Drowning | Evan Hansen X Reader

III: Overwhelmed and Obsessive

The Murphys don't know it, but I'm secretly searching and scanning the dining room for any window I could jump out of to escape. This is not good. This is far from good. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

The Murphy's invited me over for dinner, and I didn't know how to refuse. So I've been eating their (rather delicious) meal and pretend that I'm not freaking out on the inside.

I know why I am here, they know why I am here. The only purpose I serve is telling more about their daughter (Y/N). The only issue is I don't know anything about (Y/N)!

As I was walking in here, I noticed a portrait hanging on the wall of the Murphy family at an orchard. I can't imagine what they had to do to (Y/N) to get her to smile in the portrait, but she was definitely smiling.

Zoe is sitting to my right, and I'm leaning as far away from her as I possibly can. I try not to look at her, but I steal a couple glances her way every now and then. She's slumped down in her chair, barely touching her food, staring blankly ahead. Although, I catch her taking quick and suspicious glances my way.

Mr. Murphy finished his meal quite quickly, clearly having an appetite tonight. Mrs. Murphy, on the other hand, eats slowly and in a polite manner. She gives a small smile my way occasionally, and she'll sometimes motion for Zoe to sit up straight (an order that she always ignores).

There's a pretty basket of apples serving as the centerpiece. To avoid making eye contact with anyone, I stare at this most of the time while I eat my meal with the best manners I can manage. I remember everything that Mom taught me when I was younger:

Don't put your elbows on the table. Don't eat too fast or too slow. Don't add any seasoning — the chef of the meal may take this as an insult. Don't talk about politics.

So I refrain from doing all these things. If I try hard enough, maybe they'll just forget I'm here. Maybe then I can slip under the table and hide.

From my spot in the dining room, I have a clear view of the kitchen and the door that (Y/N) left from in that video on Zoe's Instagram.

But I can't be thinking of that now. I need to remain calm. I asked Jared what to do, and he told me to only nod. Agree to whatever they say and never make things up. So that's what I plan to do. I won't create any stories.

"Would anyone else want some more chicken?" Mr. Murphy says while lifting his plate off the table and standing up.

"I think you're the only one with an appetite, Larry," Mrs. Murphy says quickly, giving her husband a critical stare.

"The Harris's brought it over," Mr. Murphy says defensively. He goes over to the kitchen to get another serving.

Mrs. Murphy looks right at me, but I try to ignore her stare. Those are some very interesting apples. "Did (Y/N) tell you about the Harris's?" Mrs. Murphy asks in a soft and considerate tone. She probably thinks that talking about (Y/N) may pain me.

Wait, she asked me a question, right? I swallow the lump in my throat and nod furiously.

"We used to go skiing together," Mrs. Murphy says, the memories flashing in her blue eyes.

I continue nodding even though I have no idea what I'm agreeing to. "(Y/N) loved skiing!" I say as passionately as I possibly can.