I'm back to my tragic roots. Inspired by the song "Please Don't Go" by Barcelona, the film "P.S. I Love You," and the 20th of April. Dedicated to Quick shippers who don't lose hope. Anyways, please enjoy the story! Thank you for reading!

Three hours ago, they were arguing. She said they needed new silverware. Something about it being a basic necessity for every modern day couple living in Cleveland. He said he gave two shits and a baboon's ass about what fork her boss' wife would use during their tri-monthly dinner parties. She stood on the other side of their blue couch, brows furrowed and arms folded over her gingham dress. He stood near the kitchen counter, leaning against it with suppressed fury and spitting insults. Their minor quarrel soon snowballed out of control (like most of their conversations do), and it escalated to her stepping out of their apartment with an exaggerated slam of the door.

Thirty minutes later, he pops open a can of beer and slumps into the chair in front of the television set. He fumes for another hour before his frustration gives way to regret, and he slowly slips into the hands of exhaustion.

He wakes up an hour later to the sound of his cell phone in his pocket.

"Wh- hello?"

"Mr. Puckerman?"

"Yeah?" He blinks tiredly. "Who is this?"

"There's been an accident. Your wife is with us at the hospital."

The phone falls to the floor as he shoots out the door in his boxers and oversized down jacket.

...

There was a car crash.

He sits in his assigned spot on the plastic chair outside the hallway, elbows leaning against his knees and chin cupped in his hands. He's still breathing heavily, the aftermath of running straight to the emergency wing from their apartment complex, and every now and then, he confronts the nurse's desk and utters expulsions until he is forced to remain a distance of at least fifteen feet from their station.

"There's nothing more you can do but wait, sir. We'll let you know if we hear anything else," they had said.

Fuck this "sir" shit, he thinks. It's 2:37AM. He isn't supposed to be here right now. He shouldn't be at the hospital at 2:37AM waiting for his unstable wife to get out of surgery. He should be at home. They should both be at home. In bed. Sleeping. Fucking. Laughing or holding each other or not or whatever. Really, whatever. They just shouldn't be here.

He tries to remember the sound of her getting into the car and leaving their driveway. He can't. He can't remember when she drove out of the house. He can't remember what they were fighting about. He can't remember what they were eating for dinner, what they said to each other when they got home, what Billy mentioned about hockey during work, what papers Harrison had asked him to look over, what gas station he refilled the tank, what Quinn had asked of him that morning to pick up at the grocery store.

Quinn.

That he could remember: waking up, her face nuzzled against his neck and slender fingers grazing over his bare chest. Blond hair sprawled over her shoulders like spilt honey, lips full and soft, and cheeks blushed with morning delight. They would do that sometimes; lay in bed, quiet and unmovable, just listening to the sounds outside their window as he watched her wedding band dance under the peeking sunlight.

But what he can remember also rivals what he can imagine. Quinn in a stubborn fury, marching out of the door with the car keys dangling from her right hand. Key to the ignition, foot to the pedal, hours of aimless driving until... was it her fault? Was it the other car's fault? Who hit who first? Was it another car? Was it a truck? Was it a he or she? Drunk or sober? How did she get injured? Did she remain in her seat? The impact – where did it hit? Where did it hit the most? Her chest? Her head? Her heart? Her heart. How long did she suffer? How long was she in pain? When did the ambulance get there? Her heart. What happened to her heart?

Quinn, her eyes widening as the incoming car's lights head straight towards her.

Quinn, the collision convulsing her whole frame back and forth.

Quinn, her surroundings crumbling in her own pool of blood.

He jumps out of his seat and marches back towards the nurse's desk, his fingernails digging so deep into his palms that it leaves white-hot marks stained in his skin.

...

Two hours and twenty two minutes later. He's going insane. He hates being told what to do, and he hates that, when it all comes down to it, it's still Quinn dictating his current predicament.

He imagines her small body under the bright lights and heavy machinery, silver sharp objects slicing through the very skin he so cherishes and kisses.

He has a feeling he might turn violent soon. He feels something rattle in his throat and snakes its way under his chest, like gunfire booming through his veins.

...

The second he sees the man in the blue scrubs approach him, with his misshapen solemn expression and perfectly clean hands, he jumps out of the chair and paces towards him. "Where is she?"

