Seated on a bench, I start a new letter:

Dear Evan Hansen,

That’s how all my letters begin. There’s comfort in routine.

Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why.

After all this time, well over a year now, no matter how many letters I write, I always have trouble with this next part. Even on a normal day, when I’ve got nothing going on, it’s hard enough. Today, though, is not normal. Today requires the most delicate kind of answer.

Because today, no matter what else, you’re you. No hiding. No lying. Just you. And that’s enough.

The me I am is not the me I was. Just like the me I am is not the me I will be. Those versions of myself I can’t change or predict. I’m not even sure I have much influence over the present me. But it’s all I’ve got. I probably shouldn’t fight it.

It reminds me of that saying: “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I guess that means we’re just products of whoever made us and we don’t have much control. The thing is, when people use that phrase, they ignore the most critical part: the falling. Within the logic of that saying, the apple falls every single time. Not falling isn’t an option. So, if the apple has to fall, the most important question in my mind is what happens to it upon hitting the ground? Does it touch down with barely a scratch? Or does it smash on impact? Two vastly different fates. When you think about it, who cares about its proximity to the tree or what type of tree spawned it? What really makes all the difference, then, is how we land.

• • •

One day of school. That’s all my mother let me skip. I showed up at the bus stop the next day, and to my surprise, I heard no whispers. No long stares on the ride to school. No weird looks in the hallway. Someone offered me a “Congratulations.” I didn’t understand what the person meant until later on, when I ran into Alana.

She threw her arms around me. “We did it,” she said on the brink of tears.

“We?” I said.

“Yes, we. Come on, don’t hold a grudge. I know I threatened to kick you off the Connor Project, but I had to send a strong message. Without that tough love, you never would have sent me Connor’s note and the orchard wouldn’t have been funded.”

The fundraiser. I had totally forgotten about it.

“Alana. We have to talk.”

“Definitely. We have a ton of work to do. Moving forward, you and I have to be on the same page about everything. True co-presidents, okay? Seriously, Evan, I need you. Connor needs you.”

The truth wasn’t out yet. I figured I should be the one to tell Alana while I still had the chance. It was only a matter of time before the Murphys would pass along my confession. “Are you free today after school?”

“Now, that’s the passion I’ve been missing,” Alana said. “Absolutely. I’ll text you later.”

As the day went on, I lost my nerve. Part of my hesitation was about Jared; he was wrapped up in this, too. Also, Alana seemed happier than I’d seen her in weeks, all because of the success of our crowdfunding campaign. We raised close to sixty grand. When the truth came out, would people want their money back? Would they demand more than a refund? Would they press charges against me? After all, my lies are what convinced them to donate in the first place.

That afternoon, on video chat, Alana laid out all the work we needed to do. The orchard would have to be purchased. There was talk of us becoming a nonprofit organization to achieve tax-exempt status. We’d need help from all sorts of experts: brokers, accountants, architects, farmers, contractors, lawyers. On second thought, we didn’t need a lawyer. Larry had agreed to handle all our legal matters free of charge, but that was before.

“And we can’t forget our backers,” Alana said, reaching the end of her long list. “We’ve got hundreds of rewards to fulfill and mail out, not to mention the in-person prizes. Speaking of which, you promised to go out to lunch with someone. Send me your schedule when you can.”

Alana had put countless hours into making our dream a reality. Now, because of me, chances were it would all amount to wasted effort. “Alana, I have something to say.”

“Of course. I’m open to any suggestions you have. I know I can be a control freak, but I’ve learned my lesson. We’re stronger together than we are apart.”

Maybe at one point that was true, but not anymore. If the Connor Project had any chance of carrying on, it would have to be without me. I couldn’t find the courage to spill my guts. But there was something else I could do.

“I don’t want to be a part of the Connor Project anymore,” I said. “I’m over it.”

She waited for a punch line that never came. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait, you’re serious?”

She was so far away from me, just an image on a screen, but I still couldn’t look her in the eye.

“You’re quitting?” Alana said. “I just finished going over everything, and what, it’s too much for you? You’re just going to bail on me? What kind of person does that?”

“A terrible person.”

“Yes, a terrible person. A weak and… and… passive person.”

I couldn’t argue with any of it.

