She got in.

Chloe can't believe she got in.

But, God, she'd worked so hard for it.

She'd spent countless, seemingly endless nights in the library, burying stress and exhaustion beneath coffee and energy pills and aluminum cans of Red Bull, snuck between classes and Bellas practices and seminars and exams – and it had finally paid off for her, because Chloe got in.

It's not Harvard, but Chloe had never really liked Boston much, anyway, and she hadn't even applied. She could pass on the lobster, thanks. But UPenn? Yeah, Chloe could definitely get on board with an endless supply of hoagies and Philly cheesesteaks. And she could totes rock that Eagle green, too.

"Well?"

"I got in!" Chloe squeaks her reply as some of the shock wears off, whirling to face her impatiently lingering roommate. "I mean, I wanted it, and I hoped it would happen, but, Bree, I got in!"

"Oh my God! Chloe, that's fantastic!" Aubrey exclaims, jolting forward to envelop Chloe in a tight hug. "That's- Oh my God, that's amazing, Chlo!"

"I can't believe it," Chloe shakes her head, red curls quivering over her cheeks and shoulders, and a wide grin gluing across her mouth. "I can't- Bree, this is… I don't even know!"

"It's incredible," Aubrey beams, pulling away just far enough to hold Chloe's shoulders in her palms. "I'm so proud of you!"

"Thanks," Chloe breathes, happy and incredulous. "I just- Oh my God, I have to call my mom!" She remembers belatedly. "And my brothers and sisters, and – oh! I need to tell Uncle Dave, too! And I have to tell –"

Chloe cut herself off, her grin slipping tentatively from her face, melting into a frown that shouldn't be possible – not today; not with this news.

"Chloe?" Aubrey asks, concerned.

"Beca," Chloe finishes on a pained, broken whisper. "I have to tell Beca."

Graduation, Chloe decides, is a torturous event.

She remembers her fifth grade graduation (and that is a real thing, Chloe will insist if asked), and it had been mostly okay – except that Chloe had been a very hyperactive child, and she'd spent most of it bouncing eagerly in her seat and flashing wide smiles at the camera that her parents wielded over in the third row of the gymnasium bleachers.

When her high school graduation came around, Chloe had realized (with very little surprise) that she hadn't actually changed all that much. It was an outdoor ceremony, and there's something to be said for a change of venue – but Chloe hadn't really been that fond of it, because it had been hot outside in Maryland in the middle of June, and very humid, and Chloe had spent much of that graduation fanning herself with the leaflet in her hand. And when she hadn't been using it to cool herself off, she'd been folding it into odd, made-up origami creatures between fidgeting, anxious fingers until the last student (Ben Wexley) had strutted across the stage with a premeditated, slightly obnoxious Native American cry as homage to the school's mascot.

(Obnoxious though it may have been, Chloe echoed it back to him – along with most every other student who had walked the stage that day.)

College, Chloe now thinks, isn't much different from that. She knows it must be awful to wait until the end for your name to be called (poor Aubrey is looking more than a little green around the gills, six rows behind her and gnawing at her lower lip), but it's sort of a grueling experience, either way. 'Beale' is pretty high up on the list of graduates, so Chloe hadn't had to wait long for her name – but waiting for everyone else is no less excruciating.

Because Chloe is finished.

She's been handed her diploma (or its holder, anyway, because the actual piece of paper will be mailed to her home address sometime over the next couple of weeks), and all Chloe really wants to do is get out of this stifling blue graduation gown – because Georgia in May is still much worse than Maryland in June. But instead, Chloe is watching a bunch of students she's never even met before half-trip across the stage to accept their handshakes and diplomas, as well.

Chloe knows that's how this works, but that doesn't exactly keep her leg from springing, or her fingers from repeatedly smoothing out (nonexistent) wrinkles in her robes.

It's leaving Chloe with more time to reflect than she actually thinks she wants.

Chloe is crying before she even reaches Beca's dorm.

