Oh, uh— I’m sorry about Jared. On the first day of school? He’s kind of a jerk I don’t know why I even hang out with him.”
Connor gives a noncommittal grunt, unsure whether to accept the apology or let the silence devour them both. The truth is, the sting of that first day hasn’t entirely faded—the way Connor just kind of lost it when Evan laughed, the whispers, the taunts. But now, Evan just seems small and desperate, his apology dangling between them like a frayed thread.
For a split second, Connor almost wants to say something—something that would make it easier, maybe, or at least less humiliating for the kid shuffling by the door. But the words won’t come. He crosses his arms instead, eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum. “Whatever. It’s fine. Jared’s was the one being a dick anyway.”
Evan hesitates, as if weighing whether to believe this is really over. His hand hovers near the doorknob, fingers flexing nervously. “Yeah. Okay. Um. Thanks, Connor.”
The click of the door is quiet as Evan slips out. Connor exhales, slow and uneven, letting his head tip back until it thumps gently against the wall.
For a moment, he thinks about calling Evan back. Just to—what? Tell him that he ended up reading the whole letter? That he gets it, maybe, a little more than he’d ever admit? He presses his lips together, biting down on the urge. The words, as always, stay strangled somewhere deep.
Connor stares at the door, tracing the path Evan must have taken down the hall. There’s a crumpled gum wrapper near his shoe; he kicks it away, listening to the tiny scrape it makes as it skitters across the carpet.
He stands, sliding the book back into the shelf, and heads out into the hallway, not really sure where he’s going.
The hallway is quieter now—lunch still in full swing, most students corralled into the cafeteria or scattered across the lawn out back. Connor’s footsteps echo dully as he walks, aimless, his hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. He passes by the trophy case, filled with plastic-smiling soccer teams and polished plaques with names he doesn’t recognize, and probably never will.
He rounds a corner and nearly collides with a janitor pushing a cart. The man gives him a nod, expression unreadable, and keeps moving. Connor mumbles a “sorry” but doesn’t slow down. The truth is, if he stops, he might just sit down in the middle of the hallway and not get back up again.
He ends up in the stairwell, slumping down on the cold concrete steps and tugging his hoodie tighter around him. From here, he can hear the low murmur of distant voices filtering up through the building—teachers, students, the occasional squeak of a shoe on tile.
He pulls out his phone and stares at the screen—no notifications, of course. He expected that. Another part still hoped, irrationally, for something. Anything. He opens the Notes app and types out three words before deleting them.
I hate this.
No surprise there.
A door creaks open above him. Footsteps echo down, and a second later, a voice—surprisingly familiar—drifts down the stairwell.
“Connor?”
Connor tenses. Of course it’s Evan. Who else would be in the stairwell during lunch? He looks up as Evan peers around the corner, still looking like he might bolt at any second. Connor groans and leans back against the wall.
“I’m not gonna shove you down the stairs, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Evan’s face flushes. “No! I just—sorry. I saw you leave and thought maybe… I should… say thanks. Again. For not showing the letter. Or whatever.”
Connor rolls his eyes, but not as hard as he could. “I told you. I didn’t care.”
A pause. Connor glances at Evan. His shoulders are hunched, his hair sticking up in weird places, the sleeves of his shirt fraying like he’s picked at them too much. There's something painfully real about him. About the way he doesn’t even try to hide his anxiety. Or maybe he can’t.
“Why write about Zoe?” Connor asks, not looking directly at him.
Evan shrinks a little, clearly wishing the question hadn’t come up. “She… said hi to me. On the first day. Asked if I was okay after uh...nevermind. I don’t know. It just felt… like something nice. And when stuff like that happens, it kind of… sticks.”
Connor doesn’t answer at first. So Zoe was cleaning up another one of his messes. His jaw works, tightening, then loosening. “She does that,” he mutters. “Pretends like she’s not related to a human disaster. Pretends that she's not messed up.”
Evan frowns. “I don’t think she’s pretending.”
Connor gives him a look. “You don’t know her.”
“I don’t know you, either.”
Connor leans his head back against the cool concrete and exhales. “Lucky you.”
There’s a beat of silence. “I could though.”
Connor blinks at him, confused. “What?”
“Know you. On the first day of school you uh….you said we could both pretend we have friends.” His casted arm twitches, as if reminding Connor of the name scrawled across it in black sharpie. “We could…not pretend.”
Connor stares at him for a minute, trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. But Evan seems to take that as a bad sign and his face goes red again. “Sorry, sorry. That was stupid sorry. I’ll uh, I can go now.” Evan turns to leave.
Connor doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches Evan retreat up the stairs like a kicked dog, shoulders hunched so far forward he might fold in on himself.
“Wait,” Connor says.
He almost surprises himself with it. It comes out low and rough, like it fought its way past all the junk in his throat just to make it out. Evan freezes and glances back, one foot hovering above the next step.
Connor shifts on the stair, pulling his knees up so his arms can rest on top of them. He stares at the wall opposite, chipped paint and a weird rust-colored stain near the baseboard. “I didn’t mean you had to go.”
Another beat. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes.
Evan turns slowly. His expression is unsure, like he’s half-expecting Connor to bite his head off, but he comes back down a few steps anyway. Doesn’t sit, just leans against the railing a few feet away, hands twisting nervously.
“I didn’t mean to… like, push,” Evan says, quiet. “Or be weird. I just—when you said what you did, it was the first time someone didn’t treat me like I was some kind of stray cat on the side of the road. Most people either ignore me or laugh at me so uh…”
Connor snorts. “Yeah, well, I am the cat so…”
Evan doesn’t laugh. He just shrugs, eyes on the scuffed toes of his sneakers. “Then I guess we’re both kind of street cats.
That gets a huff of air from Connor. Almost a laugh, if you squint at it sideways. He doesn’t know what to do with the weird tightness in his chest. Doesn’t know what to do with this awkward, anxious kid who keeps showing up even when he clearly doesn’t have to.
They sit in silence for a while. It’s not as awful as Connor expects. Just the two of them in their weird little bubble, listening to the faint murmur of life beyond the stairwell.
“You don’t have friends?” Connor asks suddenly.
Evan startles like he forgot Connor was even there. “Oh. Uh—no. Not really.”
Connor nods slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Evan shifts, crossing his arms over his stomach. “I think people try, sometimes. To be nice. But they always get tired of me.”
Connor tilts his head. “Yeah, well. I don’t give them the chance to.”
They lapse back into silence, this time longer. Connor taps his fingers against his knee. Evan fidgets with the edge of his sleeve until it frays even more.
And then the bell rings and their fragile quite is broken. Connor makes a face and stands. “Well. See you around I guess.”
Evan blinks. “Um—yeah. See you.”