“I knew it,” Alana said, her glasses fogging up. “I should have cut you out long ago. Admit it, your heart was never in this. You used me, that’s what you did. You used me and the Connor Project. You got everything you wanted out of it and you don’t care who gets hurt along the way. I can’t even believe you. That is so…”

“Monstrous.”

I watched the realization sink in. For as long as I’d known Alana, she was always so calculated and polished. At times even robotic. But her reaction now was genuinely human.

“I think you should announce that the Connor Project is cutting ties with me,” I said.

“Oh, believe me, I will,” Alana said.

“Right away,” I suggested. “It’s really important news, don’t you think?” I hated everything about what I was forcing myself to say.

“You’re sick, Evan. You know that?”

Within the hour, the announcement was made. She kept it civil, claiming we were merely parting ways. I wanted her to throw me under the bus and drive over my body until I was good and flat, but she was probably worried that villainizing me would hurt the project. She didn’t know what I knew, that I would soon be public enemy number one anyway. My hope was that the Connor Project might survive the storm because they had done the right thing and let me go when they did.

Unfortunately, the orchard campaign marked the Connor Project’s apex. It never again commanded widespread attention. People moved on to the next thing: homecoming, Mid-Coast basketball tournament, Rox’s new hairstyle. Alana was too busy finishing what she started to launch any new initiatives. To her credit, she never quit. You give that girl a task, and you better believe she’s not stopping until it’s complete.

If you asked Alana Beck right now if she ever knew Evan Hansen, she might say that we were nothing more than acquaintances. She ignored me for the rest of senior year. Walked right past me in the halls. Left any room I entered. Pretended I didn’t exist. She wasn’t the only one.

• • •

I called Jared the day after facing the Murphys, and predictably, he was furious. “Are you a fucking moron? Seriously, do you know anything? Please tell me Zoe’s dad wasn’t there.”

“Of course he was,” I said. “Why?”

“Because you just confessed a crime to a lawyer. And not just any lawyer. The lawyer you committed the crime against.”

I knew I was in unthinkable trouble, but I was still in the process of appreciating how serious it truly was. Jared felt that we should speak to his uncle, an attorney, and get our stories straight. Instead, I suggested I approach the Murphys directly and beg for mercy.

“Evan, please, listen to me. Do not do that.”

It was the most earnest I’d ever heard Jared Kleinman.

“Really, Evan, when you think about it, this whole thing is on you,” Jared said. “It was your idea.”

That’s not the way I remembered it, but I was done arguing. “Look,” I said. “I’m not trying to point fingers here. I know what I did, okay? I’m not blaming you or anyone else. I never mentioned your name. They don’t know anything about you.”

I could hear his fingers tapping a keyboard. I imagined him in his room, hurrying to wipe any incriminating evidence from his hard drive.

“Don’t talk to your uncle, please. Let’s just hold off a minute and see what happens. Maybe the Murphys won’t even say anything.”

It was an absurd conceit, but that’s all I had to go on.

“If you fuck me…” Jared said.

“I won’t. I swear.”

He hung up.

When the dust settled, I tried to reach out to him in a series of texts:

Hey, man.

I just want to say I’m sorry.

For everything.

I know I was a dick.

I am a dick.

I’m trying not to be.

Are we good?

If you ever want to hang or whatever…

All right. Talk soon.

But we never did talk. Not in a real way. We said hello when it was unavoidable. He acknowledged me, but only in the most professional manner. You would have thought we were ex-lovers the way we tiptoed around each other. My biggest fear was that he had already gone to his uncle, setting the wheels of justice in motion, and I wouldn’t find out about it until the authorities arrived to whisk me away.

The following December, months after graduation, I was walking to catch a bus. An SUV pulled up. It looked like Jared’s truck, but it wasn’t Jared behind the wheel. Or was it?

This new Jared was slimmer than the old one, and he wasn’t wearing glasses. Then he spoke: “Still walking around town like a weirdo, eh?”

He told me to hop in and drove me to work. I kept glancing over at him. Maybe he finally started using that gym membership. How does a guy motivate himself? How does he take that next step and make a real change? My money was on a girlfriend.

“You look good, man,” I said.

