It's been so long since I've posted something new on here - nearly three months, I think. Oops.

I wrote this because I'm unoriginal and like ghost stories and because I've been in the fandom for so long and yet never written a Klaine fanfic. I'm not sure how that happened. But here's one now, and I hope you enjoy it.

And also, writing the second half of the story before the first half apparently confuses me and I get certain details wrong, so let's just pretend that Santana and Brittany were never in ND and Blaine's never met them before in his life, just for the sake of this story.

This is for Rae, because I'm four months late in writing a birthday present for her, and also for Middy.

The usual disclaimers, of course. I own nothing.

Blaine Anderson doesn't believe in ghosts.

It isn't that he's scared of anything paranormal, and it isn't that the thought of the dead talking back is in any way freaky – even though it is – he just doesn't think the idea is plausible. He does believe in souls, or something like that, but he doesn't believe they drift around without a body trying to cause havoc in the world of the living. People die, people cry, bodies are buried and they stay there. People move on, people live.

There is no middle ground.

You live and you die and the two states are completely separate because they wouldn't be able to exist alongside each other.

That's why he and Kurt spend endless nights amusing themselves with TV shows about ghost hunters trying to bust out so-called hauntings, and clichéd horror movies in which every situation is as predictable as Kurt calling Blaine out on his outfit every morning is.

(Kurt draws the line at Paranormal Activity, though. He sat through half an hour of the first movie, trying to find fault in it, but in the end he had to admit defeat and give credit where credit was due. He insisted on sleeping with all the lights on that night.)

In short, all the supernatural theories people fell for was ridiculous, in Blaine's opinion.

Then the impossible happens.

Blaine's in the shower running late for work when his mobile starts ringing. Kurt had gone into the city early that morning and not been there to wake him up in time, and therefore Blaine is pissed enough without having to take a call at a stupid hour in the morning that he doesn't have time for.

So he lets it ring the second and third time, as well, as he scrambles around the bedroom looking for anything halfway decent to wear. Then from the bedside table, Kurt's phone starts ringing, and it crosses Blaine's mind how irritated Kurt's going to be that he left his mobile at home. Presuming that it's the same person on the other end who was trying to get hold of Blaine, he gives up the search for his glasses with a frustrated groan and presses the ringing mobile against his ear.

"Kurt's phone," he snaps, not in the least apologetic for his unpleasant mood.

"Blaine!" It's Rachel, and she sounds relieved and terrified at the same time. "We thought you weren't going to pick up and that we'd have to come get you from work, and by then it might have been –"

"Rachel, calm down," Blaine frowns, trying to sound kinder than he did before because Rachel sounds absolutely hysterical right now. He can hear Finn shouting some unintelligible in the background. "What's going on? I'm twenty minutes late for work."

"Blaine – oh, God, Blaine, I'm so sorry – there's - there's been an accident."

He's seen far too many hospital beds in his lifetime, but this time, it's not Blaine lying in one of them.

Kurt's hand is cold and far too still in his own as he clutches onto it like the life support machine keeping Kurt stable right now. He doesn't want to do anything else, like hug him or kiss him, because he doesn't want to disturb the sleeping man. It isn't as if Kurt can appreciate those kinds of gestures, anyway.

He'd been crossing the street when a car hit him square in the side. Blaine couldn't believe it. It was New York – Kurt could run across roads jam-packed with cars in his sleep. They didn't even think much of it, and the road hadn't been busy – although Blaine supposes this was why the cars were going faster. But for whatever reason, Kurt had been distracted at the exact moment he shouldn't have been, and the yellow taxi hadn't been able to stop until Kurt was lying motionless on the road twenty feet away, body twisted at a grim angle.

Even in New York, people had stopped for this, and Rachel, who worked in a theatre near Kurt, had been at the scene in a matter of minutes. Finn hadn't been far behind – closer than the ambulance, anyway – and had, apparently, been inconsolable at first.

Blaine had remembered hearing Finn shouting over the phone earlier, and didn't doubt it for a second.

They'd met Blaine, Burt and Carole at the hospital when Kurt was rushed in, straight past them, disappearing behind doors they weren't given access to. Several tense hours later, they'd been allowed to see him, and Kurt hadn't been alone since.

He also hadn't been awake since.

The doctors had said that Kurt had fallen into a state of comatose a while ago, and an examination had revealed damage to the spinal cord and brain.

They'd said the coma was probably temporary, although Blaine didn't know whether temporary meant waiting for the body to heal before he woke up, or if temporary was a waiting room right before… the other thing.

