Author's Note: Written for Faberry Week, Day 1 - Second Chances. Follow up to The Sky Is Falling.

Eternal thanks and cyber-hugs to Skywarrior108 for being the most awesome beta and for putting together these Faberry Weeks.

Warning: Angst.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

The Evidence of Absence

It ends quickly.

After so many months of careful steps, inching ever so slowly into love with cautious touches and innocent kisses, each one weighed and measured before moving on to the next, it all comes crashing to a painful end in a matter of moments. Rachel had miscalculated somewhere along the way, and she knows—she knows—that Quinn will be left to suffer for it. She allows her own heartache to burn its way through her veins because she deserves to feel every painful second of it. Her words fall uselessly onto deaf ears as she tries to explain the unexplainable—how her heart had raced where her body wouldn't follow.

"I can't do this."

So simple. So vague, and yet so final.

This is how she ends it—cuts out her own heart right along with Quinn's poor, battered, and bruised one, all for an indescribable inability.

Rachel relives every moment of their relationship in between her heartbeats. They'd flowed from adversaries to friends to more, and Rachel had welcomed it. She'd reveled in Quinn's attention, seduced by that perfect first date and the hesitant first kiss that tasted of so much longing—the flavor transferring itself onto Rachel's tongue and making her hungry for more, but it's an appetite that's left her unfulfilled, no matter how she'd tried to sate it. And she had tried.

They'd spent countless days and nights together, sharing meaningful conversations that Rachel will always cherish. Her heart and her mind had floated into a hazy kind of happiness that was all Quinn—being with her, near her, learning every nuance of green and brown in her eyes, every quirk of her lips, every unspoken dream that she'd held in the secret spaces of her mind and soul. She's never felt so close to another person, but somehow still so disconnected. Detached where she should be present.

It's like all of the performers are on their marks, the orchestra tuned, and the spotlight burning bright on center stage, but there's only silence when the curtain opens. Rachel hates this feeling, like she's forgotten the words to "Don't Rain On My Parade" all over again and the sky is falling down around her.

And it is falling.

She loves Quinn—there's no lie in those words or in the heart that feels them—but Quinn will never believe that now. Rachel can see agony and anger and blame replace the love that used to shine in hazel eyes, turning them dark and cold, and she's powerless to call it back now.

She'd been powerless in those breathless hours when she'd been allowed to hold Quinn close, cataloging her desire—all blown out pupils, flushed skin, and so much heat it should have set Rachel on fire. Rachel had craved that fire, but the flames escaped her. She wishes that she could go back now—back to those cautious touches and innocent kisses and the happiness that she'd felt before she'd decided that there should be more.

Now there's only Quinn's anger and Quinn's pain and Quinn's hatred, naked in her rage as she pushes Rachel out—out of the room and out of her life.

"I never want to see you again!"

And this is how it ends—with Rachel sobbing in a hallway outside of a dorm room in New Haven, her overnight bag spilled open at her feet, mourning for the two hearts that she's broken with a single blow.

This is also how it begins.

Rachel returns to New York, silent and subdued. She holds on to the sliver of hope that Quinn might eventually forgive her for longer than she supposes is reasonable; that at least they might one day find their way back to a tentative friendship. She sends a single text begging for another chance to explain—to apologize—when Quinn is ready. Always when Quinn is ready. She waits, checking her email and voicemail and text messages. She's not brave enough to send another.

Quinn does not forgive her. In fact, Quinn erases Rachel entirely from her life. Rachel figures that's the price she has to pay for knowing herself so poorly.

The thing is—she doesn't stop loving Quinn. She certainly doesn't stop missing her. She misses the quiet moments spent in her company, misses hearing about her studies and her friends at Yale, misses cuddling on the sofa and watching movies. She even misses the soft kisses and gentle touches, and that confuses her and makes her heart ache even more because the only thing missing from their relationship had been the desire for sex—on her part, at least, because the desire had certainly been there for Quinn.

She tries to remember what it had felt like with Finn, but all her clearest memories are of lying in his arms after his desire had been sated, feeling content in his embrace and loving him with her heart and her mind. She tries to remember Brody, but everything with him was a constant comparison to Finn (and to Quinn) and nothing had felt real or right or true. None of the moments that she remembers sharing with either one of them are as clear in her mind as Quinn is now.

Rachel decides that there's only one answer—the same answer that always seems to dominate her thoughts whenever she's faced with an uncertain future—so she makes the trip back to Lima to see Finn.