“I know we haven’t seen each other in a while, but I’m still not into guys,” Jared said.

“I thought you were at Michigan. What are you doing home?”

“I quit and joined the army.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Obviously. I’m home for winter break, genius.”

It took a second to remember the way we were, but after that initial calibration, the rest of the trip was a breeze. The more time I spent with Jared in that car, and it wasn’t more than ten minutes, the more I realized how much I missed my old (family) friend. He had always tried, in his crude way, to save me from myself.

And my role was to be our moral compass. I had neglected my responsibilities in a catastrophic manner, but it wasn’t too late to redeem myself. I wasn’t about to let Jared go without addressing the elephant in the back seat.

“I never told anyone,” I said.

I wanted him to respond in kind, to clear my conscience, but he kept his eyes on the road and simply said, “Forget about it.”

Sure thing. No problem.

We said goodbye and I thanked him. Jared and I weren’t the soldiering types, but in a way, we’d been to battle together, and there was no one else besides the two of us who knew the true depths of what we had done.

Perhaps the cold shoulder Jared showed me through senior year was about more than simply hurt feelings (or a lawyer’s directive). Maybe he just couldn’t stand to be reminded of our past. Either way, the takeaway for me was the same: miracle of all miracles, Jared Kleinman had a heart.

• • •

That first week after my confession was the worst of my life. Even with the aid of medication, which I had started taking again, I could barely function. My stomach was swirling acid. My left eye twitched uncontrollably. That Friday, I went to the nurse and missed half my classes.

I once saw a documentary about a shipwrecked man who survived out on the open sea for sixteen days. After they saved him, it was a long and deliberate process to return him to good health before he could resume normal life.

I, too, had survived a wreck, albeit a self-inflicted one. In my case, though, I was thrown right back into society. I left school for the weekend with everything and returned the following week with nothing. I was confused. I literally couldn’t perceive what was reality and what was fantasy. I’d hear someone talking, only to find there was no one else in the room. I attached a story to every stare I received. One time I did a homework assignment twice because I had forgotten I’d done it the first time. I began to question whether I ever fell from that oak tree and broke my arm; I’d crawl under my bed in the middle of the night just to confirm that my cast was not imagined.

Unlike the man from the documentary, I received no help or sympathy, because no one knew what I was going through. And anyway, did I deserve anyone’s sympathy? My mom and Dr. Sherman were the only ones in my life who had even the slightest clue, and neither of them was aware of the full extent of what had happened. The details were known only to me, and as time went on, those details began to haunt me daily.

I had to stay off social media. People kept grilling me about why I wasn’t with the Connor Project anymore, and they continued to say nasty things about the Murphys and Zoe. My grades slipped. My attendance became unpredictable. I missed school after breaking into hives and again for an unexplained fever and again for shingles (which I’m told is a disease that typically only old people get). I went from a homebody to a practical agoraphobe.

It was all because the Murphys were taking their time revealing my secret. I waited and waited, wondering how and when it would happen. I waited: for my name to be announced over the loudspeaker; to be confronted by another student; to receive a letter in the mail informing me that I was being sued; for an email from a stranger; for the police to arrive at my house. Every sound made me flinch: ringing phone, school bell, door knock, car horn, voices.

I waited to be punished like I knew I deserved. At times, I’d bury my head in my hands and plead for it to be over already. It was the same feeling I’d had when I was waiting to see what Connor would do with my letter, except this was infinitely worse. The stakes were so much greater.

I wanted so badly to reach out to Cynthia and Larry. I thought about leaving a letter in their mailbox, letting them know how I felt about them, how I appreciated all they had done for me, and how sorry I was. I wanted them to know how much I missed them. But I decided not to. When it comes to the Murphys, what I want doesn’t matter.

By Thanksgiving, the truth still wasn’t out. My mom and I drove upstate to spend the holiday with her parents and her sister’s family. When my grandmother opened the door, she was wearing a Connor Project T-shirt. She had just received it in the mail as a reward for her donation to our campaign. Later, while saying grace, my grandfather singled me out: “I’m thankful to have a grandson who understands humility and service, and who gives me hope for humanity’s future.” I pictured the Murphys seated around their own dinner table, trying to summon the strength to be thankful after all they had lost. I didn’t eat a thing.

