Still Dreaming - Treebros

Chapter 4: "When Can I Come Home?"

Thursday, August 29th

  I take back everything I ever said. College sucks so far.

I'm away from everyone I know. I don't know where anything is, who anyone is, I barely even know what time it is at any given point because clearly the 40 minute drive sent me into a different time zone where everything runs 2 hours slower. And the only person I do really know seems to be avoiding me and I'm glad and I hate it and I hate him and I hate college.

I hate this stupid bench too. Sam told me to wait here after class and I don't know where he is and it's hot because it's metal and it's been sitting in the sun all day and it's burning through my jeans and I have to eat lunch and everything sucks.

I could be doing the homework I was given in mass amounts. I could be reading. Maybe watching a documentary. Calling Mom. But I'm sitting on a white-hot bench outside what I think is the dining hall but I'm too terrified to check, alone.

  "Oh. Hi, sorry. Um. I didn't know that someone was already sitting here. Sorry," a melodic voice says from beside me. I jump, too lost in thought to have heard them come up.

"No, it's fine. It's fine. I can move," I say, standing up quickly. A girl with long bright red braids and a septum piercing is nervously pulling her black sleeves farther down past her wrists. I don't know how she's wearing that in this heat.

"No, no. It's okay, I can move," she insists, ducking her head and taking a step back. Now I'm ruining someone else's lunch not just mine.

"Really, it's fine," I say, taking a step back as well.

"Well you were here first, so." Now Sam's really gonna find out how pathetic I am when I have to tell him that the reason I wasn't where he told me to be was because someone came before him and I fled in embarrassment.

"It's okay, I can find somewhere else to sit," the girl says. Her hands fly up to fiddle with the strings of her backpack while mine reach for the hem of my shirt. We both freeze.

Two people with social anxiety walk into a bar. Neither one orders because they can't talk to the bartender and they're both offering the only available seat to each other. One leaves to go hyperventilate in the bathroom and the other goes to hyperventilate in their car.

"We could, um. Both sit on the bench? Saves us a lot of trouble," she offers, playing with the many hoops that line the shell of her ear.

"Yeah. Yeah, that works," I nod, hesitantly sitting back down. She follows, and we both press as far back against the arms of the bench as possible.

"Sorry, it's just, I'm just meeting my, uh, a friend. Meeting a friend," the girl explains.

"Oh? Me too," I say. I wasn't awkwardly sitting on a random bench by choice.

"Cool. Cool," she says. It's awkward to have a conversation, but it's even more awkward not to.

"I'm Evan, by the why. Evan Hansen," I say, holding my hand out like a loser. But, to my surprise, she shakes it like it's normal.

"Noelle Thompson," she says. Noelle. That name sounds familiar but it's not like it's uncommon. Maybe that was Mom's friend's name or something,