She knows that she should be happy – and she is; Chloe really, truly is, because she'd worked hard and chased the dream, and she's finally, finally achieved it – but there's this- thing. There's this thing that she has here, in Barden, and she doesn't want to leave it; she doesn't want to leave it at all, because Chloe doesn't know how she can.

Chloe doesn't know how she can possibly fathom the notion of leaving Beca Mitchell.

They haven't talked about it. They've never once talked about it, or hinted at it, or even teased around it. It's just this- thing they have, and it's always there, simmering in the background, and boiling, and building, and overtaking everything that they do.

They both know it's there; it's recognized, by each of them.

But they never talk about it.

It's worked for them. Sort of. In an admittedly strange way.

Because instead of words, there's a lazy, creeping smile that only Chloe is ever graced with. Instead of words, there's an affectionate sigh into the DJ's neck, and a soft, tiny hand that fits snugly into Chloe's own. Instead of words, there are gentle, black-polished nails sweeping through Chloe's hair when she cries.

Instead of words, there's this- thing. There's this silent, overpowering intimacy that's never spoken of – not by them; not to them; only ever around them, and always left ignored.

But Chloe no longer knows how to function without it.

"Chloe?" Beca asks when she gets to the door. And she's worried; it's in the crease of her brow and the single, hesitant step she takes toward Chloe, her palm suspended in the air between them like she isn't sure if (for once) the redhead actually wants the physical comfort that Beca is immediately prepared to offer.

Chloe can't speak, though she tries her hardest with a working jaw and parted lips.

But the words never come.

It's okay, though, because Beca takes one glance at the piece of paper – the letter Chloe had received not half an hour ago – rustling between Chloe's quivering fingers, and she smiles. It's slight, and barely a quirk at the edge of her mouth, and it's sad – it's so, incontestably sad – but it's genuine, nevertheless.

"You got in," Beca says softly.

"I got in," Chloe sniffs pathetically, turning watery eyes to meet the silver-blue of Beca's that Chloe has always treasured (always, even before they ever spoke). "I got in, Becs."

"Come here," Beca urges, reaching for Chloe's hip and tugging her into Beca's mostly-vacated dorm room. "Come inside, Chloe."

Chloe follows blindly; follows Beca's gentle nudge at her hip, and her gentle, comforting voice. Chloe just follows, because she doesn't know what else to do, and she doesn't know what to say, or how to say it.

Especially how to say it.

But Chloe never needs to say anything. Not a single damn word. Because Beca eases Chloe onto her bed, and doesn't even put up a token protest when Chloe's leg throws across her own; she doesn't even groan (in that adorably uncomfortable way that she does) when Chloe's staggered, uneven sobs waver across her collar. Beca just strums those black-chipped nails through the threads of Chloe's hair, softly scraping over her scalp until there's nothing left of Chloe's sobs but heavy, defeated puffs of air.

"Congratulations, by the way," Beca eventually says, and there's a dry playfulness in her words that – even now, even in this unanticipated state of misery – makes Chloe chuckle.

It's subdued, at first, but it evolves; evolves into a giggle, and then a twitter, and then a full-bellied cacophony of laughter.

Beca tenders a crooked grin down at her, and pulls mindlessly at a strand of Chloe's hair. "So, Philly, huh? What's even out there?"

"Football," Chloe answers, feeling lighter – tired, but relieved, somehow, even if she doesn't understand how that happened at all. "And hockey. Amazing food and – "

"And UPenn," Beca murmurs into the crown of Chloe's head.

"And UPenn," Chloe sighs, drained.

A moment of silence follows – there's acceptance, and sadness, and an inevitable deflation enclosed within it, settling uncomfortably over each of them – but then Beca earnestly whispers, "You're gonna be great, Chlo."

"Becs, I – "

Beca shakes her head, and Chloe only knows it because she's turned to prop her chin atop her arm, curled over Beca's chest, so that Chloe can peer up at her.

"No, Chloe," Beca says. "I'll- uh… I'll miss you, y'know. But this is good. I mean, it sucks, but it's good. It's what you wanted. And you earned it. I'll miss you," she repeats, and – just for a second; just one, telling, cherished second – her honest, teary eyes meet Chloe's before they flicker away again, "but this is good. And you earned it. And you're gonna be awesome."