On the ride home, I made up my mind: I would give myself up. It was probably what the Murphys had been waiting for all along, for me to do the right thing and confess on my own.

But when we got home, my mom opened the mail and I caught a glimpse of a small card left out on the table. Inside, it read: Thank you for the flowers and your letter. Your words meant a lot. Happy Thanksgiving, Cynthia.

“What is this?” I asked.

My mom shrugged, and not because she was clueless. “I didn’t like how things left off with us, and knowing all she’s been through, I thought it would be nice to reach out.”

“Mom, what exactly did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I just said hello, I’m thinking about you, thanks for everything, and…”

“And what?”

“Honey, come on, I know you’ve made some mistakes, but you’re not a bad person.”

“You have no idea how many mistakes I’ve made.”

“Of course I don’t. No parent knows what their kid is really up to. Ask Cynthia. None of us are saints. We’re all just doing the best we can.”

My mom’s words bounced around my head all night. I took Cynthia’s thank-you note up to my bedroom and read it several more times. Maybe Mrs. Murphy didn’t want the truth to be known. Maybe those fake emails were just as shameful to her as they were to me.

As the calendar year ended, I began to wonder if my secret was destined to remain a secret. Fall became winter, and the inferno of my nerves reduced to a smolder. I wasn’t any less worried about the future. I just adapted to a new kind of normal. There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think about the hurt I’d inflicted. I didn’t deserve to be able to forget. Even if I had deemed myself worthy, it still wouldn’t have been possible. There were too many daily reminders. One, in particular.

• • •

When it came to Zoe, my goal, at first, was to become invisible. I tried to remove myself from existence so she wouldn’t have to see me, and therefore would never feel any added pain or discomfort because of me. I avoided eye contact, took roundabout hallway routes, kept my head low and my body small. It was the opposite of what my heart wanted.

My heart wanted to go to her, to talk to her. As time passed, I slowly came out of hiding, permitting myself to be seen and to see her. I waited for a sign, some hint that she wanted me to come to her, the subtlest invitation, but I never received one, and so I kept my distance.

Even when Zoe wasn’t actually present, I’d see her. When a blue car passed that looked like her Volvo. When I heard certain songs. When I walked by my baby photo in our hallway. When I saw a worn-out pair of Converse. When I caught an interview with the famous actress who shares her name.

That was one of the hardest parts about my new life. I wasn’t sure who knew what and I could never ask. It was too risky. When my peers looked at me, did they see a liar and a phony? Or did they see a typical high school rise-and-fall story? Or did they not see me at all? Was I back to being meh? I felt more out of the loop than when I started the school year. And I felt more alone than I’d ever been in my life. Halloween came and went, and instead of dressing up with Zoe, I was home by myself (as myself), like I’d been every Halloween since I was a kid. It was much easier to be a loner when I was naive, when I didn’t understand what it meant to belong, to love and be loved. Now I knew too much.

I could only watch Zoe from the sidelines. I’d catch her laughing with Bee at lunch. I’d see her texting with a smile on her face. I’d pass by a flyer for an upcoming jazz concert, knowing I couldn’t attend.

One morning, in February, as if by destiny, we passed each other in an otherwise empty hall. We both looked up at the same moment, meeting eyes, and instead of turning away in disgust, she smiled. I hadn’t received that smile in so long and it flattened me but also lifted me. I allowed myself to read into it and I ended up buying her a gift for Valentine’s Day. A journal. I wanted to hand it to her in person, but fearing rejection, I mailed it. There was a message written inside: May you always have the courage to tell your truth. I never heard back from her.

Whether she used the journal or not, I’m pretty sure she kept writing songs. In the spring, I found myself near Capitol Café and perused the upcoming show calendar in the window. I saw the weekly listing for open mic night. Then, in a different box, I saw the name Zoe Murphy, with no other performer listed. She had earned her own night at the venue. I marked down the date, but never went.

• • •

The night I confessed to the Murphys, when I was sitting all alone in my mother’s car in the driveway, I never actually drove anywhere. The following spring, after I’d turned eighteen, I was finally able to get behind the wheel and move.

