Disclaimer: I don't own Glee

"I don't understand." Her voice is small and scared, and she hates him for making her sound like this. He's always been the only one who could crack her unwavering façade. He waits for a moment before answering and she swears she can hear her heart pounding erratically.

That's when she knows something is wrong. Her heart has beaten at a tempo of about 74 beats per minute since she was old enough to measure it. She's sung to her heartbeat, danced to her heartbeat, and fallen asleep to the ever constant thrumming of the drummer inside of her.

He's turned everything upside down.

"You were always better than me. I- God Rach, I'm such an idiot! I let myself believe that maybe, somewhere inside of me I could be good enough for you. You're supposed to be a star, and I'm going to be stuck in this stupid town forever. It'll be better for both of us if you just go."

She doesn't register anything but cold, numb shock at first. Her summer therapy classes kick in instinctually, automatically, and she asks the first question that comes to mind. "How long have you felt like this?"

"Ever since I met you. You're so much better than all of us. That's why everyone hated you. They couldn't break you because you knew you were better. You never belonged here."

"If I didn't start out here, I never would've met y-you." Her voice shakes. It hasn't shaken since their conversation after Nationals junior year.

"Exactly! I love you, Rachel. I love you so much it scares me sometimes. But I can't let you do this to yourself because of me."

"You know that old saying? If you really love something, you'll let it go?" she tries desperately, the first hints of ice coursing through her veins. She needs to get through to him. He can't leave her again. He can't.

"Yeah."

"That isn't true. Because if you really love something, you'll fight for it. Finn, we have to fight. I don't know if I can lose you again."

"Of course you can. You're going to be famous, Rach. You don't need any of us."

"I do, though. I've always needed you."

"No. I won't let you do this."

"Who do you think you are?" she finally asks, anger bubbling up unexpectedly. It's sharp and it's biting, but she's finally found the right words. The words she's been wanting to scream at him since the moment they met and he changed her. He defined her. If he leaves, who will she be? Sure, she'll always have Broadway, but is it really the same? A life without him? "This is my life, thank you very much, and I'll do whatever I want to do with it. So I'm sorry, Finn, but you are not just going to walk out of it again."

His voice is low and resolute when he answers with the last words she ever expected to hear. "Watch me."

The line goes dead in her ear. She stares at the phone uncomprehendingly. Just the day before they'd been chatting on Skype, and everything had been incredible. So what if they were going to different colleges? They could make long distance work.

And it would have worked if he hadn't just called and ended it all.

She throws the phone against the wall. The cover falls to the ground, leaving a broken, warped piece of garish, hot pink, sparkly plastic lying on the carpet of her room. She curses her love for metaphors when her mind subconsciously starts matching things up.

She lasts about one and a half full minutes standing there in shock before she bolts to her room, locks the door, and isn't heard from for three days.

…

She puts on the thick green makeup with an almost childlike enthusiasm. Her assistants have long been dismissed. She's doing this herself. She's been dreaming about this very moment for years. With a final unnecessary sweep of the makeup brush, she's ready. As they strap her into the harness, she practices her breathing techniques and lets her mind clear.

Slowly, she's lifted onto the stage. Seeing her blonde counterpart, she narrows her eyes. After so many months of rehearsal, it all comes naturally. She hits all of her cues perfectly, and when it's time to sing, she sings.

Boy, does she sing. As her feet leave the ground, she can feel everything. The warmth of the lights, the awe-struck gazes of the audience, the raw power that emanates through the theater.

By the time the final note fades, she knows. She doesn't need to open her eyes to see the standing ovation that is waiting for her, but she does. The lights go off as the intermission is announced, and she knows that she's finally made it.

She's been famous for about three months now, but this is it. This performance made her a star.

She looks to the front row, center seat out of morbid curiosity (that's all it is, really) and sees her daddy waiting there with a video camera and a wide grin.

She pretends she isn't disappointed.

The rest of the play goes well. Better than well, really. But she can't help but feel that it would have been even better if she'd just kept her eyes shut.

…

She decides to do an interview for a well-known magazine, hoping to keep herself in the limelight for as long as possible. She deserves it.