Truthfully, she's not sure what she's hoping will happen when she gets off the plane. Falling back into love with Finn Hudson has been her default since she was fifteen years old, and she knows he'll take her back again. She wants to feel that same rush of inevitable love for him, to be overwhelmed and pulled under by a wave so powerful that it will wash away every aching memory of her time with Quinn. She dives in headfirst, but she doesn't go under.

Finn is exactly the same as she remembers him from those breathless, starry-eyed days when she'd been so certain that she would be his wife—and that's both wonderful and terrible. Because Finn welcomes her back with his crooked grin and eagerness to forget that they were ever apart. He forgives her for Brody and doesn't even know about Quinn, and it would be so easy to drift along with him. And he is still drifting, reliving his glory days with the glee club and talking about Nationals like getting there is his greatest achievement while Rachel can't stop thinking about bigger things like broken hearts and broken friendships. She can't stop thinking about Quinn.

Lima feels too small with the taste and smell and sound of New York still in her blood, permeating every layer of her skin. (The taste and smell and sound of Quinn is still in her blood too, slowly drowning her in guilt and regret.)

Finn feels too big on top of her, sweaty and panting while she digs her nails into his back and tries to list the reasons why this is different than how she felt with Quinn. (Quinn was sweaty and panting too, but she'd been so gentle, so lovely in her eagerness to please.)

Rachel presses her forehead against Finn's shoulder and thinks, It's okay… I never get very wet.

It isn't okay.

Finn rolls away when he's finished, grinning at her proudly. "Wow. I forgot how good it feels to be with you."

Rachel manages a trembling smile and snuggles into his arms, burying her face against his chest. She'd forgotten how she'd always looked forward to this part more than the other. She'd forgotten that it's always been this way with Finn, but loving him had made all the difference—transformed the sex into something that felt special in its intimacy. Now, it just feels empty and uncomfortable, and she wonders if this is her penance for hurting Quinn.

This is how it ends again.

She gets dressed in the dark in the middle of the night, pausing for one last look at Finn as he sleeps, content and unsuspecting. Rachel bends to press a soft goodbye kiss to his cheek that he'll never feel. She knows that she's a coward for doing this—that she should stay and face him and tell him that she just can't—but she's already choking on her tears at the memory of having that conversation with Quinn, and she just can't do it again.

Finn is angry, of course. He calls her when she's back in New York. He calls her before that, leaving six messages with increasing increments of his temper on display in which he demands to know why she wasn't there when he woke up, but she only answers when she's safely home. New York is home now, not Lima. Not Finn. (She'd razed her home with Quinn to the ground.)

"I'm so sorry," she tells him tearfully. "I made a mistake, Finn. I thought maybe we could get back what we had, but…but I know now that it's really over."

"I don't believe you," he yells through the line. "We're supposed to end up together, Rachel. I'm not giving up on you."

"You have to," she begs him desperately. "I…I'm not in love with you anymore, Finn. I love someone else." It's a truth that she can't shake. Her heart still insists on wanting Quinn despite her body's refusal to comply.

Finn hangs up on her after that. She doesn't know if he's given up, but it doesn't matter. She can't give him what he needs.

(Quinn hangs up on her when she tries to call from Kurt's phone. She's sure her own number is still blocked. The months apart have done nothing to help either of them heal.)

Rachel focuses on school. She lets her instructors break her down and rebuild her until her body moves with grace and her voice rings with flawless clarity and her performances are utter perfection. She auditions for a summer workshop that her classmates warn her she'll never get because they only accept the best of the best. She proves them wrong. She and Kurt celebrate with pizza and wine, and then she locks herself in the bathroom and cries because she can't share her success with Quinn.

The summer comes and goes, and Rachel stays in New York, determinedly pushing her way into her bright and shining future. If it's just a little dimmer and duller than it used to be—well, no one but her will ever know.

Finn gives up calling her and starts dating a nice girl in Lima. She's happy for him.

Rachel gives up stalking Quinn through their mutual friends' Facebooks after Santana posts a photo of Quinn wrapped up with some pretty redhead in a Yale t-shirt. She can't be happy for her, no matter how hard she tries.

Time passes, and Rachel stays focused, impressing her instructors and, eventually, impressing a casting director enough to give her a secondary role in an Off Broadway show.

She meets David.

He's nothing like the David that she knew in high school—shorter and leaner and Jewish. (Her fathers are thrilled.)

He's nothing like Finn—he can't even sing.

