I Guess They Never Disappear

Chapter 1

Five Years Later

The alarm rings with the sort of practiced precision only a computer could have, and I fall out of the little bed onto the floor of my tiny apartment, the same way I have for almost three months now. 

Gosh, time moves fast, huh?

It seems like I was moving into here just yesterday. 

I leave my bedroom and turn right, walking into the kitchen/main area. Filling up a pitcher with water from the sink, I make my rounds around the room, checking on my babies. 

Tom, or as my college roommate nicknamed him, Spiny Bitch, is growing into Amelia's space. I'll need to keep an eye on him, or I might have to relocate him to the window in my bedroom, which means moving my bonsai, Audrey, and a small succulent (unnamed as of today), and while I do like SB I like Audrey more. 

Sorry, that was stupid.

Anyways, after making the rounds, I head back to my bathroom to take a quick shower and piss. I set my timer for five minutes, which is all the time I can afford to spend showering. 

It's warm.

Five minutes later, I step out on the poofy bathmat thingy that my mom knitted in between shifts at the hospital, squishing my toes in the pink, blue, and purple striped yarn. 

I dry myself off and head back to my room, where I quickly get dressed in the ranger uniform: khakis, an emerald  shirt, dark brown hiking boots, tan hat, and my favorite element of the outfit, a little badge reading "Evan Hansen, Ranger".

Not meh, just eh, but that's something that I don't think about much these days. Mostly because it isn't such a big deal anymore, but partially because it reminds me of something stupid Jared said once, probably like ten years ago, when we were still close-ish. 

I don't know what prompted it, but out of the blue one day he said that I could use meh to my advantage and give people that I didn't really want to talk to the name Mark, 'because why should I waste it'. Of course, I never did anything like that; it's rude. 

So, maybe, a little bit, that is the reason why I don't think about meh anymore. 

It was all the advice of Chris, who's been my therapist ever since my freshman year of college. 

I used to fixate on Jared a lot, especially then. It was mostly just remaining guilt over dealing the final blow to our friendship, but after a lot of talking with Chris I was convinced of how toxic this was becoming; not only for me and the people I was friends with, but it would also be toxic for any friendship Jared and I could have in the future. 

Not that I want to get into that right now. 

All anybody needs to know is that I finally got the emotional permission that I was craving to forget about Jared for the most part, and I haven't really looked back since.

I head back out to the main area and fix myself a bowl of oatmeal with blueberries in it. 

I still take Lexapro for my anxiety, but in the past years, the dosage has been getting reduced more and more. I wish I didn't have to take it; the urge not to is something I fight everyday. That's something I'm yet to admit to my therapist, or to my mom. People still worry about Evan Hansen: that's for sure, even though I've been careful to get better, to convince people that I am no longer in need of a stupid white tablet that reminds me of how many struggles I've had. 

(And the struggles I've heaped on others as well, the ones that still plague my mind, despite my efforts.)

Writing has become an escape for me in a way that it never really was before. 

Under my bed, shoved behind books and another pair of shoes, along with a box of mementoes that mom wanted me to take here, are a few cheap journals that Heidi bought for me at some point and I didn't end up using.

Of course, they aren't letters to myself. I stopped writing those my first year of college. Chris doesn't make me do them and they never really helped me anyway. Why waste time?

No, these notebooks are filled with letters to people. Or rather, person in particular. 

Not like an actual person, but just, y'know, somebody who isn't me. Somebody who might read those letters and tell me that things were going to be okay and fine. But nobody will ever read them, because if I show them to somebody I'm almost certain I'll land myself in some sort of therapy dilemma. 

I don't think they're good exactly, but they keep me busy, which I'm sure is a good thing. Heidi doesn't know about the journals, and Chris doesn't either. I mean, they know I keep a journal: I say that much in therapy sessions, but I'm almost certain they think it's like a diary or a bullet journal or something like that.  I feel a little bad for deceiving the people who want to help me, but it's not something terrible I'm trying to hide: just a few letters that won't ever be read. 

Actually, if Doctor Sherman had assigned this to me in high school, I probably would've had an easier time writing about myself and my life. They aren't positive or happy and I'm not coming up with a face for my therapist to examine. I never read them again. That's just how it is. You don't look back at a book full of angst that you wrote yourself and go 'How About I Relive This?' 

And because of that, they don't make me anxious, because there is no life-editing involved. There's no looking back and wondering if whoever sees this is going to understand it how you meant it. There's no deleting anything really. 

Not anxious.

Which is nice, because people think that is all I am sometimes and it hurts. I mean, nobody has really ever said that to my face, but it seems to be a common truth.

Not really Evan, then, if we're defining me in the anxiety sense.

But maybe that's what I should be really going for, right?

A new start. 

A/N: Hi everybody! I hope you are having a great day/night so far. If you're back in school I hope nothing is stressful or overwhelming. 

Thank you to the people who've read this book so far :) Quick note: If I ever don't mark something as a TW and it should be please let me know! I really want to make sure people aren't getting triggered by something I didn't mention.

Stay safe everybody and make sure you're taking care of yourself. I love you all.

Your dearest author,

Angie

Word Count: 1068