When the reporter asks her about her life growing up, her stomach pangs. "It was…hard. People were ignorant and cruel, but I powered through it all. Singing helped to keep me grounded when- when nothing else did."

She answers many other questions, but that one stays with her.

She doesn't do another interview for five weeks.

…

Rachel used to put all of her trust into fairytale movies with unbearably happy endings. The tortured heroine who finally finds true love. The obstacles she and her lover overcome. The way everything falls together perfectly in the end.

If this were a movie, she'd walk outside of her apartment one day and bump into someone, spilling her coffee accidentally. She'd mutter an apology and look up. He'd start to tell her it was fine, don't worry about it, when the words would get stuck in his throat. He'd breathe out her name and she'd freeze, startled, before a wide grin would break out onto her face. He'd buy her a new coffee, and they would talk for hours until finally, they'd say sorry. They'd make up. And they'd get their happily ever after.

After over a month of craning her neck and holding her coffee a bit more precariously than she probably should have, she gives up.

The next week, the Disney movie section in her local Goodwill increases by 120 percent.

…

She has two separate playlists on her i-Pod. She pretends that the songs are separated based on her personal preferences. Most people believe her.

Other, more intuitive people see right through her.

"Rachel, you can't be serious! You have a whole playlist devoted to your 'favorite songs' and you're missing Don't Rain on My Parade and My Man. Really? Barbra is your idol, yet you purposely left out two of her most iconic songs? What's going on?"

"Nothing," she says primly, "I just appreciate the other songs more."

"So you like E.T. better than Funny Girl now?" He holds up the offensive object, ice blue eyes piercing hers.

"Yes, yes I do. I'm not the same girl you knew in high school, Kurt. We've all had to grow up."

"Could've fooled me," is all he says before sauntering out of her house in a manner so reminiscent of her old days that she feels the tears welling up long before they come.

She always hated it when Kurt was right.

…

She grips the mug of coffee like it's a lifeline. Her knuckles turn white and she struggles to remain conscious as she sways on her feet precariously. The clock blares the numbers 3:00 far too cheerfully for such an ungodly hour and she blinks harshly, taking another long drag of coffee. Rehearsals for Funny Girl are today.

She should be thrilled. It's like a dream come true. She's coveted this role since she was old enough to understand the movie.

Walking back into her room with stumbling, staggering steps, she blindly chooses something from her color-coordinated closet.

She then drinks a protein shake, chocolate flavored. Back when she was in high school, she used to drink vanilla. She's beyond that, though. Really.

Cursing her way through the drive to the theater, she takes a good look at herself. How different she is.

The old Rachel Berry never would have dreamed about cursing.

"It's a crude, inefficient way to deal with feelings that are obviously being unhealthily repressed," she can hear the old Rachel say in her head.

The new Rachel doesn't really give a damn.

This new Rachel, she's hardened the slightest bit. Not in the ways that truly matter, of course, but she's different. When she pulls into the parking spot that has her name on it, she isn't beaming with anticipation.

She's so, so lonely, not that the new Rachel would admit it. Her heart literally aches when she sees happy couples walking around hand in hand. The only time she ever truly smiles is on that stage. Broadway isn't her dream anymore.

It's her life.

She can't help but miss the old days. The days when life wasn't just some boring, endless routine with tiny light spots throughout. She was born to be under a spotlight all the time. What went wrong?

The answer is right in front of her, but it isn't the right one. It isn't the one she wants. It won't fit into the perfect bubble that she needs it to.

When has he ever?

…

He shows up at her door, hands uncharacteristically stuck in his pockets. His usually brilliantly put together outfit is sagging, and his powder blue shirt actually has a wrinkle. His perfectly coiffed hair is the only thing that seems to be normal, so she focuses on that as she steps aside to let him into her apartment.

"Hello, Kurt," she begins.

"I'm just going to get straight to the point." She nods. Kurt never was one for pleasantries, and his bluntness is almost refreshing. "It's been half a year, Rachel, and he's still drowning in misery. He actually got drunk last night for the first time in his entire life. I got a call from him at around two in the morning. He wouldn't stop talking about you. He misses you so much I think it's going to kill him sometimes. He'd never come and tell you himself, so I decided you deserved to know."

