ғɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ - 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐬

011. connor

The ghost of a smile fell upon Connor's lips as he watched the three dots bounce up and down, indicating that Evan was responding. He didn't know what had compelled him to ask Evan to be friends, but his fingers seemed to move without a second thought.

And that was okay. He didn't mind.

It was weird to even think, but talking to Evan seemed so easy. Making conversation over text was much simpler than approaching people in real life. People are very judgmental. They take one glance at you and automatically assume you're a psycho. A freak. A monster.

Why can't you just do something right for—

I'm sorry about my brother, he's a freak—

Shit, it's Connor. Have you heard about how he—

The name-calling and family arguments came back to him in hushed voices, taunting Connor like a child's playground song.

Don't look now. It's that Murphy kid. You know, the—

Connor, I ask you to do one fucking thing—

What kind of son are you?

Already taking in deep breaths, Connor shut his eyes tight and pursed his lips. His phone dropped to the floor, probably adding another crack to its screen, but Connor only cared about gripping onto his face and hair desperately—pathetically even. The option to scream was tempting, but Connor really needed to work on controlling his temper.

Calm down. No one's here. It's only you.

Connor's breathing finally calmed, and his grip on his hair loosened. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. Connor picked up his phone from the floor, examining it for any new dents or cracks. Luckily, there were none. He entered the password to his phone (connor1) and opened the Instagram app.

Evan had replied.

c.murphreak
lmao this sounds so stupid but do u want to be my friend

Evan.Hansen
Sounds good

Connor's fingers hovered over the screen as he contemplated a response when he heard his door knob turning. He whipped his head around to the source, just as Cynthia Murphy poked her head into view.

"I fucking—" Connor took a deep breath. "I told you to knock."

"I'm sorry, Connor," Cynthia apologized gently. She walked into the room in quiet steps, closing the door behind her.

Shit. She was probably going to want to have a talk about last night.

Connor didn't meet Cynthia's weary gaze. She inspected Connor's room, from the dark discarded jeans at the foot of his dresser to the wrinkled paperback copy of To Kill A Mockingbird on his bed. Then, she noticed the empty bottle of chardonnay on the floor.

Cynthia's eyebrows furrowed. Her expression of exhaustion turned to one of exasperation.

"Oh, Connor—"

"It's not my fault!" Connor shouted.

"I—" Cynthia swallowed. "We're going to have a talk about this after school when your father comes home."

Connor's jaw clenched. He refused to make eye contact with Cynthia, who sensed his silent anger.

"...Was it because of what we talked about last night?" Cynthia asked cautiously.

Talked? Bullshit.

His voice flat in emotion, Connor shot back, "Why are you here."

Cynthia sighed and covered her mouth with her fist. "You're late for school. Zoe already left," she croaked out softly. Connor could hear the tightness of her voice—how she only barely managed to choke out her words. The quiet sniffle of her nose, and the labored breathing escaping her mouth.

"Fuck," Connor muttered. He softened his tone. "Okay."

Connor hastily replied to Evan as Cynthia remained in her son's room.

c.murphreak
ok

"Who are you texting?" Cynthia asked.

"No one," he said defensively, shielding the screen from his mother's view.

—

larry: ok you know what

larry: you're in tiME OUT

larry: GET ON TOP OF THE FRIDGE

larry: GET UP THERE

connor, climbing onto the fridge: this house is a fUCKING NIGHTMARE