Credit to Dr. Sherman. He encouraged me to set new goals for myself, and driving was at the top of my list. It took about six months, but I finally experienced what it feels like for a senior to drive himself to school, and I did it just before graduating. At our ceremony, before handing out our diplomas, Principal Howard mentioned Connor. I didn’t see the Murphys in the crowd. Or Zoe. But I was there and I heard his name clearly.

At home that day, I reached underneath my bed and removed my cast. Connor’s name was severed down the middle, but the cast was still in one piece on the other side. I wrapped it around my arm, and briefly, the two halves of the cast appeared as one, the six letters reconnected, CONNOR restored. When I removed the cast, it was as if I could still see his name on my skin. I realized then: I can never wash him away.

I found an old yearbook from eighth grade. Everyone had been given their own page to decorate. Most people made collages of family photos, or drew the logos of their favorite sports teams, or wrote out inspirational quotes they’d found through Google searches. Connor had listed his ten favorite books. I decided to try to read all of them.

I went back and studied every post he ever made online. Every now and then, I’d make an anonymous donation to the Connor Project for whatever amount I could manage.

Then, one day, I stumbled into a small fundraising event in a supermarket parking lot. As soon as I heard Alana’s voice in the mix and realized where I was, I turned right around with my mother’s shopping list. But before I could get away, someone called out my name.

I looked back, expecting to find a classmate from school, but the kid in front of me was a complete stranger.

“Can we talk a minute?” he said.

He started in the direction of my car. I didn’t have much choice but to follow.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” he said, smiling.

I had avoided public events for exactly this reason. I didn’t want to be the Evan Hansen that “the world” thought they knew. I didn’t want to have to lie anymore.

“It’s funny,” the kid said, gazing ahead. “At first, I was actually happy to hear that Connor had made a new friend.”

My blood froze. I stopped walking.

“The more I looked into it, the way people were describing him, I knew something wasn’t right.”

“I’m sorry, but who…”

“Relax,” he said, still with that easy smile. “I’m not going to say anything. I was going to… I really wanted to, but…” He paused and turned toward the crowd. “I mean, look at this. He’s finally getting the attention he deserved.”

I took a closer look at him. He had bright, arresting eyes against a dark complexion. Hair that fell in a sort of effortlessness mine has never known. A smile that I imagined could please both a girlfriend and her parents, too. “So, you and Connor were…?”

“Friends,” he said.

He told me how their friendship started, and then faded, and then abruptly ended. “That afternoon, after school, he texted me. I was trying to respond, but I was at work, and I didn’t want to just… I called him later that night, and it went straight to voice mail. It was a few days before I found out what he did.”

He grew quiet, his head down. “If I knew he was… I just… I didn’t know.” He struggled to put the words together. “I keep thinking, if I’d been able to talk to him…”

A long silence followed, and in that silence I finally understood the reason he came to speak to me that day. Not to call me out, but rather himself. I knew something about the kind of guilt he must’ve been carrying around. And the fear. Behind his smile was a heavy burden.

But of all the things he told me that day, one thing stands out: “Connor, he was just… I’ve never met someone like that. That innocent. That pure. Sometimes I think maybe he was too pure… for all this.”

The Connor he described was nothing like the one I’d known or heard about. I felt this renewed sense of regret. But at the same time, at least I was finally getting a chance to learn. I spent the next few months trying to figure out what to do with the new knowledge I’d gained.

• • •

The summer after graduation, I wanted to return to my job at Ellison Park, but the place held too many distressing memories and it was too close to the Murphys’ home. My WELCOME sign was still there at the entrance. Driving past the sign one morning, I got an idea. I started researching more about the history of the park. I turned my notes into an essay—about John Hewitt and his family, and about the sacrifices made by those who come before us—and submitted it to a few scholarship contests.

The essay didn’t win, but after that, I started taking the essay writing more seriously, and over the course of the next year, I submitted to nearly every contest my mother collected. I only managed to win one award for a grand total of $1,500 for tuition, but I still counted it as a victory. Really, I just wanted to write. I needed to write. I think it’s what Dr. Sherman was hoping for me all along. I guess I had to take the long way to get there.

And so, here I am now, on a bench, writing. These letters have finally become a proper outlet for me, but only when I’m honest, and that’s still hard. Even after all this practice. It’s been about twenty months since my confession. Sometimes it feels like twenty minutes.