"I'm gonna be aca-awesome," Chloe asserts, with a smile that, yes, is duller than usual – but she fuses as much emotion into it as possible.

Because Chloe doesn't say it (she doesn't need to say it; not to Beca, because Beca– she already knows), but she's going to miss Beca, too.

Chloe can't think about it, much, because if she does then she'll surely dissolve into sobs (and, maybe, eventually, into nothingness, too), but, God, she's going to miss Beca Mitchell like oxygen she's been deprived of.

"Are you even allowed to say that, anymore?" Beca teases.

It's a diversion – and not a particularly subtle one, either – but Chloe is grateful for it. She can't stand much more of that look in Beca's eyes, and she definitely can't take the serpentine grip that her emotions have over her heart, because it's already hard for her to breathe without that crushing weight in her chest.

"Once a Bella, always a Bella, Becs," Chloe gives back, though the rasp in her voice gives away the cries that tore from her throat before it, and the feelings that are, even now, still clouding the passage. "So I can make aca- references until I'm laying on my deathbed."

"You mean this acapella shit is gonna follow me for the rest of my life?" Beca groans theatrically. "No way, Beale. I can recover from a year or two of negative badassery, but I can't make up for a lifetime of it. I'm pretty sure the big guy upstairs, if he even exists, will smite me before I even get to think about those pretty, pearly gates."

"It's okay," Chloe giggles, stretching her free hand upward to sweep her thumb softly across Beca's cheekbone. "The aca-gods will keep you safe, and then, when you die, you'll be airlifted into this amazing, musical version of heaven where everyone makes music with their mouths all the time. Isn't that the greatest?"

Beca narrows her eyes suspiciously, before shaking her head and muttering, "I think there's actually something wrong with you. It's a good thing you're heading out to Philly, with all those magnificent doctors; maybe someone out there can finally diagnose you."

Chloe laughs delightedly and kisses her cheek.

And those are the last words that they exchange that night. They do not sleep – not even for a few, drowsy minutes. They just lay there, reveling in each other's company, and committing every moment of it to memory.

After graduation comes a rush of hugs (which Chloe, surprisingly – to anyone else, anyway – does not initiate) and congratulatory praise between her friends, and even a couple of graduates who just happened to be fortunate enough to have shared a class with Chloe.

She finds Aubrey almost instantly (the blonde actually squeals an elated "We did it!" into Chloe's ear) and their parents each move to take a set of photos. But it isn't hard to tell – it can't be, because Aubrey picks up on it basically right away, and Chloe's mom and dad do, too – that Chloe is anxious to be somewhere else.

"Chloe, honey, you look like someone's dropped a spider down your shirt. Sit still for one more picture for me, baby," her mom, Leina, coos, in a tone that Chloe recognizes as overly indulgent.

Chloe almost rolls her eyes, and fondly thinks of Beca when it occurs to her, but she stifles it, and offers a blinding beam at the camera like she's told (because she owes her parents this much, at least, for not only raising her, but paying her way through college, too).

"Thank you," her mom sighs out, satisfied. "Now, tell us what you're so eager to get to."

But Chloe's already turned her back and begun a rapid dash across campus before her mother has finished speaking, because Chloe's fulfilled her picture-posing obligations already, so she only calls out over her shoulder, "I'll meet you at the hotel in the morning! I have to find Beca!"

It's true.

Chloe can't leave without seeing Beca, and the DJ hadn't been at graduation, because Chloe hadn't had enough tickets to distribute, between both of her parents and two of her siblings – randomly chosen from a hat, of course, just to be fair. She's all packed, and all of her stuff – or what's left of it, that hasn't already been shipped – has been shoved into her car.

Beca is all that's left in Barden, for Chloe.

She's out of breath when she reaches the brunette's dorm, and something both terrible and terrifying has wormed into Chloe's gut, but she steadfastly ignores it with unwavering determination.

Because she has something to do.

