Quinn Fabray does not like airplanes.

It's not that she's scared exactly – you've got more chance of getting hit by a car getting to work, and what's the point of worrying once you're on your way?

It's not that she's scared.

It's just that she doesn't like the feeling of being nowhere – suspended – stopped, it seems, and what's the point of going 500 miles an hour if you can't feel it?

The woman next to her is scared. She started crying shortly after take-off and telling Quinn that she'd already forgotten where the emergency exits were. Quinn pointed them out to her, but she didn't seem to take the information in, interrupted to tell her that there'd be a stampede if they had to use them and the two of them would be sure to be the last out, and she was supposed to be visiting her son, and she hadn't seen him in nearly a year, and if this plane went down she would never, ever see him again, and she would die cursing the Good Lord and go straight to hell. She sniffled to punctuate her outburst. Quinn smiled politely and handed her a tissue, but she'd already turned to the woman sitting in the aisle seat, who was less practical with her attentions and more inclined to listen to every detail of her granddaughter's life, age in-the-womb to four and a half.

Quinn taps her knee insistently against her tray, realizes that's probably about as annoying to the person in front of her as the cliché of small children's feet. She thinks of Beth, shakes her head, takes a deep breath, steadies herself.

Less than an hour, and she'll be landing in New Haven, dropping – metaphorically we hope - into her brand new life.

She reaches down into her laptop case, pulls out the brand new day planner she squeezed in there, finds herself checking surreptitiously to see if anyone's watching when she takes the sleek silver fountain pen from the top pocket of her blazer.

What? It's business chic. It's just about presidential. And besides, maybe she's not so fond of gadgets these days, since that time she nearly killed herself with convenience.

She opens the planner to September eighth, hesitates, flips forward a few more pages, skips forward a whole month, and then some. She ends up in November. The weekend of the tenth. She hovers, then leafs forward a week to the seventeenth and writes Rachel

She adds a question mark and closes the book quickly.

She presses her hand down on the leather cover, taps her knee against the tray a couple of times, scolds herself, curls her toes up in her shoe.

One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four…

She's determined to keep it up until she gets there – the counting – till she gets to New Haven, that is. She wants to see how well her number matches up with the clock when they touch the ground. 1037 was her out-loud record in grade school – she always won, every time – "the most boring game in the world," the best friend she barely remembers would scoff.

Seven one thousand, eight one thousand…

She's cheating, of course. She lost count already. She'll have to start again and try to concentrate this time.

One one thousand –

Quinn opens the planner and scribbles New York in brackets after the Rachel question.

She leaves the book open for a couple of minutes. The first time she closed it so quickly that Rachel? butterflied itself onto the opposite page.

She swallows sharply, looks around, leans forward and blows as quietly as she can on the fresh ink.

Rachel doesn't go home.

She decides on the train between the second and third stops that she's never going home again, tells the person to her right so among throaty sobs: "I'll never go home ever again. I'm leaving and I can't ever go back because it hurts."

The woman gingerly proffers a travel pack of tissues, but Rachel has already turned away. Her face is pressed against the window, her whole body throbbing.

The glass is so cold, she thinks, just like my empty shell of a heart.

She makes a mental note – personal pain – transcendent art – Cold Like My Empty Heart.

She never writes the song. She's not sure if it's because it's a bridge too corny, even for her, or if it's because this is the kind of personal that's too personal – it's the kind of pain that can't be used for anything except crying a lot.

Her second night in New York City she says it again – she's never going home – only this time it's to her dads, and she is just as distracted, though not with pressing her face against a window, but with twirling around in the middle of Times Square till she can't walk straight.

She stumbles over to where her dads are snapping photos of her – yes, both of them, and a mile a minute.

"NEVER, Mr. Berries," she reiterates, with a grin from ear to ear, before running back for more twirling.

It shouldn't be too hard to convince them to spend some money out of her college fund on a place to stay till she can move into her dorm – it'll be too easy to rope them into packing up her room. They're big old softies at the best of times, she thinks wickedly, and she could tell by the looks on their poor, darling faces at the station that for all their Daytime-Emmy-worthy attempts to pretend they were okay with the wedding -

She falters. Her eyes fill with tears and she stops spinning.

Suddenly she's seeing Quinn's face –when she turned at the top of the stairs at the station – smiled fondly down at her like she was a small child who couldn't manage one plus one, and she had just now finally gotten it right.

That was how she knew how her dads really felt about her marrying Finn. Their faces were just like hers – warm, relieved, and sort of proud – like everything that could be right with the world was – like some kind of mockery of the way your friends and family are supposed to look at you on that special day when you walk down that special aisle in your special white dress.

It makes Rachel really, really, really… angry.

