My take on the Fabathroom scene that should have been.

You can't believe Santana told her.

Actually, you totally can, because Santana doesn't have any tact, but that is beside the point. Your former second-in-command took the very nice gesture you made at prom and used it in an I Hate Rachel Berry monologue.

There was a reason you were avoiding this place.

You like to think you're better now; a little kinder, a little wiser than the girl who used to roam these halls. Just being here reminds you of things you'd like to forget. You see the lockers you used to throw people against, the linoleum floors stained from the slushies you threw. Now, when you think about what you've done, it almost seems unbelievable, but that's just wishful thinking.

You shouldn't have come back, but you felt like you had to. You're pretty sure that something will always pull you back, no matter how hard you try to stay away; it's like gravity. Today, it was to say goodbye to the club that you slipped in and out of for three years. Maybe it was more than that, but right now you want to pretend it wasn't. You don't know what it will be next, but you know this isn't your last visit to McKinley.

When you're in New Haven, you can pretend. You can date boys like Biff McIntosh and neglect to mention your teen pregnancy and Ryan Seacrest tattoo. You can dress up for class in pearls and heels, and join secret societies. You can even get published in the student newspaper, the first freshman to do so in seven years. Most importantly, however, you can pretend to forget about her.

You wish you had never realized your feelings for Rachel Berry. You wish you had never let her try to be your friend. The last few years would have been a whole lot easier if you could convince your heart to stop caring for her. You hate that she made you feel everything so much because life is so much easier when you're pretending.

You can pretend that Biff isn't an elitist jerk when you think about security and his family's old money. You can pretend that it doesn't bother you when he kisses you and the only thing you feel are his lips. Sometimes when he's talking in that high and mighty way of his, you think about her and your heart flutters involuntarily. When you blush, you pretend it's because of him (and so does he).

You cannot pretend, however, that she isn't the reason you understand what it feels like to be lovesick; a phrase you desperately want to associate with silly little girls, but know describes you so well. You just want to forget because it hurts when you think about her too much. You're near positive she doesn't want you, and for the most part, you're okay with that, but God, you just want to feel wanted in return.

When you were dating the professor, he tried to get in your head. He believed that you had a strong desire to be needed, likely due to parental neglect in your childhood. To his face, you laughed it off, but during sleepless nights, you thought about it incessantly. Your parents never liked you the way you were, especially when you were a child, so you wanted to the school to want you. And for a while, they did. You were popular. Your boyfriend was the quarterback. But it wasn't enough. When Puck started to want you, you thought maybe it would make it better, but then you got pregnant and that made it worse. When you were pregnant, no one wanted you, except maybe Puck. And her. Of course her, you can't forget her; you can't pretend she didn't try to be your friend.

Your life continued to shape itself around other people's wants. Sam wanted to marry you, so you dated him, even though he looked like he could be your brother and that weirded you out. Finn wanted to get back together, so you did, even though he left you for Rachel at a funeral of all places. Joe wanted you so bad that he was going to go against his religious beliefs to have sex with you. If you wanted to, that is, which you did not.

During those long nights, you realized that she was the one who was different. Sure, she wanted you too, but the real you, not some fantasy girl. She called you pretty, like they all did, but she was the only one to call you more than that. She was the one who always offered friendship when you needed it. She turned you inside out and let you do things "when you're ready." You can't help but think that there will always be a part of you that wants her because she is the only one who's ever seen you.

So, when Rachel storms off in typical Rachel fashion, even though your brain is telling you to stay put, you feel yourself rising to go after her. Your body takes you straight to the bathroom, your bathroom. You take a deep breath before opening the door, trying to make the unpleasant feeling in your stomach go away. It doesn't. You open the door anyway.

She has mascara running down her face and her eyes are red and puffy, but you still think she's beautiful. You try to push the thought aside, and remind yourself why you're here.

"Are you here to rub in it? Because I'm really not in the mood, Quinn," she snaps, not looking at you. You try to make eye contact in the mirror, but she won't let you.

"Rachel," you start, but the follow up never comes. You want to tell her, but don't know how. Instead, you grab a paper towel out of the dispenser and hand it to her. You know you shouldn't, but you let your fingers graze hers and in that moment, you cannot pretend.

"So, it's true then?" she accuses, blotting underneath her eyes.