Despite the red scars and gashes decorating his face and arms, and the bruising that's being painted on Kurt's skin beneath the hospital gown, and the rhythmic beeping of the life support machine that Blaine is both thankful for and petrified of, Kurt looks peaceful. Blaine wonders if nightmares can claw their way into comas.

He hopes not.

Burt comes in regularly and sits on the other side of Kurt's bed. Finn joins him when he isn't updating their fellow ex Glee Club members over the phone, and Rachel comes in as often as work allows her to. She mentions softly to Blaine that she doesn't want to face Kurt's wrath when he wakes up and finds out she's been slacking in her vocal lessons in favour of him. He almost cracks a smile.

Carole brings in coffee for everyone at random intervals, and usually stays for a bit, but Blaine has developed some kind of superhuman power where he forgets about his own basic needs and conveniently can't hear anyone who tries to order him otherwise. He doesn't leave Kurt's bedside or let go of his hand for a moment.

Blaine just sits and watches his angel sleep.

Six days, fourteen hours, twenty-seven minutes and fifty-two seconds later, Blaine watches in a kind of numb panic as the beeping of the life support machine slows until it matches the non-existent beat of Blaine's screaming heart, and then he's slamming repeatedly on the button to alert the nurses, not even stopping when they try to drag him away from the bed to get to Kurt. He grips onto Kurt's hand with an iron fist, however, and he won't let go until he knows.

Thirty-three minutes later, Kurt Hummel is officially pronounced dead.

Blaine is running late for work again.

He's still not used to getting himself up at the right time, and he's late more often that he's on time. He goes through the same routine every day – get up, shower, eat, go to work, eat, come home, eat, go to bed, lay awake for three hours, fall asleep.

Except sometimes he doesn't do the last part.

Socialising is a foreign concept to him now. People call him, visit him at their – his – apartment, and occasionally drag him out for lunch or to go to a show. Wes, Tina, Cooper. The efforts are always in vain, however, and Blaine feigns an interested exterior while the conversation remains one-sided. No one's really having fun, but Blaine's not really doing it at all.

Blaine Anderson is existing, not living, and he's hurting more people than himself in the process.

On this particular day, Blaine showers at top-speed as usual, and shovels down a bowl of cereal as usual, before running out of his apartment and flying down the stairs outside as usual. Only this time, he doesn't go to the subway station as usual. Instead, he turns the other way and finds himself slowing to a walk as he shoves his hand in his pockets, head down against the beating sun.

Blaine hasn't laid eyes on the gravestone since the funeral, which he spent most of crying into Cooper's shoulder and trying to avoid looking at the gravestone. Burt, Carole, Finn, Rachel, and the rest of them obviously visit often, because Kurt's grave is probably the brightest in the cemetery, almost swallowed whole by the fresh flowers laid down. There are still notes, some newer than others, signed by various people, and he knows it's only been three months and people will come less and less until there's no one left at all, but Blaine realises that Kurt was so loved, probably more than he ever knew.

Blaine crouches down, pushing some of the flowers to the side to make room, and lays a hand gingerly on top of the gravestone. He doesn't really know what to do. Does he talk to the gravestone, or to the grass beneath his feet? Or maybe even to the sky? All of those feel wrong. He won't really be talking to Kurt. He'll just be talking to stuff, and his words will be going unheard.

But in the end, he really has to talk, even if it's to no one but the wind. So he does.

"Hey… Kurt." Blaine fixes his eyes on a small teddy bear – because it's as good an object to talk to as any – and waits for the inevitable tears to come.

They don't.

Blaine sighs, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't come before now. I just… I haven't had time."

A lie.

"No, that's… wrong. I haven't been able to pluck up the courage to come. Seeing your name on this gravestone terrifies me, Kurt. It makes everything feel final, and for some reason, I know that isn't. It sounds absolutely insane, but it doesn't feel over. We don't feel over."

The truth.

"I don't know why that is. You're… you're dead, Kurt, I don't understand how we could continue. We're over, but we're not. Because we didn't break up – we loved each other. No, something much worse happened, and it doesn't feel settled or right. We weren't ready to be finished. You weren't ready to die, and I wasn't ready to lose you! I don't think anyone can ever be ready for that, but you had so much to do! Your career was just taking off, you were getting bigger roles every few months, more people were learning0 your name, you were… you were destined for bigger things than an incomplete life. You were cheated, Kurt. I don't know if there is a God, but somebody or something must have really… fucked up somewhere, because you didn't have a fair chance like everybody else. Jesus Christ, your life had already been messed up in so many ways, and now this. I'm so sorry, Kurt. I didn't protect you, and it kills me every day.