Because for a split second she forgets everything – how badly it hurt when Finn cut her loose to set her free - how it felt like she physically grew an inch the moment she set foot in New York – just how long it's been since she and Quinn have wanted anything but good things for one another.

For a split second she forgets everything, and it feels like the past three years have been a battle, and Quinn Fabray won.

When Quinn arrives at Yale she knows her leather planner and her fountain pen are home – and so is she.

The place is beautiful, in ways nothing in Lima is beautiful. It's the subtle kind of bold. It's big. It's full of possibilities. There are trees enough to breathe, lawns so long you could lose people on them, buildings so tall they just make you want to reach up into the sky with them, so old they make you feel that much more alive.

And the outdoor education center? Has a lake.

Quinn takes herself there first thing after she's unpacked – sits up the front of a full bus and looks out all the way. When they arrive she stands quietly, waits as the human contents of the bus disperse in the directions of their various activities. And then, when they're gone, she walks down to the water, looks out at the lake, grins, covers her mouth, wonders whether it gets solid enough to skate on in winter.

As the thought crosses her mind she can't help remembering that brief period of time when all the Glee kids went nuts for that roller rink that blonde washed-up alcoholic of Mr Schue's owned.

At the time she'd been too pregnant to join in – and too proud.

A little known fact about Quinn Fabray? She's not a skater, of any kind. The closest she's ever come to being good at it was senior ditch day with Artie, when she had the advantage of her only option being wheels and there being a whole lot of them.

It's true, but it's strange, because she's always been a dancer - even to this day, having won Nationals, having aced her SATs, having been accepted into an Ivy League school, the first thing her mother tells strangers about her is that she kicked in time in the womb and her first word was arabesque.

Quinn's not sure she buys into that mythology. But she has been a dancer, for as long as she can remember. And if the constant of ballet class hadn't furnished her with agility, balance and strength already, Sue Sylvester's special brand of cheerleading coaching would have finished the job.

And yet? The first time she tried skating she fell flat on her face twice in quick succession. She hobbled over to the benches on bruised knees. She never tried again.

She feels like she'd like to try again now.

She feels like she's ready to fall a thousand times.

Quinn lays her sweater down on the dewy grass and sits on it. She reaches into her shoulder bag, pulls out a sandwich and a juice box, picnics alone.

It takes a long time to get down to the crusts. When she does she rolls them neatly in the plastic wrap, flattens the empty juice box and squashes it in there too, puts the cocooned remains of her lunch back in her bag, looks out at the lake and imagines it flat, pristine and sparkling, thick with cold, a light snowfall in her hair, noses, eyelashes, all that…

She remembers Rachel saying the only thing wrong with a roller rink was that there was no need for ear-muffs.

Quinn looks around, slings her bag over her shoulder, sings softly under her breath as she stands up: I wish I had a river I could skate away on.

She smiles, shakes her head, shakes her sweater too.

She's still humming the tune on the way back to the bus stop, and it's still not quite right – or it's still not quite the way she remembers it.

But then, she thinks – she hopes - nothing at all is anymore.

Quinn is determined to lie low until she can tower over everybody.

The plan is to ace all of her classes as quietly as possible, impress all her professors enough to get on their helpful side, but not to the point where they start trying to be her friend in front of everybody.

She's taking core courses only in her first semester – solid, safe, sensible options – History, Philosophy, Spanish, Modern Literature. No drama.

Literally – no drama. She won't be taking any theatre or film related units – not yet.

What she will do is sit up the back of every on-campus play, listen in on every reading, maybe sneak into a seminar or two with her sunglasses on - watch, listen, learn.

She'll gather intel as to what the most significant production of the year, or even of the next year, will be, and she will learn every line before she even picks up an audition sheet.

This is the way it will be, because this is the way Quinn always has been, even before the crash, and especially after: careful, clever, measured. It's a matter of risk versus reward. And she can wait – she has always been willing to wait.

Oh and she's not going to have any friends, either. She's decided they fall soundly under the general heading of Drama, capital D, and she's not going to be making any – at least not until she's towering over everybody.

The very last thing she wants is a boyfriend. Yale is a step up from McKinley, but looking around Quinn finds she doesn't see anybody who'd shine in the bright lights of her future.

It's difficult of course. Within a week she's had four offers to "show her around," and has declined all with varying degrees of politeness according to how smarmy the guy is. The one who winked at her got a curt "I have a map."

It's a drag, but it's okay. Quinn's used to it. Or, more accurately, she remembers being used to it - before Beth - back when Finn was one in a sea of many trying to secure her to their manly arm.