He's more like Quinn than she's comfortable admitting to anyone, even herself.

Rachel likes being with David. He's smart and kind and funny and handsome, and they spend countless days together, sharing meaningful conversations that pull her into a hazy kind of happiness (that has nothing at all to do with Quinn). When he kisses her, it's sweet. It's soft and tender and full of affection. She waits for the passion to come—the heat and desire and rush of feeling that have sparked poetry and music and art and epic tales told across pages and stages and film.

It doesn't.

She wonders if she's trying too hard, expecting too much.

She always wants everything too much.

And David wants her (the way that Quinn had wanted her) so maybe it's enough. Maybe the fireworks will come later, like the fireworks that Finn had seen with Quinn but not with her—like the fireworks that she feels every time her voice blends so perfectly with Finn, with Noah, with Jesse, with Kurt, with Mercedes, with Santana, with Quinn.

"It's okay. I never get very wet," she hears herself telling him after his hand disappears into her panties and he hesitates.

David pulls back with a frown. "I don't want to hurt you. What can I do to make this better for you?"

No one has ever asked her that—not with words. Quinn had asked with her eyes, her touch, her slow determination to please, but Rachel hadn't known how to answer.

She still doesn't.

"It's okay," she says again.

David shakes his head. "No, it's not. Look, if you're not attracted to me…"

"I am," she quickly interrupts. "I think you're wonderful," she tells him honestly. "I love being with you."

He nods, tipping his head thoughtfully. "Are you just not into sex then?"

He doesn't say it unkindly. There's genuine curiosity in his brown eyes, softened by understanding, and it stops her short.

She shakes her head. "I…no. I mean, yes," she corrects haltingly. "Yes, I'm into sex," but the words suddenly taste like a lie.

She's into him, like she was into Finn, into Jesse, into Brody. Into Quinn.

She's into love and romance and happily-ever-afters.

She's into finding the perfect partner to complement her, and it has to be someone like David because otherwise it should have been Quinn, and the only thing that makes Quinn different from the rest is that she's very much a she.

Rachel remembers what it was like with Finn, after the perfect duet and in between the sweet kisses and lying naked in his arms. She remembers the weight of him and the sweat on his skin and closing her eyes and concentrating on how much she loved him and how much closer they would be after and how Finn deserved her body because he had her heart.

Rachel remembers what it was like with Brody, after the thrill of being wanted by a gorgeous guy and in between the hopeful kisses and slipping naked out of his arms. She remembers the ripple of his muscles and the cologne on his skin and closing her eyes and concentrating on moving on from Finn (and ignoring her feelings for Quinn) and how Brody deserved her body because he made her feel special.

And then Rachel remembers what it was like with Quinn, after the long, winding road that had brought them together and in between the reverent kisses and crying silently in her arms. She remembers the curves of her body and the taste of her skin and closing her eyes and concentrating on how much she loved her and how much happier they would be after and how much Quinn deserved her body because she'd loved Rachel so perfectly and waited so patiently. Because Quinn deserves everything.

Rachel wonders if this is what she deserves.

She's been in love. Repeatedly. She's fallen hard and fast and desperately—and, some might argue, pathetically. She's been passionate about things, like the stage and Broadway and being the best and getting Finn Hudson (and Quinn Fabray) to love her forever. For the first time, she stops to consider that her passions don't necessarily translate into the bedroom in the truest definition of the word.

They say that the absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence, but how can you positively identify the lack of a thing that's never been present? How do you even know it's missing? How many times do you have to stumble over an empty space before you realize that something should be there?

Now she realizes that maybe—just maybe—always thinking that she should feel that indefinable something more is the only evidence of that empty space that's been tripping her up.

Maybe David sees it in her eyes, or maybe he really just is a wonderful guy, because he tells her, "It's okay if you need time," and kisses her softly and leaves her to her thoughts.

Her thoughts run in circles for days.

She'd told Quinn that she needed a physical connection, but she knows now that she'd been trying to fill her empty space with air. She'd been expecting the fireworks that Finn (and Noah and Sam) had raved about seeing with Quinn to sweep her away, but they hadn't come. Rachel had never been with a woman before—had never even entertained the notion—so when she and Quinn had finally taken that final step into physical intimacy and she still didn't feel anything spark, it had been too easy to reason that she just wasn't interested in lesbian sex.

With Finn, she'd reasoned it would get better in time.

With Brody, she'd reasoned that she needed to be in love.

