stars in our eyes | evan hansen x reader

6.

"So, do you think that's a good enough conclusion?" Evan asked you, three hours after you arrived at his house.

"Yeah, I think so," you said, kicking away the box from the box from the pizza you had ordered around six-ish.

It wasn't an extensive assignment, and with the two of you working it didn't take that long. Still, you hadn't worked up the nerve to mention something other than the Iron Curtain or pizza toppings. Regardless to that, you actually really liked being around Evan. It was weird, and you could never tell if it was because of the anxiety or just part of your personality, but some people were just immensely draining to be around. And Evan Hansen wasn't one of those people for you.

"So."

"So." The two of you were sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch and staring at Evan's laptop. He saved the project, then closed the laptop.

"I'll print it at school tomorrow?" He said it as more of a question than a statement, clearly unsure if that would be okay with you.

"Sounds great," you smiled. "So... where's your mom?"

You needed him to tell you, even if you already knew. You figured it probably wouldn't be smart to be the girl who came into his life and creepily said, "Yes, I know you love trees," "Yes, I know your dad left when you were seven," "Yes, I know you have no friends."

"She's at work. Night shift."

"So, we have the house all to ourselves?" you asked. But then--you couldn't help it, it was one of your favorite lines from the show--you added, "We should through a kegger."

"We should totally throw a kegger, for sure," Evan added in a mock frat boy voice.

"Til your mom gets home."

"Tomorrow morning," Evan finished and you both laughed. After the two of you could breathe again, Evan asked you where you moved here from, and you took a deep breath and figured that the truth was easier to remember than a lie, so you answer his questions as honestly as you could have. Where you lived, what your parents did, et cetera. You, in turn, asked the same things. You knew a lot of the answers--you had watched the bootleg 4+ times and listened to the cast recording a countless amount--but it still felt interesting and new, because he was telling you.

Thirty minutes of that passed by. Then another thirty. Then another. Eventually, you got an overwhelming urge to tell him. To tell him about your anxiety disorder. Because oh God you'd never told anyone and even your parents didn't know what you went through every second of every day and you'd never had any sort of treatment but if anyone would understand it would be the boy who helped you continue to understand it yourself.

"Can I... can I tell you something?" you asked. Your stomach ached and you randomly remembered the statistic you found that said that, on average, people with social anxiety disorder wait ten years before telling anyone about it because the anxiety made them afraid of the backlash.

"Sure," Evan said.

"I've never told anyone this, but I have social anxiety disorder," you successfully got out.

Before you ran to the bathroom and threw up.