Maybe someday everything will feel like a distant memory. Maybe I’ll find a way to carry around the past without it weighing me down. Maybe, one day, I can look in the mirror and see something less ugly.

I pocket my phone and soak up the majestic view. Before me, a green field stretches out for ages. Wooden stakes rise from the grass in orderly rows. Tied to each stake is a small, spindly tree. It’s an orchard. The orchard.

I never doubted that Alana would make it happen. Still, it’s shocking to see. The Connor Murphy Memorial Orchard has been in existence for a year now, but this is the first time I’ve visited. I guess I was waiting for an invitation.

In a few more years—anywhere from two to ten, depending on the tree type—these saplings will reach maturity and bear fruit. Gala and Cortland and Honeycrisp. McIntosh and Golden Delicious. Something new, maybe. But the trees are still babies. Just starting life. They have a long way to go.

An engine disrupts the calm. Over in the lot, a car comes to rest alongside my mother’s. The driver emerges. I rub my moistening palms uselessly against my jeans. Zoe starts up the path, the size of her growing.

Sometimes you keep wishing for something to happen, and then, after so many times not getting the thing you wished for, you stop wishing, and that’s when it suddenly happens.

I stand up to greet her, my legs shaky. “Hey.”

A smile. “Hey.”

Zoe belongs in an apple orchard. Nature understands that it’s only serving as background when she’s around. The wind lifts up her auburn hair. The sun directs dramatic lighting. Where are the cameras? Where is Vivian Maier when you need her?

I wait for Zoe to sit down, but she’s more comfortable standing. It’s been so long I don’t know where to start. “How are you?”

“Good,” Zoe says. “Pretty good.”

A new old pair of Converse. A jean jacket that I’ve never seen her wear. I wonder if the girl underneath is the same. “You graduate soon, right?”

“Yeah. In two weeks.”

She had a whole school year that I never witnessed. In a way, it was easier not having to see what I was missing. It’s hard to see it now. “How’s being a senior?”

“Busy,” Zoe says.

I nod like I know what she’s talking about. Busy how? Busy preparing for college? Or busy socializing with, say, a boyfriend? Or both? It’s not my business, I know. But seeing her in the flesh awakens something that’s been sleeping.

“How’s being a freshman?” Zoe asks.

Anytime I run into someone from high school, I have to explain why I’m still hanging around town. “Actually, I decided to take a year off.”

“Oh,” Zoe says with the same half surprise, half pity everyone shows.

“I just figured I’d get a job and try to save some money. I’ve been taking classes at the community college, so I’ll have some credits to transfer in the fall.”

“That’s smart.”

Also necessary. In the state I was in, I never would have survived going away to college. This time I took Dr. Sherman’s advice and got a job where I’d be forced to interact with people. “In the meantime, though, I can get you a friends and family discount at Pottery Barn. If you’re looking for overpriced home decor.”

“You know, not at the moment.”

“Okay, well, if you change your mind, I’m only working there for a few more months, so the window of opportunity is closing fast.”

A silent laugh and then she turns to the open field and gathers her hair so it all falls over one shoulder.

“I always imagine you and Connor here,” Zoe says. “Even though, obviously…”

After some digging, we’ve finally made it to the core. It’s unbearable to go this deep, but also necessary. “This is my first time. I mean, I’ve probably driven by it a thousand times. I think about stopping and getting out of the car, but, I don’t know, I feel like I don’t deserve to.”

We both stare off into the distance.

“It’s nice,” I say. “Peaceful.”

“My parents, they’re here all the time. We do picnics, like, every weekend. It’s helped them. A lot, actually. Having this.”

The relief I feel, that they’re doing okay, it tickles the corners of my eyes. They spared me, gave me a fighting chance. I still have a hard time believing it. “Your parents. They could have told everyone. What I did.”

Zoe breathes in the country air. “Everybody needed it for something.”

“That doesn’t mean it was okay.”

“Evan,” she says, forcing me to look at her. “It saved them.”

I look down. A stone by my sneaker is loose, ready to be kicked. Some days, when my self-hatred overwhelms everything, I regret that the truth never came out.