"I just… I want more time, Kurt. I wanted to watch you in your first starring role. I wanted to marry you. I wanted to have children and raise a family with you. I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to die having lived a full and amazing, amazing life with you, Kurt. I wanted them so badly that I couldn't have them. Does that make sense? I just wanted more time. A lifetime, a year, a day."

Blaine opens his eyes against the glare of the sun – and something feels different. He doesn't quite know what, but something in the air has changed. He lets out a shuddery breath and the lump in his throat screams.

"I just wanted more time."

He stands. Shoving his hands back into his pocket, Blaine keeps his eyes off the gravestone once more and walks away without looking back.

Blaine doesn't go to work afterwards – he phones in sick from his mobile and makes his way to Central Park, where he finds a bench in the shade of a tree and sits, slightly slouched. He doesn't move all day. He just sits and watches people.

That evening, when he returns to his apartment, Blaine finds the TV blaring on America's Next Top Model, of all things. He must have forgotten to turn it off while he was rushing out the door, though he doesn't usually turn it on in the mornings. Switching the channel over to the news, Blaine goes to the cupboards to find something vaguely edible to eat. A lot of it's out of date, but Blaine doesn't really notice when he forgets to buy things. Eventually giving up on food, he goes to the fridge to find something alcoholic and strong – only there's no beer or wine in the fridge.

Blaine frowns, staring at the inside of the fridge a little confusedly. There's always some alcohol in the apartment. It's the one thing he remembers to buy without fail. Even the cider has disappeared.

He embarks on a search for the lost beverages, but fifteen minutes later, he has to admit defeat because it's all just gone. No explanation – all the alcohol has just vanished.

Maybe Wes came in here while Blaine was out and confiscated his alcohol because he'd heard Blaine wasn't as work and was worried about his mental health or something else stupid. But no, Wes didn't have a key. Nobody had a key except Blaine, and… well, the other key had been buried with Kurt. Blaine didn't know why he'd insisted on the key going in the coffin. Some people thought it was symbolic of Kurt holding the key to Blaine's heart, and burst into tears, but it wasn't that at all (because Kurt hardly needed a key to Blaine's heart, he had just come and let himself in without Blaine's permission). Maybe it was because Blaine had always wanted Kurt to have a way back to him.

If he ever chose not to be dead.

Blaine wouldn't put it past Kurt.

He goes to bed early that night completely and stone cold sober, and thoughts of the key in Kurt's grave lulling him to sleep.

The strangest things happen over the next few days.

It's the weekend, so Blaine has no excuse to leave his apartment. When Wes calls, Blaine tells him he's going out with Cooper. When Cooper calls, Blaine tells him he's going out with Wes. When Tina and Rachel leave a message on his phone and then buzz for ten minutes straight at his apartment block, Blaine simply ignores them.

In reality, he's watching crappy daytime TV and eating more junk food than he can ever remember eating in one go. He even makes a risky trip out to the corner shop to stock up on beer, but nobody he knows well lives near him so he isn't caught. In fact, Blaine is quite happy to sit and watch people scream at each other over who the father is and who the wife cheated with.

Until the power goes out.

Blaine jumps at first, but he doesn't panic because he was never scared of the dark like Kurt was. It's the middle of the day anyway, so even though he's got the curtains closed, there's still light filtering through them. Reluctantly, Blaine puts shoes on and goes to find the janitor or somebody to find out if something happened. When he mentions it, though, the janitor gives him a puzzled look, and says the rest of the apartment block is fine. He fiddles with the fuse box and sends Blaine off with an overly suspicious look.

The next day – a Sunday, in which Blaine sleeps for longer than he should – he wakes up and shuffles to the kitchen, planning another busy day of Doing Nothing. With a steaming coffee mug in hand, Blaine trudges through to the living room, yawning and running a hand through un-gelled curls.

The mug falls from his slack fingers.

Scalding hot liquid pools around his bare feet as Blaine stands rooted to the spot, but he doesn't even notice, transfixed by the sight in his living room.

It hasn't been mysteriously trashed.

The ceiling hasn't collapsed.

It hasn't become the victim of a leakage and half-drowned overnight.