"Mr. Puckerman – "

"I want to see her. Is she awake? Is she okay? What is she saying? I'm her husband, I'm allowed to see her. Where is she? I need to talk to her, I need to see her, I need... I have to apologize because I didn't think we could afford some fucking new silverware - "

"Mr. Puckerman," the man says again, his voice low. "Your wife... she was already in very critical condition when she arrived here." No. "When they brought her to the table, she had already lost a lot of blood." No, no. Fuck. No. "Her brain activity was low, and we..." No, no fucking, no... No. Fuck. Oh god, no. Oh god. No. No, no, no... "I'm so sorry, Mr. Puckerman. We did everything we could."

He stumbles back, his legs giving way to the chair underneath him as he sinks in his seat and draws his head back. "I have to... I have to apologize," he continues under his breath. "About the silverware, I have to... tell her I'm sorry, and that we could get a new set if she really wants one. I have to... apologize."

He needs her to know he's so sorry.

...

The room is quiet when he first enters. The presence of ghostly machines surround her little frame, towering above her with menacing proportions, but there are no beeps, no buzz of electricity.

It's just quiet.

He moves slowly towards her, his feet dragging on the floor until he's matched up with the wheels from under her stretcher. He slips his hand quietly next to hers, and the surprise friction of their skin makes him coil away suddenly.

And then he can't get enough. He trembles sporadically, clamoring to have her cold hand in his. He needs more. He runs his fingers through the softness of her hair. He presses his hand affectionately against her cheek.

She just looks like a sleeping angel. If he believes it enough.

But it's just so quiet. "Please don't do this," he croaks out, and it's then he realizes he's actually crying. His whole body shakes ferociously, convulsing with piercing agony and ravenous defeat. He's going to be sick. He can't hold himself up anymore. He's about to collapse.

He grabs her hand tighter and leans against her skin and starts to sob. "I love you," he breathes, begs. "I love you."

That would be the last time he would ever actually see her again.

...

When he gets home, when he gets back home to their apartment, he stands there and doesn't move for a long time. He looks at the olive green curtains she picked out. The coffee table she bought. The groceries she purchased. The kitchen sink she cleaned.

He snakes his way to their bedroom and crumbles under the sheets. He breathes her, like she's always been there, like nothing's changed from this morning.

...

He plugs her cell phone into the wall and lets it charge. He climbs back in bed and lays straight on his back above the covers. He flips open his own phone, ignoring the skyrocketing missed calls, texts, and voicemails. Instead, he calls her number and presses his ear tightly against the phone. He watches it buzz from the corner of the room and waits for it – waits for the best part of his day.

Hi, it's Quinn. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. All right, thanks, bye bye!

He calls and calls and calls just to hear her voice, until it becomes so familiar that it morphs into a lullaby ready to lull him into sleep.

...

Her towel stays on the bathroom hook. He doesn't touch her tooth brush.

All her make up is still scattered on the counter sink.

...

"My baby," his mother says in a tearful tone. He tries to sit up a little straighter in shame. "You look exhausted. Do you sleep?"

"Yeah," he lies.

"You look like you haven't eaten for days."

He sighs. "I eat."

"I made you Matzah balls."

"Thanks, Ma."

His eyes flicker to the row of pictures sitting right above the fireplace. Quinn and him at high school graduation. Him with an alligator she took when they had that vacation in Florida. Her and her sister at Frannie's baby shower. Quinn in a white bridal gown. Quinn and him at their wedding. Quinn and him both smiling at the camera from a day he never does remember.

He thinks of Quinn surrounded by a puddle of her own blood, sandwiched between two cars and shards of glass.

He stares at his soup and has the sudden desire to just cry.

He doesn't. Instead, he eats his meal to make his mom happy, and then he crawls back in bed and sleeps for almost two days.

...

When he wakes up, he's not exactly sure where he is. And then he remembers everything.

Her wedding ring is in a little baggie that he left on her nightstand, little flecks of blood still stained on the band.

Suddenly, he springs out of bed. He walks over to her side of the closet, eyes hungrily shifting through her pastel dresses and soft cardigans. His heart skips a beat as he grabs a fistful and tosses them onto their bed, descending down like feathers from the sky.