“How’s your mom? Your whole family?” Zoe says, sensing immediately that family doesn’t quite sound right, but not having a better word for it.

“She’s good. She took some time off, too, so it’s taken her a little longer to get her degree. But she’s almost there. And my dad, well, he’s got the baby now.”

“You’re a big brother.”

Technically, yes, but I haven’t gotten around to acting the part. It’s on my list, though. Most of my attention, lately, has been paid to a different brother. I used to think the Murphys let me go free. I’m sure it wasn’t their intention, but they actually did the opposite. They left me with a burden that I carry everywhere. A burden that has become a responsibility. I’m only now learning how to fulfill it.

“I have something for you,” I say.

Her jean jacket tightens around her. I have no idea if she received the journal I sent her, but this is a different sort of gift.

She waits with apprehension as I take out my phone. I find what I need and show her my screen. Her eyes widen and she takes the phone.

“I’ve seen this photo, but who is this?” she asks.

It’s the same photo of Connor that’s been passed around a thousand times. Except this is the uncropped version, showing not just Connor, but also…

“Miguel,” I say. “He was Connor’s friend.”

She looks up, searching my eyes. “Really?”

I nod.

When Miguel showed me the unedited photo that day outside the supermarket, I stared at it in the same dumbfounded way Zoe is staring at it now. And then Miguel showed me more photos. And then he showed me messages that Connor had sent him. Not imaginary, made-up messages, but words that Connor had actually written. I felt sickened and healed all at once. Sickened because I was a pretender meeting the real thing. Healed because there was suddenly no need to pretend anymore. Connor did have a friend.

“They look so happy together,” she says.

“They do.” I reach into my pocket and hand her a folded piece of paper. “I’ll send you the photo. And this is Miguel’s number. In case you want to ask him anything.”

I struggled with this decision for a long time. Why would I willingly draw attention to the very thing I’ve been struggling to leave behind? Because, well, when I look at that photo of Connor and I see him smiling, I’m left with this feeling that maybe, for a while there, despite what happened afterward, Connor experienced some brief happiness. I thought Zoe and her parents would want to know that. And so, for once, I decided to be brave.

Zoe stands still, biting her lip. “Thank you,” she says quietly, slipping the paper into her pocket. She looks down. “It’s been a hard year.”

“I know.” I want to commiserate, but I have no right to. “I’ve been wanting to call you for a long time. I didn’t really know what I would say, but then I just… I decided to call anyway.”

“I’m happy you did.”

My pills correct the chemicals, but Zoe is medicine for the soul. Her words mend my mangled world. “I wish we could have met now. Today. For the first time.”

Her eyes, bluer than the sky. “Me too.”

Maybe we are meeting for the first time. This is the truest me I can be. I’m just sorry I got here so late.

“I should probably go,” Zoe says.

The letdown. “Of course.”

“It’s just, exams are this week.”

“No, totally.”

She smiles and turns to go. I still have so many questions. I choose one.

“Can I ask you?” I say. “Why did you want to meet here?”

She pauses and gazes out over the land, absorbing it all. “I wanted to be sure you saw this.”

I stare out, making sure I really see it, the immensity. It’s all there: the past, present, future.

As Zoe drives off, I fight the emptiness with words. I finish my letter.

Maybe, someday, some other kid is going to be standing here, staring out at the trees, feeling alone, wondering if maybe the world might look different from all the way up there. Better. Maybe he’ll start climbing, one branch at a time, and he’ll keep going, even when it seems like he can’t find another foothold. Even when it feels hopeless. Like everything is telling him to let go. Maybe this time he won’t let go. This time he’ll hold on. He’ll keep going.

I pocket my phone and return to the view. To sit back and watch is no longer possible. It never was, it turned out.

I step onto the pristine grass. It feels like an invasion, but a voice inside reminds me to loosen up. I don’t pretend that I knew him before, but he’s always with me now.

We’re weaving in between trees, careful not to disturb, on a mission. We mean no trouble. There are so many of us, the lonely souls. All of us who helped build this. Those who will watch it grow. Those we’ve lost. We march on together. Climbing, falling, soaring. Trying to get closer to the center of everything. Closer to ourselves. Closer to each other. Closer to something true.