Instead, the TV is on. And Blaine could easily blame this on forgetting to turn the TV off last night, except for the fact that Moulin Rouge is playing on mute.

Falling to his knees in front of the TV, Satine's dying eyes watch accusatively as Blaine's shaking fingers fumble at the DVD player and he forces the DVD out, before throwing it as hard as he can at the wall on the opposite side of the room. The TV goes black. The DVD lies by the skirting board completely still. Harmless.

Still visibly trembling, Blaine puts a hand over his mouth and tries to get his breathing back under control as his eyes flicker from the DVD to the TV and back again. He hasn't touched that film, hidden at the back of the cabinet underneath the TV, since Kurt died.

Blaine sinks to the floor and lays his head against the ground, tears mixing with the cooling coffee as the overwhelming smell of something bitter fills his nose and then his whole head, knocking him back into unconsciousness.

Moulin Rouge was Kurt's favourite movie.

Blaine doesn't know when he starts believing that Kurt's ghost has taken up residence in their apartment.

Maybe it's after he's spent hours researching things on the internet, late into the night, about the signs of being haunted. Maybe it's when he starts to get used to finding things he'd put away lying around, or when he expects the TV to switch on by itself at eight o'clock every Friday in time for the new series of America's Next Top Model. ..Maybe it's when he starts setting out two bowls and two glasses and two sets out cutlery without thinking about it.

Maybe it's when he starts smiling more, and starts to look after himself again, and see his friends on weekends, and put effort in at work. It's when he doesn't feel so utterly alone anymore, because he's not.

He knows he's not.

They're going to think he's crazy.

Either that, or they're going to think he's more grief stricken that they originally thought. What other explanation could there be for being convinced that Kurt's ghost is haunting him? They'll say that Blaine's mourning Kurt, and that he's seeing things he wants to see. They'll say that he's conjuring up fantasies out of nothing. It's all coincidence, or in his own mind, and none of it means anything.

They're going to think he's crazy, but Blaine decides to tell a few people anyway.

He doesn't know exactly why he has to. He just needs reassurance that he's not going mad. He needs someone to explain to him what's going on. He needs closure.

He tells his story as lightly as possible, almost jokingly, which makes people sigh and whisper about how this must be Blaine's way of dealing with the grief – black humour, very similar to the kind that would make Kurt laugh. When he brings it up more often, people start to give him strange looks. Black humour is one thing. To push the subject time and time again is quite another, it seems, and it turns out to be quite upsetting. It doesn't escape Blaine's notice, and he decides to stop mentioning his theories about Kurt's ghostly habits one day when Wes confronts him face to face. Wes tells him, both harshly and pityingly, that ghosts do not exist, and Kurt is not haunting Blaine's apartment.

Kurt Hummel is dead, and dead people do not return.

Blaine, however, is of the personal opinion that if their Armani suit is wrinkled enough, the dead can sometimes return just to straighten it out and leave it hanging on the wardrobe door.

He leaves the suit there when he comes home from work one day and sees it, perfectly pristine. It makes him smile, and for a good few minutes, Blaine allows his mind to slip into the mindset of a few months previously, setting out two bowls while he cooks a double portion of pasta.

When he realises the shower isn't on and nobody's going to come walking out of the bathroom, when he realises he's actually alone in his apartment, like he has been for the past few months, Blaine has to take the suit down from its hanger and shove it at the back of his wardrobe.

Maybe he is crazy.

"Stop it!" he yells into an empty space, and the neighbours are probably cursing him and phoning up a mental hospital right now. "I can't do… this anymore! I can't do it!"

An uncontrollable sob rips through his throat and makes his whole body jerk, an almost animalistic sound reverberating from his chest. The only answer is silence, and Blaine doesn't expect anything less from somebody that isn't really there.

It takes a while for him to be sure that the silence is going to stay silent, and then he gets on with dinner as usual. And if the apartment feels a little colder that night, Blaine will blame it on a faulty air con system and call the janitor in the morning.

For three whole months, nothing happens.

Then everything happens at once.

He would never say it aloud, but Blaine misses the weeks in which he used to believe. He misses coming home to find his favourite bowtie perched on the coffee table, or one of Kurt's fashion magazines lying open on the sofa. He misses the cold shudders that used to pass through his body even on very warm days. He misses the days when everything got too much and an incredible warmth surged through him, bringing him back from the verge of tears.