She remembers diligently lapping up the attention then. It was a thrill, probably, to be loved. Or an honor. Even by the dumbest jock, even by that kid Jacob Israel used to hang around with who would cut himself and lick the scabs and had to be sent to a special school for people who cut themselves and licked the scabs.

Quinn tries, vainly, to reconstruct the meaning of it all. She was popular, once. Then she wasn't. And when she thinks back to that hotel room in New York she can still feel the shadow of an ache.

I just want someone to love me.

She still knows what it felt like to want her old life back. But the thing is that she can't remember why she did. It seems ridiculous now – unnatural – insane - like the girl in the horror movie running upstairs instead of out of the front door.

And so she makes a study of going unnoticed – as best she can – she makes an art of brushing people off like breadcrumbs.

But there's one guy that she can't seem to shake.

The trouble is that he's sweet – the trouble is that his name is Joe. And even though he's the kind of guy who nurses a buzz-cut and always, always, always wears shoes, he still reminds Quinn of the boy she left behind at McKinley. It's the naiveté, she thinks, remembering how Joe – Yale Joe – called her miss and wanted to shake her hand, and for a minute she thought he might be going to kiss it, and she bit back a smile and his straight face didn't give an inch.

They're alike that way, the two Joes. Gentle, entirely well-meaning, and humorless in a way that makes you want to laugh for them.

It's only when Quinn meets the second one that she realizes she lied to the first.

"Something new" was a cork in an empty bottle. It was a way to get him to stay put – a way to hold onto someone – anyone – and it seemed like he was the only person close enough to touch.

And she knew, the moment she said the words, even before they left her lips, that they weren't true – that they weren't fair - that something new would be something on the scrap heap before the first full day of summer.

The thing was that the accident made her afraid, for a little while. And being afraid made her selfish. And - Quinn shrinks from the thought - even then, even in the wake of her great epiphany, there she was, wanting her old life back and not knowing why.

She wishes she'd said a proper goodbye to that Joe. And maybe that's why she can't shake this one.

She was honest though – from the start. She shook his hand firmly, told him she did know where the refectory was, that she was going there to get frozen yogurt, that he seemed like the kind of person she would like, that if he walked over with her to get yogurt, he'd be her friend – her only friend – and that's all it would be.

If there's one thing Rachel Berry hates it's waiting. She's fairly sure Madame Thibodaux chose to allocate performance weeks alphabetically by first name because she knows.

She realizes with horror in week one that there's a Brenda and a Ben and a Bella, and here she is, a Berry, thank you very much, sitting quietly all the way to week seven before she can show everyone what she's got.

It's a travesty! It's an indignity. Nobody told her there would be more waiting at this school – in this place she's already been waiting to be her whole life.

She sighs as loudly as she can. Madame Thibodaux has this way of catching her eye every time she's about to speak and reducing her to sounds that are not words, and so Rachel finds she has never been so silent in her life as in this place she came to to sing.

She expects to be bored with her mouth shut. She doesn't expect to feel sick.

The thing is that these kids are good.

Of course, she should have known they would be. If Harmony hadn't been a clue, then the fact that Kurt was not considered good enough, having wowed the universe with his tastefully gay audition extravaganza, really should have been.

Rachel holds onto the sides of her chair like it's a raft.

Maybe it should make her feel special that she's here, amid the cream of the crop. It doesn't. It just makes her feel like she's drowning in the darned cream.

The classes are varied in focus, but all are small and very intense. Basically it's like being in Glee club full-time – a Glee club full of Mercedes Joneses and not the comfort of a Sugar Motta in sight. As Rachel looks around the room at eight, nine, ten faces that are not looking back at her, she has this awful feeling that she is about to start again. That she will have to prove herself here, once more from the top.

And she knew she would have to – and she knows she will.

So why on earth is it that she feels so hopeless?

It takes her a long time to figure it out – an hour's incessant pondering and a catalyst in the form of the creature from the NYADA Underworld who shares her room.

Her name is Leanne, and she has black and blue stripey hair and too much eyeliner and reminds Rachel of Tina when she used to dress all alternative like the staff at Hot Topic. Only Leanne is less meek than Tina ever was – and a lot more inclined to tell Rachel exactly what she thinks of her from day one.

Or day two, to be precise. Leanne is late.

Their first meeting goes something like this. Rachel says an earnest "Hello" and gets a complacent "Hey" in return. They exchange names. Leanne warns her lazily that her boyfriend might hang out in here sometimes because "you know." Rachel says that's fine, that's really nice, actually, she's so lucky - because her fiancé is in the army and she might never see him again, so he probably won't be hanging out in here sometimes.

Leanne raises an eyebrow. "You have a fiancé?" she asks with a scornful kind of yawn. She nods toward Rachel's plaid skirt. "What are you, a thirty year old schoolgirl?"

