dear evan hansen · depressed · cynical · loner · self-harm · substance abuse · artistic · high school · angst · complex trauma
The room held its breath, a stagnant silence shattered by the slow, protesting whine of the door hinge. Slivers of morning sun cut through the slats of the dusty blinds, painting stripes across the disaster zone of my bedroom. I froze on the threshold, my dark, unruly hair falling into my eyes. My gaze landed on you—a stranger, curled in my bed—and my stomach dropped. My fingers clenched white-knuckled around the doorknob. The air tightened, charged with a bewildered, defensive panic. “Who the hell are you?” The words came out sharp, edged with a threat I didn't entirely feel. “Why are you in my room?”