He closes his eyes and imagines her there, walking around the bedroom in her underwear, deciding what to wear for the day and what to cook for breakfast. Her hair would be up in a lazy bun, her face free of makeup, and her skin glowing from the morning light. Maybe he would say something to make her laugh. Maybe he would say something to make her angry and watch her whole body flush with color. Maybe he would say something that would drag her back to bed, and maybe he would just watch her with something that resembled a lot like awe and love.

He looks at her pile of clothes on the bed and collapses right above it. He curls himself, finding a spot where he feels most protected, and he tries to fall back asleep.

...

He thinks what she would do if she was in his position. He thinks, thinks about the immaculate gold cross around her neck, the one they lost in the wreckage. He thinks about praying to God.

In the name of the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit.

Dear God,

Why?

Fuck you.

...

He looks at her row of shoes near the front door.

He realizes just how small her feet were. He's always known this, but he just... realizes it.

He tries to remember what they were fighting about again. He can't... silverware! It was silverware. All she wanted was new silverware.

...

He wakes up and stares at the baggie with her wedding ring.

She's really gone.

...

He goes back to work and sits in his bulldozing machine and knocks things over until they break. He's not ignorant to the looks he receives, the whispers that follow him. "Yeah, that's him. Wife died in a car crash last week. Newlyweds, too."

"I don't know what he's doing back at work. I would take a whole year off if my wife croaked over."

"Damn. Poor guy. Must be a mess."

"I'll get the misses to cook him something. Bet he's living off of microwavables and spam."

"Doesn't look like he's been sleeping either."

"Now see, that's a hazard for work."

"Maybe we should mention something."

"I'll bring it up with the boss after lunch."

"Hey... Puckerman! How about you take five? I'll cover for you. Have an early lunch!"

He looks at them, gets out, and doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. He doesn't care. He doesn't care what people say, and he doesn't care about the extra time he's given off of work. He cares about that convenience store down Walnut Street and its supply of 30 racks. He cares about his chair and his television set and drinking until he's so numb that he'll fall asleep for days.

...

He should have said yes to that damn silverware. That fucking new set of silverware from Bed, Bath, and Beyond that only cost $19.99. That's all she wanted. He promised her on their wedding day he would always give her whatever she wanted, in sickness and in health, til death do them part.

He lied.

And now she's gone.

...

Hi, it's Quinn. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. All right, thanks, bye bye!

He knows exactly how disappointed she would be with him right now.

...

He's not exactly sure what gave him away, but someone's been ringing the doorbell for the past six minutes, and if he has to hear that damn ding! one more time, he'll spark a fuse.

He marches towards the entrance, swings the door open, and looks down at the origin of his building fury perched comfortable in a shiny wheelchair. "Took you long enough," Artie says in a quiet, solemn voice. Puck doesn't say anything; he just takes a step to the side and lets his old friend roll himself into the the cluttered complex.

"Everyone sends their love," he fills the space with conversation. "Rachel baked you sugar cookies. I also promised Mercedes I'd go grocery shopping with you."

Puck stays quiet.

"I bought Chinese on the way, actually. You all right with sweet and sour pork?"

Puck closes the front door and walks towards the kitchen.

"I'll take that as a yes. Here, I'll set the table, just go sit down. Do you need a knife or fork – "

"Don't touch those." His eyes are suddenly wide - saucers - his arms extended warningly out.

"I'm – "

"I said don't fucking touch those!" Artie doesn't move an inch, his eyes growing soft. "What? You deaf and crippled now?"

"Puck – "

"Get out."

"Puck, you're not okay."

"I said get the fuck out of my house before I make you!"

Snow-white silence follows the sound of Artie's departure. Puck grabs one of the spoons from the kitchen drawers and hurls in across the kitchen, watching it clatter against the bare white walls and descend tragically onto the tiled floor.

...

"This isn't your fault," Artie tries to assure him. He avoids any topics about eating utensils.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"You can't just lock yourself up here for the rest of your life and blame yourself, Puck. You didn't do this to her. Quinn wouldn't have wanted this."

"You don't know the first thing about what she wants."

"No one does, Puck," he says softly. "She's not here anymore."