With David, she reasons that her reasons are all desperate attempts to prove that something inside of her isn't irrevocably broken. (Like she'd broken Quinn.)

Girls want sex just as much as guys do is a truth that sounds more right than it feels. She doesn't hate sex, but she finally admits to herself that she doesn't crave it. She doesn't need it. She doesn't think about it as anything more than an obligation to her partner that completes the picture of her perfect life. All her fantasies involve neon lights and cheering audiences and a leading man (or a leading lady); never dark bedrooms and naked skin. The intimacy that she longs for isn't physical.

Maybe she is broken.

"You're not," David assures her when she finally confesses this to him. She's thinking that he'll break up with her, but instead he points her to a website on asexuality and all of its varying degrees.

She reads.

She compares stories to her own experiences.

She understands that she isn't alone and sometimes, for some people, there just isn't something more.

She realizes that love and sex do not always go hand in hand.

Everything doesn't magically get better, but she does feel just a little less broken.

Until she thinks of Quinn.

Until she remembers that her phone number is still being blocked and Kurt's goes straight to voicemail, and the photo on Santana's Facebook now is a selfie of her and Brittany intimately squeezed together with Quinn and some pretty brunette.

But David still wants to date her and swears that sex isn't a deal-breaker, and Rachel thinks that she could fall in love with him (if she ignores Quinn's name still written on every third beat of her heart). So they spend more days together and share new conversations, and she falls back into that hazy kind of happiness. They do things together that keep him satisfied (the way that she used to keep Finn satisfied, and she realizes how often she used to do that with Finn) and it's enough for a time.

When they break up, it isn't because of the sex. It's because Rachel still wants everything too much, and her dreams are bigger than David, and her show is going to Broadway, and he's taking a job in Poughkeepsie (and he still isn't Quinn), but they promise to stay friends.

She loves him for everything he is and everything he isn't, but he isn't her happily-ever-after, and Rachel is learning to be okay with her happy-right-now.

So this is how it ends.

She's standing in the middle of Times Square, admiring her billboard. It isn't really hers, and she still isn't the leading lady, but she absolutely owns her role, and her show is reopening in ten days at the Gershwin Theatre. All of her dreams are beginning to come true.

That's when she sees her.

(She's imagined her showing up in New York so many times that she has to look twice to make sure it's really her.)

"Quinn," she breathes, and her feet are moving before her brain can tell her that it's possibly not the best decision, but it's been two years, and she really misses her, and—God, she's still so beautiful.

And Rachel still flirts with a few of those old clichés, because time stops, and her heart races, and she remembers why she fell in love in the first place.

"Quinn," she calls out louder when she's only a few feet away, and then Quinn is turning—blonde hair longer that she remembers and blowing in the breeze. There's a flash of recognition in her eyes followed by pain and then anger before they turn hard and unreadable. Rachel stops short with a hopeful smile quivering on her lips. "It's really you," she murmurs.

"Of course," Quinn mutters. "Because apparently this city isn't big enough for me to avoid you the one time I'm here."

Rachel's hesitant optimism takes a fatal hit. "It's been so long," she almost whispers.

Those hazel eyes, once so open and filled with love for her, cut through her now like shards of ice. "Not long enough," Quinn decides before she turns to walk away.

"Please," Rachel pleads, reaching out quickly to touch Quinn's arm in a desperate attempt to stop her. It works, though Quinn's lethal glare has Rachel removing her hand just as quickly. "Can we…can we go somewhere and talk?"

"I really have nothing to say to you," Quinn hisses dangerously.

"Ten minutes, Quinn. Please," Rachel begs again. "Just give me ten minutes. You only have to listen."

Because Rachel needs to say the words—needs to seize this unexpected chance with Quinn. They'd left things in such a bad place, and if there's even the smallest possibility that she might say one thing to make it just a little bit better, then she has to try.

She always has to try.

She'll try to not think beyond making it better (to making it up to Quinn in every way that she can for the rest of her life if only Quinn will let her).

"Fine. Talk," Quinn demands coldly, crossing her arms and waiting, right there at the corner of Broadway and 47th Street, as if what Rachel has to say is merely noise to be tuned out along with the shouts and laughter and car horns around them.

Rachel frowns. "I thought…there's a coffee shop," she suggests, glancing at one of the many Starbucks that sit on almost every city block.

"No."

"It's right over there," she implores, pointing across the street to prove to Quinn how close they are to it. "Please?"