It's stupid (probably the stupidest idea that Chloe's ever even had, and she's had a lot of not-so-brilliant ideas in the past), but Chloe has to do it. She's overwhelmed by the need to fulfill this last wish before her departure, so she forgets to knock and barges into Beca's dorm without warning.

It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter at all, because Beca's waiting for her, leaned back against her desk with her fingers curling around the edges and her head lowered to eye the floor. The room around her has been packed away, mostly stuffed into her room at her dad's house, but the sheets are still on the bed and her mixing equipment is still sprawled over the desk, because Beca isn't leaving Barden for another three days.

But Beca smiles, relieved and happy and sad, all at once, when she catches sight of Chloe.

But if Chloe had needed more encouragement, that little smile would have been enough. That little smile would have been everything that Chloe needed.

Chloe doesn't wait; she doesn't think or evaluate or consider, because nothing good would come of it (nothing that Chloe wants more than this, anyway). She just launches herself into Beca's arms, slinging one arm haphazardly around her neck and another around her back, like she has a thousand times before.

And then Chloe kisses her (like she's never done before).

It's not an easy affair, for a first kiss; it's hard, and hot, and desperate, and all the more passionate for all of it, lips smashing together and tongues urgently seeking a taste of something so, so wanted, but never before sought after; not before today.

And when Chloe pulls back – just a fraction; just enough to lean her forehead into Beca's and stare into those cripplingly compelling eyes – she's more winded than before, because that was nothing like she'd expected. It was heat, and desire, and unspoken but requited love, all folding together to create a melody of ardor and pure, unmatched dedication that she never could possibly have expected, and Chloe can't even breathe.

She can't breathe.

But she somehow manages to whisper, anyway.

"Just tonight. I want- I want one night, Becs," she pleads frantically, tears swimming in her eyes. "One night for us. Just one night, for us to pretend that I'm not leaving in the morning; for us to pretend that we didn't meet at the absolute worst time possible; for us to pretend that we don't have the shittiest timing in the whole goddamn universe. I want one night for us to pretend that loving each other isn't the worst plan that we've ever had – because, God, Beca, this was never the plan at all. But it happened anyway. It happened anyway, and I just- I just need one night. One night, for us, Becs, okay?"

"Yes."

It's not wordy.

It's not a rambling speech, like Chloe's, and it's not- anything. It's not anything, that is, but honest, and blunt. And so Beca that it makes Chloe's heart tremble in her chest.

Because it's an honest agreement, and, though the words aren't mirrored back at her verbatim, it's an honest echo of Chloe's declaration of love, and Chloe doesn't need the words to know that Beca feels it, too.

"Yes?" Chloe asks, her mouth brushing over Beca's softly as she speaks, her arm tightening, somehow, to pull the DJ closer.

"Yes," Beca repeats, and her palms rise to cup Chloe's cheeks, stroking carefully against the edges of Chloe's mouth before she leans in to touch her lips across it again.

But the kiss that follows isn't at all like before, because now it's nerves, and trembling fingers, and shaky breaths that shudder into unfamiliar mouths. Now it's soft, and sweet, and distantly hesitant, because they've never done this before.

It's impulsive, and reckless, and it's dangerous, Chloe knows, but, God, it feels more right than anything else in Chloe's life, and even now she knows that she won't (can't) ever regret it.

Her hands are everywhere – and Beca's are, too – tentatively peeling away layers of clothing (of gowns and heels and skinny jeans and t-shirts and Chucks and a dress beneath the gown, too), until there's nothing covering them but blushes and sweat, and Chloe lowers Beca to the bed.

She hovers overtop of her, panting hard and struck positively dumb by this moment.

Because it was impulsive, and she hadn't planned for any of it – Chloe hadn't planned for any of this thing at all – but Beca is beautiful, and flushed, and looking up at Chloe through glittering eyes like she's the prettiest thing that Beca's ever seen, and Chloe wants to remember it.

Chloe wants to be sure that she remembers this, because this might be it; this might be the only time that she ever sees Beca this way, open and trusting and vulnerable beneath her, and this is the most profound moment of Chloe's life.

She needs to remember it.

