She had hoped that college would be better.

How was she supposed to know that even NYU was filled with Quinn Fabray lookalikes and Santana Lopez wannabes?

Rachel was beginning to realize that teenage girls were the same pretty much anywhere. She had always been mature for her age and had suspected as much, but somewhere deep inside she had always hoped that she was wrong.

She shares her nine by twelve foot room with Mitra, a Sikh father's perfect little girl by day and campus slut by night. They had gotten off to the wrong foot when Rachel had held up a tin of her famous sugar cookies, packed from Lima, and Mitra had informed her that she couldn't eat anything other than the perfectly portioned dinners her mother had delivered to the dorm every week.

She had added that maybe Rachel should consider the same, but, on second thought, maybe not, because, technically, the nose was made out of cartilage anyway.

She tries to fit in, but it's not her fault that her dads have raised her on classics and musicals, and, consequently, she doesn't find The Hangover all that funny or entertaining. She doesn't smoke for fear of wrecking her voice, and she doesn't drink since her second experience with hard liquor had coincided with her first ever sexual experience, and she still hasn't quite forgiven herself for it.

Despite promises that they would remain friends always, her and Kurt's relationship now consists of a Facebook post once a week, and the random text message if he hooked up with anyone that she would approve of. Her dads are her only regular confidantes, and she refuses to reveal the extent of her loneliness to them, focusing on her classes and the school's vast realm of opportunities when she speaks to them on the phone.

She has acquaintances, if not friends: people she eats with in the dining hall, people she walks with to class if she catches them on the way, but she doesn't have that group of girlfriends that she had always desired, a group that was present each time she had envisioned her life in New York before she got there.

She's never been shy, but she doesn't effortlessly command attention like Mitra does, nor does her personality easily give way to becoming a sheep among the pack, either. So, she's stuck on the outskirts, not exactly fitting in, but not as obviously left out as the obese girl down the hall or the blind student on the third floor.

With her classes and extracurricular activities, she has no real time for boys, but she watches helplessly as boys in her dorm who she has quiet crushes on fall for the pretty and shallow popular girls. She had even once been woken up to the sound of Andy - the sophomore who had helped her with her calc homework and who she had thought might have liked her back - groaning as Mitra emerged from under her comforter, having previously been somewhere near the region of Andy's groin.

She had left the room under the pretense of fury, but had cried as soon as she got to the communal bathroom. Andy was cute, but he had been a safety option; he was nowhere near the Rachel Berry standard for a boyfriend.

She was failing at life.

She's been at NYU for about six weeks and is prepping for her first round of quizzes on a couch in the lounge when it happens. Someone walks in and tacks a large poster to the bulletin board on the wall. If the large title is any indication, the poster advertises the new school play, a modern production of Romeo and Juliet. Like a magnet, the image draws the attention of every girl in the room.

"He's so cute," she hears someone stage whisper, and the gaggle of girls all mumble their general assent.

Rachel gives up on studying, slams her science book closed, though no one is paying her any attention. She makes her way over to where they are all standing, hoping that for once, her knowledge of theater will make her an indispensable part of the conversation.

When she finally gets a good look at the poster, she realizes that she is equipped to speak to far more than the ironies that persist throughout Shakespeare's most popular work: Jesse St. James's hand is resting comfortably near his pretty co-star's right breast, a position it had taken him almost two weeks to achieve back in her bedroom in Lima.

She stands with her mouth open, because, as far as she knows, Jesse St. James is somewhere out in California, far far away from this dorm, and, accordingly, her life.

"Who is that?" she voices aloud, berating herself immediately afterwards, the question sounding stupid to her ear. There is no question, no doubt in her mind.

A junior, Nixon, who lives down the hall but has never spoken to Rachel before, uses her question as an opportunity to release his obvious frustration about the campus superstar.

"Jesse St. James. He's a junior theater major and the most pompous bastard that you will ever meet, even though he has no reason to be. Sure, he's good-looking and possibly talented, but he lives in a ratty apartment and works at Starbucks. I have no idea why girls go gaga over him. If you ask me, I think he's quite the homo with all this theater and singing crap." Nixon shakes his head towards the group of girls, many of whom, Rachel is sure, tuned him out after the word pompous.

"You must be wrong," Rachel responds, focusing on the most minor thing that is bewildering her, "His parents are incredibly wealthy. There is no way he would have to work, or live in anything but luxury."

Nixon seems to brush off her words, but they unexpectedly catch the attention of the group of girls that surround Jesse's picture, among them, Lisa, Mitra's bff for life.

"You know him?" Lisa asks, her tone incredulous.

Rachel senses the importance of whatever comes out of her mouth next, the possible impact it could have on finally impressing these girls.

"He's my ex," she starts, trying to overemphasize what had been a six-week relationship that ended when Jesse had smashed an egg on her head, "We dated in high school and I haven't seen him since we broke up over two years ago."

"You two dated?" another girl questions, glancing back at the poster and then to Rachel, "Really?"

Rachel nods, at a loss for words. The girls seem to be waiting for more.

"I always thought we would get back together," Rachel finally admits to her audience, and she's surprised to learn that it doesn't feel like a lie, "I had no idea he was here."

"You should invite him over to the dining hall sometime," Lisa suggests with excitement in her voice, "We would all love to meet him."

Rachel finds it hard to sleep that night, plagued with memories of Jesse that may be dreams or fantasies, and an idea that just won't die.

She's already looked him up in the student directory and confirmed that he lives somewhere out in Harlem, in a neighborhood that she gathers from Google Earth is not the best, far worse than even Lima's active crack district.

It's nearing 3am when she finally makes up her mind to do what she's been planning to do all along. She drags on a sweatshirt to fend off the early October chill, and makes her way down to the curb and hails a cab.

It only occurs to her when she's standing on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, contemplating all the ways her dads would kill her if they knew where she was at this hour, that he may not be home, or, worse, he may not be alone.

The cab drives off and there is no choice, because God knows she isn't safe out here on his block.

The lock to the main door has apparently been tampered with, and it offers no resistance to her attempt to push it open. Apartment 304 is on the third floor, she assumes, and she makes her way there, not understanding how it feels colder inside than it does out.

She bangs on his door, not feeling safe in the hallways either, and it doesn't take long (a couple of chains and a deadbolt) for him to appear in front of her, rubbing his eyes, and trying to determine if it really is her.

"Rachel?" He glances out into the hallway and drags her inside by the hand, "What the hell are you doing here? Do you have any idea how unsafe this neighborhood is?"

She doesn't answer him because she's distracted by the state of the so-called apartment he lives in. His kitchen consists of a single burner next to a sink, his bed is a yoga mat piled with blankets, and he must share a bathroom with someone else, because there is none that she can see.

He watches her take it in, runs his hands through his hair as he gives her an explanation.

"My dad refused to support me after I transferred here. This is the best I can do on my own. We always knew the road to fame wouldn't be easy, right?" he chuckles uneasily, praying that she will humor him by participating in the joke.

She doesn't, and continues to look as awkward as she feels.

Her next sentence could not be a more distinct contrast to their surroundings, dress, and state of mind, not to mention the fact that they haven't seen each other in years. "I have a business proposition for you."

He looks at her in disbelief and she almost smiles. "You need money, obviously, and I am in need of your acting services."

His confusion only increases. "Are you working on some sort of project?"

She shakes her head and looks down at his shitty carpet, mumbles something he can't quite make out.

"What?"

She raises her head and squares her shoulders, a gesture that he recognizes as being components of her show stance. He can tell that whatever is coming he's not going to like.

"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend," she states matter of factly, "You're familiar with that concept, aren't you?"