"It wasn't like that," you say.

"Then what was it like? Because it looks like you made me prom queen because you felt bad for me. It looks like the first time I felt accepted by this school, felt like I was really beautiful, was all because you pitied me," she spits.

"You were. Accepted and beautiful," you whisper, the words burning as they leave your throat.

You wish the words would spill out of your mouth. You wish you were brave enough to tell her the truth. But there's always something that stops you. A confession is not what she needs from you right now. And you will always put her first, no matter how much it hurts you.

"I'm sorry that you and Santana are fighting and that she used this to upset you, but Rachel, I swear there was no malicious intent in what we did. I know I'm not always good at showing it, but you mean so much to me," you concede.

"Then why does it feel like why aren't friends anymore?" she asks, finally facing you.

She looks at you with the sincerity she has since you were pregnant teenager, crying on a bench. You look back and hope your face says something like "thank you for always caring about me" or "I love you so much and I can't be your friend because it breaks my heart," but you don't think you are that good at expressing yourself.

"Don't ever think I don't care about you, Rachel. I always will," you say, and you can feel a very small and very sad smile form on your lips. You can't be here anymore. You have to leave. You turn and take a step toward the door, and you might have made it out, but she reaches for your hand and pulls you towards her.

"You do not get to say that and walk away from me," she declares.

The dramatic nature of it is so Rachel Berry that you can't help the small laugh that you respond with. She has never let you do anything the easy way, but that doesn't change your instinct to run before you completely lose control of the situation.

"Can you just trust me and leave it be?" you ask, praying she doesn't hear the pleading in your request.

"Will you ever tell me if I do?" she challenges. She is done crying, but you took your concern too far and now she wants to know why. If you could kick yourself, you would, but instead you mentally berate yourself for being so foolish around her. You couldn't just explain the prom situation and walk away. No, you had to tell her you care about her.

"Please don't." This time you don't care if she hears the begging in your voice. You can't do this. It doesn't matter how many times you've run through the situation in your head; you are not prepared to tell Rachel Berry that you love her.

"I need you to say it. Please, Quinn," she replies, and this time she is the one begging.

"I can't," you tell her, hoping she understands how sorry you are.

You run.

You run as fast as you can, away from her, away from whatever was about to happen. You can't breathe, but you keep going, because you are too scared to do anything else. You run until you find a door that goes outside and keep running, even though running on gravel in heels is both dangerous and impractical. You run towards your car, your car that will take you away from all of this. You are so focused on your escape that you don't notice that you are about to run into another person until you feel a pair of hands grab you and move you off your intended path.

"Whoah there, Q, what's the rush?" Puck asks you, stomping out the cigarette he was smoking.

You look at him, trying to find some kind of comfort in his presence. He is in his Air Force uniform and you don't really understand why, but the blues look good on him. His Mohawk is gone, making him look older than he should, though his smug grin is still there. You tell yourself to be spontaneous and you press your lips against his. His lips are warm, but chapped, and taste like tobacco. When he kisses you back, you aren't surprised; he's been staring at you ever since you got back. You are surprised, however, when you pull back and drop to your knees.

You try to rationalize that it was the tobacco, but the feeling of disgust in your stomach and the ache in your chest point toward another reason. Your body can no longer handle all of your pretending and needs to expel all of your lies. In this moment, you cannot find the energy to care that you are in a dress and heels, throwing up in the parking lot of your former high school.

He holds your hair and rubs your back, and it's almost comforting. When you're done, he pulls you up and his hand lingers in yours before you take it away to wipe your mouth. You feel slightly disoriented and wish you were wearing flats instead of heels. You lean up against the nearest car in an attempt to steady yourself.

"That bad, huh?" Puck jokes in an attempt to break that awkward silence.

"Sorry. I thought that would work," you respond.

"No hard feelings," he shrugs. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly," you tell him.

He takes a step closer to you. "That's fine. Just make sure you talk to someone, okay? I know you feel safe keeping everything in that big brain of yours, but as we both just saw, that doesn't work out so well."

You defensively cross your arms. You know he's right, but you don't want to admit that. "You don't understand. If I talk about it- if I say it out loud- it's real. And I can't deal with that."

"If you say so. You keep running away and puking in parking lots, and at our ten year reunion let me know how that works out for you," he replies, taking a step back.

