Opposites Attract: Evan Hansen x Reader

Chapter One

CW: foul language, suicidal ideation, + mention about suicide attempts

I pour the rest of the milk into a glass and gulp it down, desperate to get off this damn high. It always goes down like this—smoke to escape my problems, realize smoking was a mistake, try to fix the situation, fail, smoke again. Hard to imagine me ever changing.

The milk helps a bit as I kick the refrigerator door shut. Zoe enters the kitchen, throwing the fridge door back open. She sends me a dirty look, earning a glare when she's not looking. Cynthia, my mother, talks to Larry, my father.

"Hey, so, I'm probably not gonna go to school today," I say, glancing at Cynthia.

"Y/n, it's the first day of senior year! You're not missing it!" she says, frowning.

"I already said earlier, that I'll just go tomorrow." I shrug, rolling my eyes.

"Larry, help me out here?" I know she probably means well, but she's making me feel like I'm some dumb, messy project that needs help to made presentable.

"Just go to school, Y/n," he says, staring at his phone.

"That's all you're going to say?" Cynthia asks coldly.

"She's not listening," he says, looking at me from his spot at the table. "Look at her, she doesn't listen. She's probably high."

"She's definitely high..." Zoe butts in.

I flip her off, shooting her a cold glare. "Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you!" she spits back.

"I don't want you going to school high, Y/n..." Cynthia says, disappointment evident in her voice. Well, I drank milk. Before I can say anything though, Zoe speaks up.

"Y/n finished the milk!" Exactly. At least I'm trying.

I scowl at her, my gaze dropping to the ground afterwards. "Just go to school, you two," Cynthia says, looking at the clock.

"Yeah, fine. Whatever," I mutter, sliding my messenger bag over my shoulder.

I storm past Zoe, bumping her shoulder on the way. "Watch it." I glare at her.

"How are we even related? God, you're such a psycho!" she says as I walk briskly away. Trust me, little sister, I don't know how I'm related to you. I know, I'm messed up, but guess what? I can't help it. If only somebody—Larry, I'm looking at you—would be willing to assist with getting me help.

I mean, he's a fucking lawyer and he won't pay for some therapy shit? How hard is it to do? Am I that broken?

But, oh well. Nobody wants to get their fuck-up of a daughter help, because I guess we all know that I am unfixable. I am destined to die alone. Actually, later tonight, I plan on attempting a tenth. In fact, I know exactly what I'm going to do and where I'm gonna do it. It's not like I'm doing anybody any good by being here.

When I finally arrive at school, I keep my gaze low, distant. I cut through a conversation between two boys. I don't think much of anything, and I keep walking until one of them decides to make a snarky comment. "I'm loving the new hair length, Y/n," he shouts to me. "Very school shooter chic."

I freeze mid-step, turning around. I stare at the two, their faces instantly growing pale. It's funny, eye contact alone tends to freak people out. But seriously, why the fuck is he making fun of me on my first fucking day? "I was kidding," the boy says. "It was a joke."

It always is. I think that's what pisses me off. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. "Yeah, no, it was funny," I say sarcastically. "I'm laughing. Can't you tell?"