Evan Hansen x (Female) Reader

ii

I find it really ironic that I'm still here, in this house. I mean, after all, I died so I could get away from this place. I can go anywhere I want now, yet I choose to remain here, in this place. I wonder what it is about this place that attracts me so much. Why must I remain here, in this house, when I have the whole world to explore? It can't be because I want to be around my family, because as I said before, I died to get away from them. Maybe it's because I've got no other home. I've got nowhere else to be when I'm not here. I watch my family. They're all sitting in the living room, looking all Norman Rockwall. Aside from Y/N, who's probably up in her room. Or something. Can't say I'm surprised. The rest of them sit in the living room. My mom was shuffling through those e-mails again. She's been doing this over and over and over again. That Evan kid apparently faked a shit ton of emails between us. Made up some story about us being friends. First, he plants a letter for me to find. And now he's fucking with my family? It's totally bonkers. And my mother just can't seem to get over it. She keeps talking about how different I seem. Guess what Cynthia? Maybe I seem different because the person who wrote those emails wasn't fucking me. 

"So, Zoe, how was school?" Larry asks, hitting her with one of his infamous stock questions. Can't be bothered to ask anything deep. I think I know that better than anyone else.

"Fabulous. Suddenly, everybody want's to be friends with the kid with a dead brother." 

That's me. I'm the dead brother. Damn. 

"Well, I'm sure it was nice to see your friends again. And your bandmates. Was Mr. Contrell happy to see you again?" Cynthia asks her, and Zoe stands up. 

"It's ridiculous that you people are acting like this. We're not suddenly the fucking Brady Bunch just because Connor is dead." She growls, and storms off. Though, her storm is much more peaceful then mine would've been. Just as she storms off, Y/N walks past her down the stairs. Turns out she was in her room. She walks past Zoe, who pretends she's not even there. Y/N makes her way into the kitchen, but Cynthia calls out to her. 

"Y/N, dear, why don't you come here and sit with us?" She asks, and Y/N simply replies with a curt "no" and continues about her business. Cynthia asks her another question about school. She gives another minimalist answer and goes back up towards her room, a drink of some sort in her hand. I follow her. I can't stand to be around my parents any longer. 

As she makes her way up the stairs, she passes by Zoe's room. The door is slightly cracked, and we both hear Zoe strumming on her guitar. Its an unplugged electric one. She suddenly stops and scribbles something in her notebook. Y/N stands and watches. She listens carefully, trying not to be noticed. I recognize this. We used to spy on people all the time. Even on each other. She watches as Zoe develops the melody, and quietly sings to herself as she strums. 

 "I could curl up and hide in my room.

Here in my bed still sobbing tomorrow. 

I could give in to all of the gloom. 

But tell me, tell me what for?"

We both take note of the feeling of hurt. The pain. The anguish. It reveals itself through her lyrics even more than her voice. And it resonates with the both of us. It's true, when we were little kids, the three of us were as close as siblings could be. We fed the cats under the porch in our old home, (Cynthia never would let them in the house) and we would all share a bed on group trips, back before Larry became Mr. Big Bucks and we could only afford one room. Y/N was always on the end that was nearest to the wall, I was on the other end, and Zoe was in between us. Her head would be at the foot of the bed, while Y/N and I would be normal. We all fit in better that way. Zoe wanted to do everything her older siblings would do. And we all had each others backs. But eventually we all grew apart. Zoe stopped fighting for me, and to a certain degree Y/N did too. Y/N and I were obviously very close, but we had our moments of course. We could have been a lot closer. I remember one time she pushed me down the stairs because I was walking too slow. But I'm not holding a grudge. I pushed her back a few days later.

I go in to Zoe's room, and leave Y/N out in the hallway. Not for very long, just so I can get an better view of Zoe as she works. She continues to strum and sing, pausing every few words to write down in her notebook. 

"Why should I have a heavy heart?

Why should I start to break in pieces?

Why should I go and fall apart for you?" 

I find myself mesmerized by her. I've never heard her sing before. I didn't even know she could sing. Goes to show just how much attention I payed. But now that I've heard it, I can't unhear  it. 

"Why should I play the grieving girl and lie?

Saying that I miss you,

And that my world has gone dark without your light

I will sing no requiem tonight"

The sound is rather haunting, though it is a tad ironic. After all, her song about not wanting to sing a requiem is a requiem, is it not? I glance out into the hallway, and Y/N isn't there. I go into her room, and I find her sitting on her bed, sniffling and wiping tears that had formed in the corners of her eyes. 

I've never seen her cry. Even when we were kids, she was always rather stone-faced when she was upset. Bullies would never get a reaction, and as a result, she was never bullied too severely. Occasionally she'd be angry, like me. But other than that, nothing. It felt weird. Then again, it's weird that I'm the one who's currently stalking my family. It's weird that I'm dead. It's weird. 

She reaches out to grab another tissue, and in the process knocks a cup filled with sharpies over, the multicolored markers spreading everywhere on the floor. She sighs, tosses the now used tissue into a nearby trash can and gets onto the floor to pick them up. She collects the ones out in the open before moving on to the ones underneath her bed. She reaches her hand underneath and collects a few. Her  hand brushes against an envelope, and she pulls it out from under her bed, the sharpies now long forgotten. She sits up on her bed and opens the envelope. Two letters fall out, and she unfolds them both. One of them is mine. My suicide note. She's been keeping it under her bed this whole time. Does she not want the rest of the family to read it? She picks it up and reads it, tears dripping onto the letter as she reads it over and over again. I assume the other letter is the one Evan wrote, but it's not. It's handwritten. I recognize this handwriting. It's Y/N's. 

Connor: 

I love you. I'll always love you. I'm sorry I was too dense to see just how badly you were struggling. I'm no better than everyone else. And I hate myself for letting you walk out that door when I fucking KNEW something was wrong.

 Did you really kill yourself? Or were we the ones who killed you? You know what it was? It was the latter. Or perhaps it was a bit of both. You overdosed, but we were the ones who put the pills in your hand. And when I think of that it makes me sick. 

You deserved the world. You deserved so much more than what we gave you. You could have been anything you wanted.  I'm sorry. 

You'll always be a hero to me. 

I sit and stare at the note. For the first time, guilt finds its way into my chest. I touch the letter. The paper is cool and crisp. I look up at Y/N, and she is clutching the paper to her chest, hugging it like she used to hug that stuffed cow she got when she was younger. The tears in her eyes have begun dripping down her cheeks and onto her mattress. She is whispering an apology over and over again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She's practically hysterical. I do something that I've never done before, even though I should have done it long before I ended it. 

I lean in and wrap my arms around her. "I'm sorry," I say, knowing good and well she can't hear me. She'll never be able to hear me ever again. 

She shivers. Her arms are covered in goosebumps.