I Guess They Never Disappear

Epilogue the First

Trigger Warning: Suicidal Implications (Do Not Read if this is a trigger, please stay safe.)

Jared POV

Three days. It is three days before I find myself back at Evan's apartment. Three days of talking to my mom, staying in bed, and pretending that I have something better to do than think. Three days of doing pretty much everything my mom wants done around the house, even the shit I've always hated to do, just to take my mind off things. 

It's not like I go back because Evan asked me to. He's been radio silent for three days. I've tried to message him and ask if I could come back. Nothing. It worries me. It's part of the reason why I thought I should have this conversation at his apartment — so I could make sure he was, well, okay. 

Alive. You know. 

I may not be around him for much longer (and I don't really want to think about that), but I'm still a good person. I still want him to stay safe. Maybe he wouldn't want that from me anymore. I don't know. 

I would say I haven't known anything for three days, but the truth is that it's been longer than that. 

The second reason is that I felt that I needed to have whatever post-argument discussion we're about to have face-to-face. If there's any chance to rekindle our connection, if we ever had a connection, it would be created by actually being able to talk to each other. 

I also don't really want to be broken up with over text or a phone call or whatever. 

That's probably going to happen, one way or another, and I should be prepared for that. 

Either he's going to say it, or I'm going to have to. Knowing Evan, I'm probably going to need to be the one to pull the trigger, push the button, end it all. 

Something about knowing in advance this time hurts so, so much more; I know it'll hurt even more once it's all over. 

But it's for the best, right?

I raise my hand to knock on the door. 

(I still have my key, but I don't feel like I have the right to use it anymore.)

My fist makes contact with it once before Evan pulls it open. 

"Sorry," he says quietly, "I was... uh... I saw you arrive."

"Oh," I say. 

"Do, uh, do you want to go sit down?"

"Yeah."

The living area looks the same as we left it last. Evan does not. He carries himself hunched over, the same way he did after he told the Murphy family about the truth. His face looks more drained of energy than I've ever seen it. The bags under his eyes have darkened. 

Evan is tired. That I can tell. So am I, I guess. 

We sit down, and the silence is resounding. It's not awkward, because an awkward silence is when you don't know what to say. 

Both of us know what we have to say, although neither of us wants to. 

Maybe if we don't say the words, the world will go back to normal. 

I speak first, as I always do. 

Maybe it will be the last time I ever do that. 

"Evan," I say slowly, trying not to frighten him, "How have... how have you been?"

He looks up. "Fine."

I choose my next words carefully, trying not to re-ignite the argument. "Oh. Um. That's... good."