Puck looks up, his face void of expression. "We were having an argument. She wanted new silverware, and I said we didn't have any money for that. She told me she was unhappy. She told me I was making her unhappy, and all she wanted was to be happy with me. She couldn't understand why I was hurting her so much. Not just about the silverware but... I stopped paying attention to her."

"Puck, you wouldn't have known this would have happened."

"She wanted babies," he spoke slowly. "She wanted to have a baby soon, and I said I... I couldn't. Not ready yet. She asked me when I would be, and I said I didn't know. She said we weren't happy anymore. Everything we did was so routine and what she didn't want married life to be like. She said she married me because I wasn't routine. I asked her 'routine? Or you mean white trash? That I was never enough or right for you?' Then she got angry. Really angry. She started to cry. She couldn't believe I would say something like that, like our marriage was a sham. She didn't say anything else after that. She just kept crying and then walked out the door."

He sinks a little deeper in his chair. "She was crying and alone and she died. She's dead. She isn't here anymore, and she never will be. She's gone. And that's on me."

"Puck, you need to know... that still doesn't make this your fault."

"Doesn't mean I couldn't have stopped it from happening in the first place."

...

He picks up the picture from above the fireplace, the one of her in her wedding gown facing two-thirds the way towards the camera. It's a candid, her eyes just barely catching the lens with a fairy smile filled with secrets curving at her lips. One hand is holding her bouquet of white and lavender lilacs, the other just barely lifting the top fabric of her skirt. She's curved over slightly, her golden locks tousled by the incoming wind, accompanied by the angelic halo of her veil. She's got quite the collarbone, revealed by the simplistic chiffon of her dress. A half a limb peeks out from the left corner, belonging to his sister Anna, and there's no real evidence of the sun aside from the glow his very wife radiates from that caught off-guard smile and content laziness in her eyes.

"I'll be better," he tells the picture and puts it back on the mantel.

...

It wasn't like her to go out for a midnight drive. That's his thing.

Why didn't he notice her take the keys? He would have noticed that. What did he think she did, go out for a walk? What was he thinking? Why wasn't he thinking?

Why couldn't he have gone out for the drive? Why couldn't it have been him instead?

...

The funeral is going to be in Lima. He packs a backpack full of things and cramps her wedding into the front pocket of his jeans and doesn't lock the door.

...

"How are you, Noah?" He glances at his mother-in-law, her usual caked-face bare of any makeup or masked blemishes. "How are you feeling?"

He doesn't really understand that question. How is he feeling? He's not; that's the point. He's not feeling anything. Happy, sad, angry. The universal emotions of agony and depression. He's just there, he's just exercising whatever natural functions he has to do to keep himself afloat, and that's just it. He doesn't feel anything in particular. There's nothing left for him.

So he just feels it all.

"I'm..." he trails off, picking out the little physical descriptions of Quinn he can find in her mother. "I'm okay."

They both sit quietly, and she nods. "Yes," she whispers tearfully. "Yes, me too."

...

She's everywhere.

The Mexican restaurant across the Dairy Bell where he took her on their first "official" date. The park right off of Western Dr. where she used to hang out after cheerleading practice during elementary school. The empty football field where he would sneak kisses out of her under the bleachers. The Catholic church, the local supermarket, that tiny independent bookstore. The hospital. McKinley High.

Her little red car driving up and down the streets. Her hands on her hips as she swayed past the hallways in her little cheerleading outfit. Her face sweet and quiet waiting outside for her parents after Sunday mass. Her legs crossed and laugh echoing from one of the booths at Breadsticks.

The frustration in her face, cheeks flushed and fists clenched as she sprints down Bellmare Street, her eighteen year old frame running specifically away from him. It's not raining but only sprinkling slightly, her hair damp and cheeks matted with unshed tears. He chases after her, still agile, young, and McKinley's decently-played running back. There's arguing, arguing about colleges and futures and things that they both don't fully understand yet. It ends with a kiss, classic and hastily laced, and they just stand there under the streetlight, murmuring to each other promises they intend to keep.

He stands in the middle of Bellmare Street, playing the scene over and over, watching his eighteen year old self promising the girl of his dreams the moon and stars.

It's Lima. It's her. Always. Every inch.

...

"Let us take you out for drinks."

"I'm good."