Quinn huffs out irritably as she glances in the direction that Rachel had indicated. She shakes her head, digging her phone from her purse and unlocking it with a swipe of her thumb. After checking it with a frown, she rapidly taps her thumbs across the screen. "Ten minutes," she concedes, still looking down at her phone while she finishes whatever she's typing before finally sliding it away.

They walk the short distance to the Starbucks with Rachel glancing at Quinn every few seconds to make certain that she's still there; still impossibly beautiful, still so close to perfection. The shop is busy, but there's room to maneuver, and Rachel automatically gets into line. "What would you like?" she asks Quinn politely.

"You have eight minutes left," Quinn tells her flatly. "Do you really want to waste them in line for coffee?"

Rachel doesn't.

She swiftly steps out of line, dodging the bodies in the shop to secure a space in the corner large enough for the two of them to talk. Quinn follows, cocking her hip and crossing her arms in a stance that sends Rachel spinning back in time—vision blurring with shades of red, white, and black.

Seconds pass in a silent clash of brown and hazel.

"I'm sorry."

"Is that it?" Quinn scoffs incredulously. "You dragged me in here to give another half-assed apology?" Her gaze drifts to the door, and her body sways to follow.

"No," Rachel denies, holding up a hand as if that could stop Quinn from disappearing. "I…I need to…I was wrong," she stutters out. "Everything I did was wrong. I know that. I hurt you, and I know you'll probably never forgive me for it."

"Probably?" Quinn echoes mockingly.

Rachel purses her lips, attempting to moisten them as she gathers her courage and the words and—God, let her find the right ones to finally make Quinn understand. "It had nothing to do with you, Quinn. You did everything right. You were…you were more than I deserved," she admits brokenly. "It was me. All of it." She desperately searches Quinn's expression for some indication that she's listening—that she's hearing what Rachel is telling her—but Quinn's eyes are determinedly turned away from Rachel, and her face remains stubbornly impassive.

"I…I realized something about myself in the last year," Rachel continues haltingly, "and I know it won't matter to you or make what happened between us any less…painful…but I…I've come to realize that," she takes a breath, licks her lips, says the words, "I'm a panromantic asexual."

It feels odd to finally say it out loud—to shine a light on that secret part of herself that's been locked away and denied and painted over with far prettier colors of the rainbow until now.

She holds her breath and waits.

Quinn's eyes dart back to her, glittering with suspicion under furrowed brows. "What does that even mean?"

"It means that I was chasing the idea of this perfect relationship that included…fireworks in the bedroom," Rachel explains ruefully. "Some amazing physical experience that would make me finally understand what the big deal is about sex." She twists her fingers together nervously, glancing down at them because it's suddenly too hard to hold Quinn's measuring gaze. "I thought…I thought that since I didn't really figure it out with Finn or with Brody, and since I fell in love with you, maybe…maybe I just needed to be with a woman to…to feel that way. But then…"

"I remember," Quinn cuts in, but her voice has lost much of its edge, and Rachel chances another look at her to see a shadow of sadness in her eyes.

"But now I know," Rachel continues, "I'm just not capable of feeling that kind of sexual attraction to anyone."

Quinn tugs the corner of her lip between her teeth in a familiar gesture from years past that makes Rachel's heart ache. "So," she finally says slowly, "you're telling me you don't like sex."

"I'm telling you that it's…not really a priority for me in a relationship."

The muscles in Quinn's jaws jump. "And you couldn't have told me that before we," she trails off, shaking her head despondently.

"I didn't know," Rachel tries to make her understand.

"How could you not know?" Quinn questions, frustration clear in her tone.

Rachel's forced calm shatters, and she tosses out her hands in supplication. "Because everywhere I looked growing up, I saw all these big, grand, romantic notions of…of love at first sight, and fireworks when you kiss, and feeling this undeniable passion, and everything would just fall into place and be perfect and romantic and beautiful, and sex would be amazing because that's the natural progression of being in love, but it was never like that for me," she rambles miserably.

She'd wanted it to be. She'd wished for it and reached for it and turned herself into a much maligned romantic heroine for it, but, "It was always just the…the swelling music and the chaste kiss and the fade to black. I thought that I was just waiting for the right person to make everything feel the way it was supposed to feel. At first, I thought it should be Finn because we had this ready-made, clichéd love story, but everything always ended up feeling so out of sync no matter how much I tried to force it. And then I was certain it was you, Quinn, because what we had…it was everything I didn't know I was looking for.