"I am nude," Beca says impatiently, but the words recall another memory – another profound moment in Chloe's life – and she giggles a little, unable to squelch the noise, despite that she doesn't bother to try.

"And this is so much better than the last time I saw you nude," she teases, but it's a murmur, too; a tender, earnest whisper that falls over Beca's cheek, and none of this – not Beca's impatience, or her comment, or Chloe's giggle or jest in reply – breaks the intimacy between them.

This thing they have– it's titanium.

It simply cannot be broken.

"Because I can touch you," Beca breathes reverently, and she raises one hand to caringly sweep the curtain of Chloe's hair behind her ear, like she's proving her assertion true. "I can touch you, tonight."

"As much as you want," Chloe mutters sincerely, low, and practically into Beca's mouth before she brings her lips to it again.

It's a gentle push and pull between them; giving and taking in equal parts, sharing everything that they have (everything they've ever had, or known, or felt) without words as fingers trip exploratively across smooth, hot skin.

Chloe finds a sensitive hollow in Beca's hip, and tracks her nails across it, and the DJ hisses a soft, slow breath inward. Chloe feels proud, but it only lasts for a second, because Beca's fingertips stroke softly down her spine, into the dip at her lower back, and Chloe's body reacts, bending lower into Beca's with a heavy shiver as a gasp draws air into her lungs.

"I wondered," Beca murmurs nervously, her mouth slipping along Chloe's jaw. Chloe wonders how she can wonder anything, because Chloe can barely think straight, and, in retrospect, she's so lost in this that she isn't even making sense in her own head. "I wondered what you'd do, when I touched you; if I'd ever get to touch you at all," Beca rasps, nipping against the weak spot underneath Chloe's ear, and Chloe can barely even hear her over the whir of racing blood. "I wondered," Beca says softly, "if I could make you move that way, and about the sounds you'd make."

Chloe swallows, and shakes her head to stem the tears gathering in her eyes. Because Beca is making a confession; she's surrendering to Chloe and all of the feelings that have traded between them, and it's- powerful.

"Beca," she breathes, "I've wondered, too."

Beca looks like she wants to say more, when she pulls back enough to see Chloe's face, but she doesn't.

She doesn't, because they're forgetting, tonight.

They're pretending.

So Chloe blinks a tear out of the corner of her eye, and as Beca's thumb strokes it away, she vows that it's the last one she'll shed until morning.

And she skims her fingers across Beca's body, grinding into her thigh when Beca releases a hushed moan of approval. Her fingertips gather perspiration, and they feel slick on Beca's flesh, and everything about it is just so.

So perfect. So- everything that Chloe ever imagined it could be.

But it gets better. She doesn't know how, and Chloe honestly does not care, but it gets better.

Because when Beca's teeth scrape against her collar, and her fingers curl around Chloe's ass, proffering a gentle squeeze, it's all that Chloe can do not to come right then. But that would be too soon – not that it matters, really, because Chloe has no intention of sleeping tonight, and she's entirely prepared to love every inch of Beca until the sun comes up.

Eventually, though, it becomes too much – and never quite enough.

Chloe wants more; needs it. Because she's memorized most of Beca, now – at least her front (and Chloe will get to her back later, to trace the pads of her fingers across those deliciously intricate tattoos that she's tried, and failed, so many times to recreate in her dreams) – and they're wasting time.

(They don't have that much of it.)

But Beca senses that, too, somehow – the same way they communicate everything else without words, Chloe supposes – because she slips her fingers down Chloe's abs, and glances up at her for permission when she nears her bikini line.

"Yes," Chloe nods fervently. "Yes, Beca."

It's not wordy.

But it's enough, because Beca smiles, slow and lazy and – for the moment, at least – happy, and she brings her fingers to Chloe's clit, rubbing easy circles that drive Chloe veritably insane.

"Oh, God," she shudders, her forehead dropping to Beca's. "You feel- so good, Becs."