"Come on, man," Sam insists on the other end of the phone. "We all know you're drinking yourself to death. Might as well do it in company."

...

Sam takes another sip of beer just as Finn finishes his. Kurt quietly circles his glass of wine, and Sam places an affectionate hand on his knee.

"I'm thinking about going to California," Finn slurs, slamming his bottle onto the table. "You know, it's a good place to be."

"It's a good place for rising starlets to be," Kurt sing songs, and Sam hides his smile.

"I could use a bit of sun," he continues in a different voice. "I bought a pair of sunglasses. I did."

"I'm sure Rachel would appreciate the effort," Sam suggests.

"Wha – What," Finn sputters with as much surprise indignation as he could muster. "What are you talking about?"

"California is just a very convenient setting, is all," Kurt shrugs innocently.

"I'm, I'm not going to California for Rachel," Finn breaks into short pieces of laughter. "You guys... that's crazy."

"No, you're crazy," Kurt dismisses. "For staying here and not chasing after her. And for wearing those shorts with those socks."

"She doesn't want me," Finn speaks quietly.

"Of course she wants you," Puck looks up from his drink, leaning comfortably in his plastic chair. "She just wants to know you want her as much as she wants you. And now that she's not here, now that she's gone... she's everywhere. You see her everywhere. In things that are obvious and things that are not. And you think, it'll get better. You think... you'll get used to her not being here anymore. Everything will go back the way it was. But it doesn't. It doesn't get better. It just... it stays the same. It steadies out and levels. You don't feel better. You just feel... different. Because everything is different. She's gone, and she's never coming back. You lost her, forever. So there is no getting better. You can't improve from this. You'll never stop missing her. You just... you're stuck."

Kurt's eyes glaze. "But you can learn to move on. Not forget, just move on."

"But it doesn't get better," Puck drinks.

...

He sits in the Fabray living room, flipping through photo albums and scrapbooks. There's a VHS video playing on the television of a six year old Quinn practicing in front of the camera with bright enthusiasm her piece for that year's cheerleading competition. There's another video of her singing a song from Cinderella, one of her and her sister at the petting zoo, and one of a family vacation at Disney World where she's blowing kisses to the camera and exhibiting her collection of signatures ranging from Minnie Mouse to Princess Jasmine.

He glances at the various pictures, and he lands on the one hanging over the fireplace: the wedding picture. He slips it out from under the clear sheet and lets it balance on the tips of his fingers. He stares at her surprised smile, her distant gaze piercing right through his heart.

"I'm trying," he confesses, but her face doesn't move. She's still delighted, still calm, still caught off-guard. "I'm trying, baby. I'm trying."

...

"I miss her. People ask me how I feel all the time. They ask me how I'm doing. They tell me I'm sorry. Sorry for what? How do you think I'm doing? What do you want me to feel? All I do is just... I feel it. I feel it all. But more than anything, I just miss her.

"I miss how she knew almost everybody's birthdays. I tried to find her address book once. I found two. One had everybody's numbers and shit like that on it, but the other... the other just had birthdays. She did that. She remembered everybody's birthdays. And when I look back on it, it was something she thought about a lot. She'd say things like, 'We should get something for Mrs. Alburn's birthday.' Or 'I made these for your co-worker, Rich. It's his birthday tomorrow. Make sure he gets it, okay?'

"I miss how she always kept a pantry full of cereal. She loves... loved cereal. It was our midnight snack. She had everything. Cocoa Puffs, Honey Bunches of Oats, Lucky Charms, Corn Puffs... everything. And she'd always smile when she was making cereal, like it was the best thing in the world. Like it was her secret, and she was letting me in on it.

"I miss how much she felt about other things. How much bad things made her so upset. How happy she would get when she was pleased. She was... She was all Quinn, all the time. She was... I just miss her. And not just when I wake up or when I go to bed. I miss her all the time. When I'm asleep, when I'm awake. She's... it's always been the two of us. I don't know how I'm supposed to live in a world where she doesn't. I don't know how I'm doing because I don't know what I'm doing. I need her, I need... I can't do any of this without her. I'm not weak, but I just... I can't be without her. I can't disappoint her, but I can't be without her."

Santana pushes away his can of beer and holds his hand. "I know," she says briskly, her voice tight.