"He wrote me out of his life a long time ago." Her voice and eyes are cold, but her heart is near bursting. She doesn't want to hear this. It hurts too much.

"Can you honestly say you're over him?" Kurt counters with a rare gentleness.

Her face crumples and no words come. When Kurt opens his arms, it's only natural to fall into them.

"I don't- need- him," she sobs into his shirt, now warm and wet from the tears she's been holding in for so long. "I- don't."

"I know, I know," he says soothingly, but they both know that the words aren't for his benefit.

…

She pulls the cookbook from where it had sat gathering dust for the past few weeks, and opens up to the recipe for zucchini bread. She volunteered to bring some for the annual theater potluck. As she grabs the cinnamon from the spice rack, she feels a now familiar pang inside of her as old memories are dredged up. With a shaking hand, she turns to page 38. It still has the post-it note sticking out of it in all of its hot pink glory.

It's a recipe for chocolate chip cookies.

"As I'm sure you know, I've made you my infamous I'm Sorry cookies as a way to apologize to you. I shouldn't have been with Puck just to get back at you. I usually make sugar cookies, but I made an exception for you because I know how much you love this kind."

She just stares at the page for a long time before finally closing the book. The bread can wait another day.

…

She walks off of the stage after a breathtaking performance of "Don't Rain on My Parade." Technically, she was flawless, but she remembers the first time she ever truly sang the song. It feels like forever ago. She remembers the adrenaline coursing through her veins, the spotlight, the all-important words that had been spoken to her just before.

She's startled out of her reverie by a hand held out in front of her. "I'm Jonah," says a deep male voice. She looks up into eyes that are decidedly green. "You blew that out of the water, by the way. It's no wonder you're so famous."

"Thank you," she replies graciously. "It's one of my favorite songs."

"I could tell," he smiles, and his wispy, sandy blonde hair falls gracefully into his eyes.

"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to my apartment and get ready for a meeting. It was nice meeting you, though, Jonah."

Just as she turns to leave, she feels a hand on her arm. "Wait," he says, "Would you like to have dinner with me this Wednesday night?"

"Yes, that would be lovely." She slips him her number and is off.

She can still feel his phantom touch on her arm as she walks into her apartment. It had been so easy for him to reach out and stop her.

It makes her wonder why she was so successful at storming off during high school.

…

"You look beautiful," Jonah tells her as she steps out of her apartment and into his car.

"You don't look too bad yourself."

They pull up to the restaurant and Rachel smiles. There are no paparazzi and the décor is refined and elegant. Nothing at all like the old days with pizza, when they used to lie on a tattered, navy blue couch. She's beyond that.

She's finally made it.

"So, how did you first get involved in the industry?" he asks casually after they order their drinks.

Here goes nothing, she thinks. If he can handle Rachel Barbra Berry's life story, he can handle anything (only two people have ever passed that test. Only one ever stuck it through).

Two hours later, she's convinced she's found her soul mate. So what if his eyes are green and his hair verges more towards blonde than brunette? Rachel doesn't have a type. She doesn't. She won't compare him to anyone because he's his own person. A person who enjoys her company, thank you very much.

She can count on one hand (one finger) the number of people in the past that have ever known the whole, entire Rachel Berry. She's hoping to double that number by the end of tonight.

She's tired of hiding. She's been tired for eight months.

She's finally coming out again. The spotlight's been waiting.

…

He kisses her.

She can think of a million reasons why people shouldn't kiss on the first date. She promptly forgets every one of them when Jonah presses his lips gently to hers.

She wants a spark so badly. She wants to know that she doesn't need him to be happy. And when she imagines a spark between them, she imagines it well. So well, in fact, that she barely even remembers the real kiss.

Her version is exciting. There are fireworks in the background, a love song permeating the air. The warm breeze is enticing and the chill in the air is thrilling. Her toes tingle and her eyes flutter.

The real kiss?

Skin on skin. Contact. Gentle pressure, then release.

She doesn't want to compare. She doesn't want to lose Jonah, who's been so kind, so understanding.

She hates herself because for the shortest of moments, Jonah faded all together. That was when the fireworks started, and the worries melted away.

