froyo / dear evan hansen

twenty eight

as larry cleans up the mess, cynthia goes upstairs. she's shaking too much for any sane woman and tears won't stop falling.

larry is exhausted. he's hunched a little and his forehead's creased and his eyes are drooping and he's almost given up. he hasn't slept properly for six years now, and he thought sending connor to therapy was going to make everything normal. if anything, it made everything worse.

no one's happier. everyone's angry more; drunk more; missing more. and no one talks about it.

cynthia had told him about what happened that night he went to the pub. how zoe broke down. how she was crying and screaming at connor, and how connor was still and shaking. it's almost as if their usual roles were switched.

they were lying in bed when cynthia told that story, and he remembers the tremble in her voice as she whispered, "she was just like connor." and larry realised that she was just like connor.

they looked alike. they had the same smile; same nose. they're destructive, too, full of bottled-up anger and a strange fear lingering about them; how they tense at certain words and edge farther apart.

and then zoe left and came home drunk.

and larry can't bare to see his children like this.

all this time, he's struggled to know what the right thing is. 'the right thing' is too vague. what he might think is the right thing might not be for connor, and vice versa. he doesn't want to harm his children. but he might be and that's terrifying.

and he's trying. and so is connor and so is zoe and so is cynthia. trying to make it through. trying to forgive. trying not to be affected. trying trying trying trying.

larry thinks it's going to break them.