"I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

"You don't have to, Puck. But the one thing you can do? Not feel sorry for yourself anymore."

His head falls to his hands, and he starts to cry.

...

He flies back to Cleveland after the funeral. He's about to board the plane when the panic rises in his chest. He can't do this, he can't... he's alone. He's all alone.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

Hi, it's Quinn. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can. All right, thanks, bye bye!

...

He opens the door and stares at the unfamiliar cleanliness of the apartment. He figures Artie has something to do with that, and he takes in a deep breath before stepping inside, his shoes squeaking from beneath him. He drops his bags by the door and makes his way towards the bedroom. It's bigger than he remembers. Wider. Brighter.

There's so much room.

He sits down and calls several people: Quinn's mom, his mom, Sam, Finn, Santana... letting them all know he made it safely home and he has no desired suicidal tendencies.

He pulls out her wedding ring from his pocket and watches it catch the light from the window and sees the reflection of her smile glimmering back. He lays down, places it on the nightstand, and tries to sleep.

...

He wakes up and feels her there next to him. Smells her. Sees her. Breathes her.

He realizes that this will never go away. Wanting her back will never go away.

...

He goes back to work. He gets a lot of free food from his co-worker's wives. It's kind of nice not need to cook for awhile.

...

People are slowly starting to forget. Or, at least, they don't look at him and have the initial thoughts wife, dead, alone stampede through their minds.

His boss stops giving him slack, and he's back trying to earn that same monthly pay check.

...

He works most of his day. He takes up extra shifts because he doesn't complain about it anymore and extra money is really nice. He usually comes home, microwaves something to eat, watches a bit of ESPN news, showers, calls his mom, and then goes to bed. It's not as bad as it could be.

...

Kurt and Sam end up moving to the city next to him a few months later. Him and Sam sometimes meet at the park across town to play a little basketball. Kurt watches, and the duo tend to invite themselves over for dinner afterward.

Kurt teaches Puck a few useful tricks in cooking. He becomes really good at making mac and cheese.

...

"I'm home!" he yells one random day as he walks into the apartment.

And then he remembers. He looks at her picture on the mantel and sighs.

...

He opens her side of the closet for the first time in months. He takes a few deep breathes before shuffling through the hangers, looking for a specific outfit. Finally, he feels the fabric familiar to his touch and yanks it off the hanger. It's a light yellow dress, one of her favorites. She wore during their wedding reception. She also wore it to Anna's high school graduation, Brittany and Santana's baby shower, when they went to that awful waffle place a year ago, and that random Tuesday morning when they decided to play hokey, drive around aimlessly all day, and he proposed.

He packs the rest of her clothing into cardboard boxes and leaves the light yellow dress back on the hanger and closes the closet.

He sends the rest of the things to St. Vincent de Paul's, and they send him a letter of grateful appreciation and gratitude.

...

He takes down some of the pictures on the mantel, but he leaves up the one of his bride. He looks at her, really looks at her, and watches the surprise melt away from her face. She just looks peaceful now.

"It's not better," he tells the picture honestly, "But it's something."

...

He wakes up one morning and thinks he sees her.

He reaches out, but she's gone.

He stares at her wedding ring and tries to calm himself down, but his heart is running laps. "She's not coming back," he says aloud to no one.

He doesn't get out of bed for awhile.

...

He calls his mother-in-law and listens to the ringing. "Hello?"

"Hi Judy."

"Noah!" Genuinely pleased. "Noah, it's so good to hear from you. How are you?"

He thinks of a way to answer this. "Work's good. I got a promotion."

"That's lovely."

"How are you?"

There's silence on the line, and he hears everything he needs to hear. "It just takes more time," she responds quietly.

"Yeah," he nods. "I know." There's more silence, and he squeezes the wedding ring in his palm. "I've been thinking and... I don't think it gets better. Not in the sense that we'll always feel like this but... it doesn't get better because she's never coming back. But - I think - if we move on, if we don't feel so sorry for ourselves, then maybe that's the only way it can feel okay again. It's better, in another sense. It's... it's accepting."

He hears the teary response from the other end of the phone, "I think you're right, son."

Son.

...

