Dear Evan Hansen [1] √

monday - day one

It was the start of his senior year, and he wasn't ready. He never was ready for anything, really, but it's not like he could do anything about it, so it doesn't really matter.

But, god, it did. To Evan, it did.

"Hey, Evan. I got an idea. Why don't you go around today and ask the other kids to sign your cast? How 'bout that?" his mom, Heidi, said, handing him a Sharpie.

"Perfect," Evan said lamely, taking the marker.

"I'm proud of you already."

"Oh, good."

"Good luck on your last year of high school, Evan!" his mom said. "I love you."

"I love you too, mom," Evan mumbled. He fumbled with his shoes, slipping them on. He grabbed his backpack and went out of his house, starting his walk to school.

When he step foot into the school, his heart raced, pumping wildly, frantically. He quietly went to his locker, not wanting to draw attention to himself — not that anyone was going to notice him, anyway; he was the loser no one wanted to be seen with.

He opened his locker, and that's when it fell.

It was a white, nondescript paper. Folded in half, it had nothing on the outside, but upon closer inspection, Evan could see that there was something written inside. He could make out his name: Evan Hansen.

Is this some kind of joke? he wondered, looking around in search for the sender. There was no one in sight that had some sort of indication that they sent the paper.

He unfolded the paper. Written in thin, careful strokes were the words:

Dear Evan Hansen,

This is going to be a good day, and here's why: today, you're going to be yourself. You're going to be yourself and only yourself. No more trying to be interesting. No more trying to be something else. No more. Because you're enough. You matter.

Sincerely,
Me.

There was no signature. No name. Evan didn't know anyone who wrote so neatly, either — perhaps it was because he didn't know anyone, not as a friend. He didn't have any friends. The closest thing he had to one was Jared Kleinman, a family friend, and even he, who worked at a store that sold soap and ate bath bombs, didn't want to be seen around Evan.

Oddly enough, thinking about the normalcy of being friendless made Evan feel calmer.

"Woah, this is new! Didn't know you had an admirer, Evan." A hand clamped his back, and he bit back an embarrassing yelp. His heart raced at top speed again, before realizing the voice sounded familiar.

He turned around, crunching the paper in his hand and shoved it in his pocket. "Jared," he breathed out.

"Hey, man, don't start hyperventilating," Jared said.

"I'm not," Evan defended, even though he knew that it was, in fact, a blatant lie. His palms were sweating — actually sweating, not him just worrying that his hands were clammy, which made them clammy — and he was having difficulty breathing.

He breathed in and breathed out, clearing his mind and only thinking about his cast, trees, and the letter.

"Anyway, what was that paper you were holding? Some kind of sex letter? Something you jack off to every night?"

"What the hell, Jared?"

"I'm just saying," Jared said, putting his hands up in defense.

"No, it's not a . . . a sex letter. It's just . . . a letter. I don't even know who gave it to me. There's, like, no name or signature and stuff. But—"

"Hey, hey. Don't start rambling."

"Me? What are you talking about? I don't ramble. No way, José."

Jared looked at him weirdly. "Okay, José," he said. "I gotta go. Tell your mom to tell my mom that I've been nice to you."

"Okay," Evan said weakly. "Wait, do you want to sign my . . .?"

But Jared was already out of sight.

Evan sighed. Someone bumped into him, and he took a step backward, back against his locker. He winced, sighing. He shut his locker door, bot bothering to demand an apology from the person who hit him.

He went to his next class without another word, because, really, who would he even talk to?