Now he comes home and the apartment is exactly as he left it. Now there are no unexplainable changes in the temperature or the atmosphere. Now, when he gets to the point where he feels like he can't get up in the morning – and those moments are becoming more and more frequent - there's no presence or power there to help him through it, and he cries without really realising he's doing so.

He would never say it aloud, but Blaine misses being considered insane for believing.

Being insane is better than being empty.

The repercussions of devastation are even worse this time round. Blaine doesn't notice when he starts to get thinner, paler, and less energetic, but apparently everyone else does, and they worry about him. It's been six months since Kurt died, and they find it strange that he's sinking into depression for a second time, but they don't get it, and Blaine doesn't try to make them understand.

He thought putting his thoughts of Kurt being a ghost to rest would allow him to continue his life properly and move on, but it turns out that the opposite is true. The months of silence remind Blaine of when Kurt would get mad at him for whatever reason and give him the silent treatment for weeks afterwards, because if there was anything Kurt knew how to do, it was hold a grudge. The atmosphere between them would always be icy during those weeks, but these three months just feel sad.

Unfinished.

Later, Blaine often wonders if he could have made it to Christmas alive if he hadn't come across that show at the theatre while on his way to buy milk.

It's October, and the leaves on the trees are starting to turn golden as Blaine starts to wear more layers. He still has a basic idea of how to take care of himself, although maybe he wouldn't even have that if Wes didn't make sure to check up on him every other day. "Just in case", Wes always tells him as he restocks Blaine's fridge with cheap groceries Blaine's forgotten to buy, or sorts out bills Blaine's forgotten to pay. Blaine feels smothered. Wes feels scared.

There's a steady stream of people filing into the theatre Blaine and Kurt used to frequent, but the last fact doesn't register in Blaine's mind as he investigates what everyone's so eager to see, just out of a curiosity he's been lacking for a long time. Today, there's a psychic doing a two-hour show. Psychic. Communicating with the dead. Blaine has always doubted psychics are anything more than a scam, and had scoffed at people who willingly paid money and fell for simple tricks of the mind. But then again, six months ago he was sure he didn't believe in ghosts, either.

He doesn't even realise what he's doing until he's settling into a seat at the very back of the theatre.

All the seats are full. The chatter dies as soon as the so-called psychic steps up to her table. The psychic isn't remarkable, apart from the ghastly shawls around her shoulders, but she certainly commands a certain kind of power over people.

Idly, Blaine wonders what Kurt would say about those awful shawls, and his eyes flick to the empty seat beside him; the only empty one in the theatre. He could have sworn all the seats were full.

The next two hours are filled with weepy people and chants and the psychic seeming more deranged the longer it goes on. Blaine's starting to miss the money he spent on his ticket, when a young woman – her name is Santana, and she's been sitting a few rows in front of him looking utterly bored for the entirety of the show – takes a seat on stage opposite the psychic.

Blaine is expecting her to breeze through and go back to her blonde friend rolling her eyes, but that doesn't happen. Santana, who appeared even more of a skeptic than Blaine, is completely enthralled by the psychic's words and actions as she calls upon a lost relative of Santana's. She doesn't seem to be the type to be taken so easily by acts like this, but after a few minutes of uneasy glances, Santana sounds as if she's about to start crying. She doesn't, of course, but she comes very close as she clings to the table for dear life. Blaine's almost captured by the display himself. He doesn't even know this Santana person and yet this seems uncharacteristic for her.

"Abuela," Santana murmurs, eyes fixed on something only she can see. "Please forgive me. I love Brittany. I'm sorry we couldn't fix things while you were still here, but please, abuela, please…" Her voice drops so low Blaine strains to hear it at the back of the theatre. "I just wanted you to love me again."

Blaine's eyes flick back to the blonde Santana was sitting with, and it all clicks into place. He swallows hard, feeling more empathy for the young woman falling apart on stage.

"It is forgotten," the psychic says almost as quietly, in a voice that doesn't sound quite like her own, or what Blaine had presumed was her own. "It is all forgotten, Santana." The psychic locks eyes with the dark-haired woman. "I never stopped loving you. Let go now, Santana. It's time to let go."

Santana lets out a strangled choking noise that breaks the whole audience, including Blaine, out of their daze, as Santana abruptly stands and hurries back to her friend – girlfriend - Brittany. Her experience has been by far the most intense out of everyone's this evening, and turns out to be the last one, as the psychic rises from her chair, looking worn out but oddly regal. She says something that Blaine doesn't listen to, bids farewell to the audience and disappears behind a red velvet curtain.