Sometimes he allows himself to cry, but he sets a time limit. Thirty minutes at the most. Sometimes it just gets too much, and he needs to let himself admit that. Especially at night, when he's all alone and the bed feels too big. When he feels her there and sees her and breathes her and he gets that familiar feeling, and it's all too much. So he cries, and then he stops. Acceptance is still a grieving period.

He's moving on. He doesn't want to disappoint her anymore, so he's moving on.

...

He flicks his wrist and watches the ball swish through the hoop. He pulls his arm in and mutters a yes! before Sam sweeps in on the side, grabs the ball, and aims for a three pointer. It bounds off the ring, and he shakes his head in shame and watches Puck jog towards the rolling basketball.

Sam rests his hands lazily on his hips, breathing heavily and sweating under the midday sun. "Not fair."

"Gotta work on your follow through, fish lips."

"Whatever, juvenile delinquent." Puck hurls the ball towards him playfully, and Sam deflects by catching it instead. He dribbles it for a bit, breathing in the silence before stating honestly, "You're doing better."

...

He pulls the charger out of her cell phone, turns it off, and puts in a drawer.

He erases her number on his phone.

...

It's his mom's birthday, and he's back in town for the celebration. Everyone still walks on eggshells around him, but he does his best to ignore it and starts to feel himself laugh and smile genuinely again.

He takes the time to get in his old pick up, stops by a flower stand, and drives north towards the cemetery. He remembers her spot; her mother picked it out, right underneath a billowing oak tree so the shade perfectly caresses her tombstone. He places down the flowers, white and lavender lilacs, and breathes quietly.

He doesn't say anything for a long time. He stands there, the love of his life six feet underground, and just breathes. Finally, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and sighs, sighs with every piece of him he has. Whatever he has left. It's still all hers. He's still all hers.

"I miss you," he confesses.

His heart rattles slightly, like a gust of wind through that mighty oak tree. He thinks of all the things he could tell her. How Finn moved to California to be with Rachel. How Kurt and Sam are so close to adopting a baby girl. How well Anna is doing in college. How her mother is finally putting herself back together. How he knows how to cook lasagna, how he finally started watching Community like they both said they eventually would, how he got that promotion, how he finally cleaned the closet next to the bathroom like he promised. He has so much to tell her.

Instead, he stares down at the tombstone and just smiles tiredly. "I love you."

...

"Smile."

She looks up, her smile fully caught off-guard, hair tangling gently with the wind. Her veil floats behind her, and she makes a face at him instantly after the light flashes. He lowers the camera in triumph, and she playfully smacks his shoulder. Anna chuckles at the two of them before fleeing the scene, and Quinn shakes her head at him.

"I think this is gonna be a keeper."

"And just who gave you the camera?" she perks back, cocking out one hip. "Don't tell me you stole it."

He smiles. "You know, I think I'll frame this."

"No!" she giggles.

"That's a definite yes."

"I have to see it first!'

"Nope," he shakes his head, popping the p. "Maybe I'll make copies. Post it on the streets. Make posters."

"You're awful," she scowls, but her upper lip twitches with laughter. Suddenly, she presses the palm of her hand against his chest, right above his heart. He grabs her bouquet and places it with camera on the table next to them and holds her hand with both of his. She leans in and smiles into his chest, the edge of her wedding dress sweeping the floor. "This is right," she says softly. "This feels right." He wraps his arms around her frame and brings her closer in. "It feels like coming home."

They stay like that for a bit, solid and steady, unaware of their guests and the music and anything and everything that didn't involve the other. It was all the little moments like that. He put them all together, added them all up, and it didn't take him long to realize they were supposed to be together. She was always the one he wanted to spend he rest of his life with. He knew it the first moment she walked into a room and smiled at him. It was like his whole life, up to that point, was just a way to meet her.

"I love you," he says. Quiet, subdued.

"No matter what," she grins almost mockingly, but her eyes are honest and pure. "No matter what, we'll always love each other. And we'll always take care of each other and make each other happy. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She rests her head back against his chest and just smiles, the most content she's ever been. His gaze doesn't move away from her, ever. He'll just hold her for as long as she wants. Whatever she wants. The music chimes quietly in the background, chatter laces between the tables, and he has her in his arms, always.

...

Moving on; it's not forgetting.

It's making her proud. Loving her. Taking care of her.

Making her happy.

He gets better.

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