"You have no idea what I would give to be able to go back…to have a second chance with you," Rachel reveals solemnly. "Maybe if I'd been aware of my orientation, I could have explained all of this to you then, and maybe…maybe you would have understood and we could have," still been happy together, she thinks but doesn't say—her voice already shaky. She sniffles, brushing a wayward tear from her cheek. "Or maybe I wouldn't have been enough for you. Sex is kind of a big deal to a lot of people."

Quinn's eyes are shiny when Rachel looks at her again. "We can't go back," she says softly, regretfully.

"I know. I know," Rachel repeats with a resigned nod, digging her nails into her palm. "But...do you think maybe there's a chance that you could forgive me someday?" she presses. "I really miss you, Quinn. I miss…having you as a friend," she settles for, praying that she isn't pushing for too much. It needs to be enough that Quinn finally understands exactly what went wrong between them—that Rachel never set out to lead her on or break her heart.

Quinn sighs. "Rachel…"

Whatever she might have said next gets lost in the, "Hey, there you are," as a pretty brunette—the same one from the last photo that Santana had posted—appears at Quinn's side, dropping a possessive hand over her shoulder that immediately softens Quinn's defensive stance. Quinn's arms drop loosely to her sides, and the brunette slides her fingers down Quinn's arm until their hands are linked. "Sorry I'm late. My interview ran long, and it took me a couple of minutes to find this place."

"Did everything go well?" Quinn asks sweetly.

"I think so," the woman answers with a smile. "I have a pretty good feeling about it. I really want that internship." Then she turns her attention to Rachel. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she says kindly, though Rachel imagines that she isn't being entirely sincere.

"You didn't," Quinn assures her easily, and Rachel feels her heart lurch and her stomach clench painfully. "Elisha, this is Rachel Berry. We…went to high school together," she explains neutrally with barely a second of hesitation to conceal how much more complicated their relationship is; was; has been. "Rachel, this is my girlfriend, Elisha Mackenzie."

The girlfriend is uttered with such quiet serenity, a smile tugging at Quinn's lips for the first time since Rachel had called out her name, and her eyes are silently professing a devotion that Rachel recognizes all too clearly. All Rachel can manage to say is, "Oh."

"Hi, it's nice to meet you," Elisha says with a smile that reaches her eyes, and Rachel realizes that Elisha has no reason to be insincere. She's Quinn's girlfriend, and she's holding her hand and leaning into her side, and she makes Quinn smile, and she's met Quinn's friends, and Rachel is absolutely nothing to her.

Quinn clears her throat into the awkward silence and addresses her girlfriend. "We should probably get going if we want to make our reservation."

"We still have an hour," Elisha points out obligingly. "If you want to grab a table and catch up with Rachel…"

"Oh, that's very nice of you, but I have…I have somewhere that I need to be," Rachel interrupts, the churning in her stomach demanding that she be anywhere but here. Her eyes drink in the sight of Quinn one last time, burning with the tears that she won't allow to fall until she's far away and all alone. There won't be any second chances for them, and it almost hurts more than the first time, having cut herself open and bled out all her truths on the floor. "It was really good to see you again, Quinn," she manages in a voice that only trembles a little. "And it was lovely to meet you, Elisha," she adds, but it's a lie only uttered for Quinn's sake.

Because Quinn deserves to have everything, even if it's too late for Rachel to be anything more than a footnote in the book of her life.

Elisha responds with an affable, "Likewise."

"Goodbye, Rachel."

Quinn infuses those two words with so much unspoken meaning. It's a more amicable parting than their last, but it feels final in a way that it hadn't before, and Rachel nods and forces herself to say, "Goodbye, Quinn." She'll force herself to mean it much, much later.

Her heart hasn't said goodbye in all these years. It can't be expected to do it today.

And then she's walking away—feet carrying her along Broadway as she breathes the hot, stale air into her too-tight lungs, and the din of the city buzzes in her ears.

She doesn't look back.

She doesn't remember how she gets home.

It will be hours of tears spilled onto her pillowcase and so many what-ifs before she'll look at her phone and read the simple message under Quinn's name.

I forgive you.

A tiny smile will pull at her lips, because it's something to replace the nothing that she's been living with for so long. And she'll think, maybe. Someday...

And this is how it begins.

A/N: This is by no means an all-inclusive character study of asexuals or an asexual Rachel. I merely wanted to explore certain aspects of her character that I had perceived from canon (and that I had introduced in TSIF) through the filter of my own experience of learning how to exist in a sexual world when sex is not a personal priority.