"I'm sorry," you say.

"I know," he returns. "I'll see you."

He walks away and you take a deep breath. You had planned to go straight home before the parking lot incident, but now the last thing you want to do is have to answer questions from your mom. Instead, you start to walk toward the football field. You stop when you reach the bleachers. You notice the old lawn furniture is still there from your burnout days and sit down.

It is here that you finally allow yourself to cry. The hot tears sting as they leave your eyes and roll down your cheeks. You don't know when everything got so out of control, when the pretending stopped working. Maybe it never worked in the first place. All you know for sure is that you still love Rachel as much as you did the last time you sat on this couch nearly two years ago.

You wish you had a cigarette. You could even go for a joint right now. Biff would love that, his prim and proper girlfriend sitting in skank territory getting high in her grandmother's pearls. You should have bummed a cigarette from Puck. You wipe your eyes and root around in the cushions of the couch, looking for something, anything to smoke. You are so focused on your task that you don't realize someone else has joined you until you feel a hand on your shoulder.

You know who it is before you turn around. "Please don't run away again," she says.

"Okay," you respond. You sit up straight and cross your legs at your ankles. The order gives you the sense of control you need, however false it is. She sits down next to you and your heart is racing. She is too close, but you can't bring yourself to move away because you don't know if a moment like this is ever going to come again.

"I wanted to apologize," she starts. "I'm sorry that I tried to pressure you into doing something you weren't ready for. That was wrong of me and I should really know better after everything we've been through. Will you please accept my apology?"

You wish you could accept her apology and forget the entire ordeal, but the way she looks at you, those big brown eyes full of uncertainty and concern, won't let you. She cares about you; she always has. You see it just as plainly now as you did when you were fifteen. You decide to accept her apology, but this time you won't run or try to forget. You know she has more to say and you will listen.

"Of course, Rachel. I'm sorry too," you say.

"I know," she tells you.

"Thank you," you return, offering a small smile.

She is confused by your answer, you can tell. Her eyebrows knit together and she thinks for a beat before asking, "For what? Accepting your apology?"

"For looking for me. For not letting me run away," you explain.

"That's kind of our thing," she jokes. "You run, I tell you I miss you, you come back."

She has the faintest smile on her lips and you have to remind yourself that this is the absolute wrong moment to kiss her because, God, it is so tempting. It's moments like these that you crave the most; the seconds of unspoken understanding. When she takes your hands into hers, you know those precious seconds have ended. "But I don't want to do that anymore, Quinn. You mean so much to me and it hurts me every time you run."

"I don't mean to hurt you," you tell her, squeezing her hands. "It's just hard for me to stay."

You wish you could tell her more; that an explanation would boldly leave your lips, but you're not ready. Today has made you realize that you have to stop pretending. Pretending is too hard and it hurts the people you care about most. But your epiphany doesn't suddenly make honesty easy. You need time to figure out how to live your life more openly. You don't know how long that will take, but you do know that this isn't the first step.

"I know," she tells you. For a second it is quiet, but then she adds, "Can you at least try and respond to an email every now and then?"

"I think I can manage that," you concede with a nod.

This is the kind of small step you can take; you can make small talk until you're ready for the bigger stuff. Your heart swells because you know she has thought of this; she knows that this is going to take time and she is willing to do that for you. You still matter to her. She has not let you go.

"Good. I'm going to head back in. Will you come back tomorrow?" she asks.

"I don't know," you reply, because you honestly don't.

"Okay. It's up to you, but I think you should," she tells you, getting up.

She starts to walk away. You want to tell her yes, you'll show up tomorrow. You want to tell her that you would do anything she asked, though given your track record, she probably already knows that. You want to tell her not to go, that even though you aren't ready for the talk, that you've missed her and want her back in your life. As your brain is racing through these options, she is getting farther and farther away. You have to say something; it can't end like this, not today.

"Wait!" you call out to her. She turns around to face you and you tell yourself it's now or never. "I hope you know that you're beautiful and accepted. Especially by me."

In an instant, she is running back to you. She pulls you into a tight hug and you don't even try to pretend that the closeness of it all is completely overwhelming. You aren't ready for this; you have so much of your own life you need to figure out before you can be a part of hers, but in this moment it doesn't matter. In this moment, you hold on to her, and she doesn't let go.