Beca kisses her mouth, and it's easy (like the circles she's still drawing over Chloe's most sensitive place), and it's so full of love that Chloe's earlier vow not to cry feels entirely too compromised. So Chloe closes her eyes and rolls her hips into Beca's hand, and she moans when Beca's fingers crawl lower, to press inside of her with two sluggish, unhurried digits.

But her eyes pop open again a few moments later, when Beca's fingers curl and brush just barely against that spot, and Chloe gasps, "Oh. There, baby. Please, right there," she insists breathlessly, edging her thigh upward to curve into Beca.

Beca groans, and the noise strikes somewhere in Chloe's gut – not in her ears, the way it should; the way it's supposed to – and her hips drop into Beca's palm again.

"Beca," she sighs out.

There's nothing else. Not here; not tonight.

Just Beca.

Just Beca, driving into Chloe; just Chloe, rocking her hips (and her thigh, by consequence) into Beca for long, unforgettable minutes.

And it builds – the emotion; the impending climax – until they're both sobbing for air that never seems to refill properly, and trading whatever breath they actually manage to capture back into the other's mouth.

"You're beautiful, Chloe," Beca whispers, but it breaks. It breaks almost before it even starts, and Chloe only picks up on half of it because she's staring at Beca's lips.

But when Chloe brings her eyes upward, her earlier vow feels a lot like a thoughtless, naïve undertaking, because no.

No.

Chloe can't not cry. Not when there's a tear – a rare (so very rare), gleaming tear – curving over the rise of Beca's cheek. Because that- that's the most heartbreaking thing that Chloe could possibly imagine.

And she doesn't know how (not with the overwhelming typhoon of depression that overcomes her), but Chloe collapses into Beca, a wet streak drawing down her face even as a hot, satisfied cry falls from her lips in the wake of her unexpected orgasm. And when she brings her thigh into Beca's clit, just one final time before she crumples, Beca comes apart, too.

Chloe doesn't learn the lyrics scrawled on Beca's back that night, or pleat tender kisses along the blooming vine of flowers that stretch across her shoulder. Chloe just sobs, and Beca (eventually, painfully) does, too. They're too sad, too heartbroken and too miserable, to do anything else but hold each other, that night.

And Chloe finally falls asleep, and wakes the next morning, in Beca's tight, protective hold, with a strong arm laced around the DJ's stomach and her face buried into Beca's neck.

"We'll talk," Chloe promises Beca, standing outside the hotel her parents booked for the weekend, fighting against the swelling of her throat and the moisture in her eyes as her arms curl around Beca's waist and her cheek tucks against the brunette's shoulder. "We'll call, and Skype, and text so much that you'll be sick of me, and you probably won't ever even want to see me again, so this won't hurt so much, and –"

"Sure, Chlo," Beca nods, interrupting a tangent that Chloe knows will soon break her, and Beca smiles – but it's not lazy, or easy, like the one that Chloe adores.

It's hard, and hurt, and so, incontestably sad.

"Every day," Chloe swears. "We'll talk every day, no matter what, okay? I promise."

It's important that she promises. Because Beca– people leave her. And when they leave, they don't come back. And Chloe won't be that. She won't. She can't.

Chloe will come back to her.

Chloe will (she is convinced) always come back for Beca.

"Yeah," Beca clears her throat, and swiftly blinks several times (Chloe knows why, but she won't call her on it; this is hard enough for both of them, anyway). "Yeah, okay. You be safe out there, Beale. And uh- study hard, or whatever."

"Don't let the Bellas fall apart, okay?" Chloe laughs, though it's watery, and largely forced. "Aubrey will actually kill you, and she'll probably have learned so much in law school already that she'll be able to talk herself out of jail time, too. And then I'll have to hate my best friend, and that would suck, okay? So keep them together. And bring home another trophy, because otherwise they'll all think it's just a fluke, and it's not. It's not, because you're amazing, and talented, and you learned all of us until you knew exactly what would fit for us, and it's important that they know that. And don't put Blink-182 into anything, because I swear to God, Beca, I know you love them, but – "

"Chloe," Beca croaks. "I won't fuck up. I'll- I'll be okay, you know? So don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'm fine. You just- do your thing up there in PA, okay?"

