water under the bridge {a dear evan hansen one-shot}

water under the bridge

Their love should just be water under the bridge.

And for a while, she lets herself believe that. Permits herself to block out the memories, retrains her mind not to replay the swiftly moving picture that was them.

Ignoring him at school was not initially difficult, as she is a year behind him. And there has always been a certain elusive quality to him. An invisibility factor. Being in the same building however, she sees him in the hallways, glimpses him at school assemblies.

He looks happier lately.

Zoe pretends not to care.

-

Sitting alone on the concrete steps to the school, paging through her textbooks as she waits for her ride, Jared brushes past her, talking on his cell phone.

"Alana, you've gotta be more chill about this. Yes, I know that partner assignments mean that two people work on them. Yes, I will pitch in. No, you won't do my part for me. Calm down and goodbye." Standing at the bottom of the staircase, he notices Zoe. He hasn't seen her since the Project blew over despite the fact that she was a major part of his life for so long; one year age differences in school might as well be a lifetime.

"How are you, Jared?"

"Alana won't stop bothering me about a project and I'm on my third Red Bull of the day. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't believe her for a second; it's hard to miss the sullen, damp look in her eyes, the persistently downward curve of her lips. He tells her he's glad to see her but he's got to go tend to his project with Alana now.

As he turns to go, Zoe hears herself stumble out, "How is Evan doing, by the way?"

Keeping her eyes trained on the grey concrete under their feet, she hears him say with hesitation, "He's fine too."

Zoe nods; that's all she can do. She wonders if Jared expects a bigger reaction because he's silent and watching her intently. Wrapping emotions under layers and layers of aching repression is something that has taken years to teach herself.

-

It's always at night.

It's always at night that she misses him the most.

She doesn't view the memories with as much hostility; at night her barriers are tumbling down, her defences fold in on themselves. Alone in the dark, she cradles her legs, resting her face on her knees and stares out the window at the street below. The headlights of cars that stream through, illuminating her face with their amber glow. The street lights that comfortingly burn for the endless hours. Lights from the houses around them flick on and off throughout the night.

And her mind drifts.

Sometimes it's a movie. Specific memories that replay second by second. Their first kiss, when he had impulsively brushed his lips against her's with a fervour that she'll never forget. The time he'd laid with her on his bed for hours, just talking and leaving gentle kisses on her in patterns that she still feels etched into her pale skin.

Other times, it's pictures. Snapshot moments. Certain looks and feelings that she can't erase.

The warm sensation of nostalgia and remembrance surrounds her and takes control of all hesitation and reservations.

Despite all the fighting she does to keep the memories in their place, the odd thing is that she never feels upset when they do come back. It takes more pain and effort to suppress them than to just let them run freely.