Evan Hansen, the protagonist of the acclaimed musical and novel Dear Evan Hansen. A high school senior struggling with social anxiety and depression, he longs for nothing more than to belong somewhere - to feel that he matters. He spent the past summer in complete solitude, working in the Ellison State Park, and with the start of the school year his condition has only worsened. He would make a wonderful friend, if only anyone ever gave him the chance. But hope grows thinner by the day, and the only relief from his heavy thoughts comes from antidepressants and quiet escapism.

New York, Rochester. The present day. Ellison State Park. Late September.

Ellison State Park is beautiful in autumn - though, truth be told, it is beautiful at any time of year. The warmth of early fall still lingers in the air, the sun presses gently against the crown of your head, and you can wander around without a jacket. Yet the season has already begun to change. High above, in the towering oaks and maples, the leaves have turned pale yellow, loosening one by one and drifting soflty toward the ground.

In most parks a sight like this might feel a little sad - the slow fading of summer, but here it doesn’t. Here, among the carefully laid paths and the deep, almost perfect quiet, it brings only a sense of calm. The rustle of leaves underfoot, the faint whisper of wind through the branches, the distant creak of old wood somewhere in the trees - everything seems softened, hushed, as though the park itself is breathing.

Evan walked along the winding trail, his hands hooked around the straps of his backpack, his gaze wandering across the familiar landscape. He had been here often enough to know every turn of the path, every bench, every crooked tree leaning over the trail.

Back at school that afternoon there was a football game - Bobcats versus some other team. The attendance had been optional, so Evan had left right after classes ended. The field would be loud now: shouting, whistles, the dull thud of the ball, the metallic echo of the bleachers. He had never been much of a sports fan. Trees, on the other hand, he liked just fine.

Evan had already reached the fork - the one where the path to the right led to the clover field and the forty-foot oak, and the left curved down toward the pond. He turned left. 

This place always set his mind wandering.

Without slowing his steps, Evan glanced down at his sneakers and nudged an acorn lying in the dirt with the tip of his shoe. It shot forward across the path and clattered hollowly against a nearby trash can. The sound echoed sharper than he expected, and the guy flinched slightly.

And then flinched again and looked up. Someone had said his name.

WARNING: Depression, suicidal tendencies.

You can use any plot you want!