When he gets outside, Blaine wonders if he was in there for two hours or two months, because he's unprepared for the rush of cold that hits him at exactly the same moment everything else does.

It's time to let go. I never stopped loving you. Let go now.

The words pump through Blaine's body like blood, making his heart accelerate and push him forwards, ignoring everything until he reaches his apartment and slams the door behind him. Those words roll around his head, take up every available space in his mind, fill his ears with pure noise as they got louder and louder in his head, the psychic lady's voice that wasn't her voice gripping him and refusing to let go.

She had sounded far too old, far too sad, far too knowing, for someone that couldn't have been over fifty years old. He knew the skepticism surrounding the reputation of psychics and people like him, but nobody would ever be able to convince him that the sheer age in her voice hadn't been real. The tone in that unknown voice that he couldn't place, that didn't sound right coming out of the psychic's mouth. They weren't her words.

It's time to let go.

She wasn't that wise.

I never stopped loving you.

She hadn't been put through that much.

Let go now.

They weren't her words.

Let go. Let go. Let go.

Let go.

Blaine falls to his knees, hands fisting into the rug on the floor as his vision starts to blur and the apartment begins to shake, gently at first and then the rumbling grows until there might be an earthquake splitting New York in half right now but Blaine can't bring himself to care for his own life because he's so close to something, he just doesn't know what, and he needs it. The noise pounding in his ears is more than just words now. It's dialogue, laughter, screaming, the sound of squealing brakes on unforgiving pavement, an endless cascade of lyrics and harmonies and music, but above the noise there's something angelic, something continuous, and something so painfully good that Blaine has no trouble placing it at all. It pierces through everything else and spills into Blaine's pores, into his mind, into his heart, settling there and refusing to be ignored.

"Kurt."

Everything falls silent.

The tears streaming down Blaine's face are warm, and feel as if they're dragging on the little energy Blaine has left. In an instant, they're gone, all but tear stains on his cheeks almost as if someone has willed them away.

"Kurt…" he whispers again, and he's in so much pain that he's unable to say anything else. He lets his head fall forward and his body go weak as he slumps against the sofa, breathing hard, shuddery breaths. He feels as if he's just run to the moon and back, and wouldn't complain if he fell asleep right now and never woke up again.

He's still conscious enough to remember the cool hand resting on his shoulder for a brief moment, before devils and angels drag him away with their claws to sleep.

When Blaine wakes up, he has a crick in his neck, and feels overwhelmingly sad.

Picking himself up off the floor, he notes the shadows melting into the darkness in his apartment, and wonders how long he was out for. He idly thinks that he hasn't seen real, harmless shadows in a long time.

Everything seems brighter than it did before, despite the descending dusk outside, and the air is lighter. He isn't being suffocated by a pressure he didn't register was there – for the first time in months, Blaine breathes without thinking about it. Objects are strewn across the room, a few things are broken, and Blaine guesses that he didn't imagine the shaking of his apartment, but somehow he knows there wasn't an earthquake before he fell asleep.

The last thing that strikes Blaine as he wanders through the various rooms of his apartment, returning things to their homes and inspecting the damage done, is how empty the place is. He feels completely alone.

And that's when he knows what he instantly knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, when he woke up.

Kurt is gone.

Really gone.

The bedroom is the last room Blaine checks. It's the only room that appears completely untouched by whatever ruined the rest of the apartment - apart from an unmade bed that Blaine remembers was his doing. This morning seems so long ago. Santana, the young woman at the psychic's show, crosses his mind for reasons Blaine can't fathom, and he has this urge to see her, to speak to her. Putting that thought aside to act on later, Blaine turns to leave, before something catches his eye.

Something that definitely wasn't there before.

The mirror mounted on his wall is ever so slightly on a slant. It wouldn't bother most people, but Blaine makes a point of keeping everything he owned straight and neat, and the shaking hadn't disrupted this room. Blaine feels something that isn't quite a cold chill pass through him as he goes to straighten the mirror out.

His eyes fall upon the reflection and his heart freezes in his chest.

The very middle of the glass is frosted over. Painted into the mist is just one word.

Courage.

All the breath leaves Blaine at once, and he can think of nothing else to say as he closes his eyes and remembers the boy who saved his life without ever knowing it. Blaine thinks that maybe, in the end – in the real end – he did know it, after all.

"I'm never saying goodbye to you."

The cold chill dissipates into the air.

Blaine smiles.

And just for a moment, the world stops screaming.

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