"Okay," Chloe gasps, though it's hard; it's so damn hard. "Okay. I'm not gonna say goodbye, okay? I can't- I'm not gonna say goodbye," she shakes her head fiercely.

"Good. I don't wanna hear it," Beca returns, and the smile that curves her mouth is less strained, but no less sad; no less sad.

And Chloe hasn't even seen that devastating smirk in weeks, she realizes. And how she can she leave without that? How can she possibly leave without one last glimpse of it?

But she has to. Because she has to leave now, and Beca isn't likely to smirk any more than Chloe's likely to smile.

"Okay. I'll see you soon, Becs," Chloe vows, and she leans inward to press a quick kiss to Beca's cheek, before she whirls around and locks herself in the car.

Because she can't listen to Beca say anything else. Chloe just can't. And her sobs are clawing through her lungs, and begging for release, and she can't start that up in front of Beca, because it'll be a mess, between the two of them.

So she locks herself in the car and peers out the window.

"Chloe? Baby, are you- are you sure you're ready to leave?" Her mother asks softly.

Chloe laughs – hysterical, and it feels that way, too – and shakes her head viciously. "No," she sobs. "Drive. Mama, drive."

So Leina does.

Chloe can feel her casting worried, sympathetic glances her way, but she can't acknowledge anything except the vibration in her pocket. And when she feels it, she grapples for her phone with unsteady hands until she can flick her finger across it to open Beca's message.

Beca: You made me a promise, Beale. Don't you forget about me.

Chloe gasps, sharp, and hard, and it does absolutely nothing for her, so she says firmly, "Turn around."

She doesn't care that it comes out harsher than intended, or that it's contradicting her earlier wish. Chloe doesn't care at all, and apparently her mother doesn't, either, because she turns around as soon as she can, and when Chloe sees her – sees Beca – she's turned around and walking away, shoulders hunched low and her shoes dragging across the sidewalk.

Chloe leaps from the car before it even fully stops.

"Beca!" She calls out desperately.

Beca spins around, and when Chloe flings herself at her, Beca's arms are tight – God, so tight – around her back, and there are tears wetting Chloe's neck, and Chloe doesn't care. God, she doesn't care.

"I could never forget you," Chloe whispers breathily. "Never."

Beca nods, but doesn't pull her face away from Chloe's neck. Because Beca never liked for anyone to see her cry, but especially not Chloe, and they've done enough of that, already, but it doesn't seem ready to stop.

"I love you, Chlo," Beca breaks, a hard sob shuddering through her shoulders.

"I love you too, Becs."

"Okay," Beca says, pulling away, and swiping furiously at the tears on her cheeks. "Okay, you need to go. You need to go now, Chloe."

"I'll call you tonight," Chloe swears, daintily holding her knuckles beneath her nose, like that could somehow stifle the noises that itched at her throat. "And tomorrow, and every day after, okay? I promise. I won't forget you. Beca, I can't- I can't ever forget you."

"Go," Beca urges. "Damn it, Chloe, leave, before I don't let you."

Chloe presses a hard, urgent kiss against her mouth, and sprints back to her mother, waiting in the car.

"Chloe?"

"I know it's stupid, and I sound like a lovesick teenager, but, I swear, Mama, I think- I think that tiny little DJ is my soul mate."

"Oh, baby," Leina sighs, leaning over the center console to envelop Chloe in a soft embrace – the kind that only a mother can adequately offer, "if that's true, you'll be together again."

They would be. Chloe doesn't know how she knows, but she does. It hurts, now, but she would be with Beca again. Not today, and not tomorrow – maybe not for years, even – but Chloe would find her again. She had to.

Author's Note: Dude. I had to stop writing this, like, twelve times because I was crying so much. It's not a one-shot, but I'm not sure how frequently I'll be able to update it, right now, so don't hate me. I really want to knock out Sixteen Days, at some point; I just keep getting all these ideas, and I can't clear my head for anything else until I put them to paper. Let me know if you got the feels on this, too, or if I'm just crazy and insanely emotional.