Rachel sniffs, stands her ground, explains politely: "No, I'm eighteen. But the fact is we're the love of each other's lives – and it will be a long engagement – very long – we both agreed my stardom had to come first."

Leanne nods like she didn't quite catch that. "All I'm saying is you kind of look like if Britney Spears' mom had to go to a funeral."

She slinks out of the room before Rachel can think of something to say. She's long gone by the time she comes up with 'You look like if Tina Cohen-Chang wasn't Asian!'

And Rachel realizes in that moment - even if the retort hadn't been inherently useless – even if you just 'had to be there' - the point is that Tina Cohen-Chang doesn't exist in Leanne's world.

Neither does Mike – or Sam – or Mercedes – not the real one. Neither do Puck or Artie, Santana, Brittany, Blaine, Kurt, Quinn (Finn). Mr Schue. Heck, even the newbies.

They're all gone. And it's not that Rachel's afraid of starting again with beating the world over the head with her talent – she could never be afraid of that – it's her nature.

But she is afraid of starting again with the people.

The thing is that NYADA is wholly populated by those who do not know Rachel Berry – who do not understand her – who probably won't ever even want to try.

The thing is that Rachel Berry had gotten used to having friends.

There is no catharsis. Knowing she's lonely doesn't make Rachel feel any less lonely. She's an outsider – again – and maybe this time she'll never get in. At McKinley she was a part of something special, because she could sing – because there was something she was the best at. People are always more interested in you when you can win trophies for them.

At NYADA people win their own trophies. Nobody needs her.

Suddenly Rachel feels afraid to talk to people. Suddenly she's walking down halls with her head down. She avoids – everyone – everything. She spends most of her free time in the library where you have to be quiet – it's expected – it's the rule. More often than not Leanne has taken the liberty of turning her bedside lamp off by the time she sneaks into bed.

On the second Thursday of the semester she's pulling the covers up when her phone skitters across the nightstand. She pounces on it as quietly as she can.

An email from Finn.

He says:

Hey Rachel. I wasn't sure whether this was a good idea but then I guess I did it anyways. I wanted to tell you I love you I guess. I was packing up my room and it felt like so long since you left. You don't have to answer this and maybe its better if you don't. I know your kicking ass and taking names in New York. Hopefully I'll be kicking some ass in Georgia too. I'm excited about it actually and I know your scared about the army, but its not like I'll be going to Afghanistan any time soon I promise. Oh well… take care of yourself. Don't party too hard. Your a star. Finn.

Rachel would probably start sobbing if Leanne wasn't sleeping aggressively three feet away. She blinks back tears, lets the phone fall to her lap. The room lightens, barely, for a moment, and on the wall by Leanne's bed Rachel sees a poster she hasn't noticed before.

NYADA PRESENTS LES MISERABLES ONE NIGHT ONLY VALENTINE'S DAY 2013

There are five faces on it. She doesn't recognize any of them.

Rachel wakes up on the Friday morning of the sixth week of semester and knows two things. First, on Monday she will be presenting a solo performance to the group. Second, she needs to get out of here.

Not just the room. 'Here' is everything, and she feels miserable and airless all morning. Even outside in the street. Even outside in the streets of New York City.

It's just past midday and she's struggling to swallow bits of bagel when she realizes something has to be done.

It's time for action, she thinks furiously. She storms back to the dorm.

Leanne is eating a tuna melt and flipping through a magazine. Her fingers are greasy. Rachel doesn't say a word to her.

She just yanks her case down from on top of the closet and starts filling it with miscellaneous essentials.

When she's done, she puts on her coat and her hat, even though it's seventy-something out. It doesn't feel right to set out on a journey without a coat and a hat.

She fully intends not to pause at the door, and yet somehow her body tricks her into it, and Leanne doesn't miss the opportunity. "Are you fleeing?" she asks.

She sounds smug. Like she knew it all along.

"You don't know anything," Rachel says.

She slams the door.

The station is crowded. There's a long line at the ticket booth and Rachel is just thinking how that doesn't matter when she realizes it does.

She can't blame her dads. They would never have thought she wanted her copy of Charlotte's Web with her at NYADA. She doesn't want her copy of Charlotte's Web with her at NYADA. But she does want the thick paper rectangle that's sandwiched between the pages of it.

She falters. She crouches down and holds onto her case for no good reason.

The rational thing to do would be to go back. Call dad and ask him to send the pass. Wait.

She turns it over in her mind. Maybe next weekend, she thinks, the way people say things that don't really matter.

Rachel bows her head, squeezes her eyes shut.

Twenty five minutes later she is on a train.