AN: Everyone up for crying, tonight? Here's a tearjerker. TRIGGER WARNING FOR CHARACTER DEATH, CAR ACCIDENT. Inspired by some angsty Faberry stories, so I wrote my own. I don't own Glee, the Finchel ship would have never made it out of the harbor if I did.

I walk into her study for the first time in months. Dust coats everything, and I cough loudly. I run a fingertip across her desk, disturbing the veneer of particles atop it's once shiny surface. Her calendar is in the middle, eternally flipped to December. One date is marked upon the pristine, albeit dust-covered gloss paper. Anniversary dinner.

We never did get that dinner.

I pace the room, feeling the rush of all those memories coming back to me, in the form of every little tchotchke Rachel so obsessively saves, in neat rows on her desk and her shelves. A playbill from our first Broadway show we attended together sits next to the script form her movie that she's filming now. That she was filming. Two Metro passes in a frame next to her laptop remind me of those train rides in college I took every weekend to see her. The 9:00 to New York, New York from New Haven, Connecticut. I only had one thing on my mind for those eighty miles, and that one thing was her.

My chest tightens painfully when my gaze focuses on the To-Do list on her bookshelf. In her loopy handwriting, it reads as following: Buy coffee. Call Dan about interview. Hide Quinn's anniversary gift. All the things she never got to do. A week after, I had bought that coffee. A different brand, because it hurt too much to buy hers. An hour after, I called Dan to cancel the interview. It went straight to voicemail.

She bought me an anniversary gift. There is a gift somewhere in here, that has my name on it, with a lengthy card, from Rachel.

There is a gift she didn't get to give.

I bend down to open the top drawer of her desk. I paw carefully through the contents, but all I see is office supplies. Her next two drawers yield no success. The last drawer, however, does. It comes in the form of a small white paper bag, devoid of all creases and stains. It is unmarked, and it looks like the ones that Lima Family Jewlers bags all purchases in. Perhaps this is wishful thinking, but I've bought many a necklace and earring pair for Rachel.

I open it eagerly, not wasting any time. Inside is a small velvet box, like the type engagement rings come in, and an envelope. The envelope is creme, heavyweight, and signed with Rachel's flowing signature, with the star penned on (the stickers proved too inconvenient sometime during sophmore year of college) at the end. The letter is fairly short, for a Rachel Berry note.

My Dearest-

Happy anniversary. I cannot begin to fathom the joy I've felt from being your wife for five years. We've been through so much together, and I want this anniversary to be the most special of them all. It hit me this morning, as I sat at the table reading mall card and drinking coffee while you read the paper and drank tea, that it's been seven years. Seven whole years of being able to call the most beautiful, intelligent, funny, witty, sarcastic, lovable woman in the world mine. I wouldn't change a minute of the time we had together. It's been magical and exciting and exhilarating and breathtaking and everything I would have ever hoped to have in a relationship. You are the light of my life, the Michael Crawford to my Barbra Streissand, and my one and only love. I love you so much, Quinn. I am yours forever.

Love,

Your wife, Rachel Fabray-Berry

Tears stream down my face. I don't wipe them away. They just sit there, pooling in the cracks of my face. I chuckle, in that way that just screams that you've given up. The irony of that metaphor. I'm broken. Rachel Berry broke me. I love her. I love her still. I love her even after five months, six days and twenty hours. Five months, six days and twenty hours since she called me.

"Hey, Quinn, I'm running a little late." I laugh, and glance at the clock. She's expected home in five minutes. The soundstage is ten miles from our house.

"Only you would call in late before actually being late, baby."

"I'll have you know, Lucy Quinn Fabray, I am a ver-" the line goes staticy, then dead.

"..."

"Rach?"

"..."

"..."

"RACHEL?!"

"911? My wife just got in a car accident. Y-yeah, her car has auto 911 call installed. What do you mean, 'nothing I can do'?"

The paramedics call me fifteen minutes later. My wife of four years, eleven months and twenty six days passed away immediately. She felt no pain.

I walk over to the enormous sound system that we chose together. I try to recall Rachel's bright mezzo that day, which is becoming harder and harder to do. It scares the living shit out of me that I may not be able to remember my wife's voice anymore. I remember what she said. I remember her saying that we needed the absolute best, if I was going to play her CDs on it. It had to be the best to do her voice justice. I hate how I can't remember her voice. I know what it should sound like, I remember how she says things, I just can't fucking remember the actual thing.

A CD rests atop the giant grey speakers. It is labeled with a date in December. The date doesn't have any significance other than the fact that Rachel wrote it. I slide the disk into the player, tears falling harder than ever. I sit down on the soft carpet, losing the strength to stand. It whirs and ticks for a moment, and plays.

"Hi, Quinn." Rachel. I press my body up against the lifeless machinery, as if that would bring me closer to my wife, my gorgeous, petite wife who is shaped absolutely nothing like this cold, boxy stereo speaker. Crying, I croak out,

"I-it's me, baby. I'm here... I-I'm here." she is already speaking again, not waiting for a response because she is just a recording. Not the real thing. I will never hear the real thing again, and neither will the rest of world. We have lost a shining star, and the universe will be a little less bright without her.

"Like I said in the note, I just wanted to make things special this year. It's already exciting with the... News in the box. Whoops, almost gave that away." I still clasp the ring box in my hand. I'm afraid to open it. If I open it, I might die. I might die of heartbreak.

"So, I recorded a song for you. It's not original, so I can promise you it's better than 'My Headband'. I hope you like it, I love you, Quinn. Forever and always." Don't do it. Don't say I love you. You kill me when you say I love you.

When the rain is blowing in your face,
And the whole world is on your case,
I could offer you a warm embrace
To make you feel my love.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear,
And there is no one there to dry your tears,
I could hold you for a million years
To make you feel my love.

I know you haven't made your mind up yet,
But I will never do you wrong.
I've known it from the moment that we met,
No doubt in my mind where you belong.

I'd go hungry; I'd go black and blue,
And I'd go crawling down the avenue.
No, there's nothing that I wouldn't do
To make you feel my love.

The storms are raging on the rolling sea
And on the highway of regret.
The winds of change are blowing wild and free,
You ain't seen nothing like me yet.

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true.
Nothing that I wouldn't do.
Go to the ends of the Earth for you,
To make you feel my love
To make you feel my love.

The song fades out, and I run my fingertips along the fabric cover of the speaker. "Come back. Goddamnit, Rachel. Come back," I whisper, "come back." But she won't. She won't ever come back. She is with God, and nothing I say or do will ever bring her to me. She's gone. She's gone for-fucking-ever. Goddamn Rachel. I love you. I loved you. I will always love you. Why'd you do this to me? Why'd you go and leave me when I needed you the most? I hurl the ring box at the wall out of anger.

"Still no?" I walk into our bathroom wrapping my arms around her waist, resting my head on the top of her head.

"Still no." Rachel confirms with a sad smile.

"Well, we've still got time. Time and money. That's really all thsee fertility treatmens need, right, Rach?" I reasure her, planting a kiss on her crown.

"I suppose you're right, Quinn."

After my burst of anger, I'm back to crying. I crawl over and fetch the box. The mystery is killing me. This will be my closure. If I know what's in it, maybe I'll be able to move on someday. Holding my breath, I crack open the lid.

It's a ring. A plain black unisex band. Under closer inspection I see an engraving. In Rachel's handwritting, forever and always. On the inside, is a name. Elizabeth Michelle Fabray-Berry. The name that we wouldv'e named our first born, if she was a girl. Was Rachel finally pregnant? Did those treatments finally work? The surprise...

Oh my God, Rachel was pregnant. We were going to have a baby girl.

This changes everything. I sit on the dusty, dusty floor of Rachel's study, sobbing. I don't think I'll ever get over Rachel. I don't think I want to.

I mourn the loss of my beautiful wife who never got to shine her brightest, and my unborn daughter, who never got to shine at all.

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