She hates herself for thinking of the one thing she's been trying to forget.

He won't let her go.

…

"Hi, Rach," smiles Jonah into the phone.

"I prefer to go by Rachel."

She doesn't know why she says it. She doesn't know why letting him call her Rach feels like betrayal of the worst kind. She doesn't know why she's letting herself move so fast with Jonah when it took years to finally get together with him.

All she knows is that she's taking one step forward and two steps in the road to forgetting him.

She'll take what she can get.

…

"I'm getting married!" he squeals across the line, and before she even knows it she's jumping up and down and squealing too, at a pitch that rivals the F she performs almost every night.

"Kurt! I'm so happy for you! Who proposed? How? Tell me everything!" Her tone brings her back to high school sharply.

"Blaine did." She squeals again unnecessarily, and he continues. "He took me out to dinner, and at the very end, he asked me if I really loved him. I told him 'of course,' obviously, and he said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He got down on one knee, right in front of everybody, and I started crying and said yes. Nobody even batted an eye. It was so perfect, Rachel, I wish you could have been there!"

"That's so romantic!"

"Isn't it? And we both wanted to know if you would be our maid of honor, along with Mercedes."

"Of course! Oh, Kurt, thank you so much! This wedding is going to be spectacular!"

"I know," he smiles smugly into the phone. Some things never change.

She congratulates him once more before hanging up. Her next call is to Jonah.

…

"Oh hell to the nah, you expecting my fine figure to fit in the same dress as your white girl, curve-less body? No. No, no, no. I'm picking my own dress, and so are you. Now get shopping, girl."

"I was just trying to be helpful," she chimes in sweetly. Placing the lovely number back on the rack, she sighs inwardly. Of course, being famous does teach you a few tricks about what to wear.

She picks the dress without thinking. The color, the cut, everything is perfect. Rushing off to the dressing room, she throws it on without even glancing at the price tag. She probably never will.

It's a deep, serene blue color, flowing down to just above her knees. It's modest, but strikingly elegant.

"Damn," whispers Mercedes when Rachel steps out from behind the curtain, grinning.

"I like it," she says unnecessarily. The entire store probably knows by the beam on her face.

"I need to find something gorgeous if I want to share that title with you. Come on, let's find me a dress!"

Twenty minutes later, Mercedes is standing in front of a highly approving Rachel in a dress that looks like it was woven with sunbeams.

Though in Rachel's state, it doesn't take much to distort her vision. She'd also told Mercedes that a lime green number looked 'refreshing,' only to be smacked by a purse. "It's awful and you know it."

In another five minutes, they're leaving the store, and Rachel is happier than she's been in a long time. As she scrolls through her contacts to dial Jonah, her name rests in the now empty space between "Daddy" and "Greg-director" for just a moment too long. She writes it off as nothing.

It doesn't allay her guilty feeling when it happens again later that night.

…

Kurt and Blaine's wedding is in two months. As a maid of honor, she's been busy helping with catering, décor, and invitations. She loves it. It gives her something to focus on besides her shows.

She loves the thrill of the lights, she loves seeing her name on the boards, and above all she loves performing. She lives on applause. She thrives on stage.

The only problem is, she isn't thriving anywhere else. Her life is a starless night, illuminated by a supernova that comes regularly. So regularly, in fact, that she depends on it. That supernova is like air.

Does it count as a bright spot if everything else is dark? If the only comparison is as black as ink?

She isn't so sure anymore.

…

Jonah loves her hair. She isn't too particularly fond of it, but he's been enthralled since the moment he met. He admits it to her one night when they're watching a movie together.

"You're gorgeous," he says out of the blue, and she nearly blushes.

"Why thank you. Any particular reason you decided to mention it?"

"You deserve to know. And it seems like you don't hear it enough."

"What about me is beautiful, though? My nose is huge, my personality bigger, and my eyes are the color of mud." She needs to hear it. She hasn't heard it in so long.

"You don't see yourself very clearly, do you? Do you want to know what I see when I see you, Rachel?" she nods, "I see a star. I see stunning brown eyes that are warm, a determination that is so fierce nothing could ever stand in your way, and I see the shiniest hair I've ever seen."

"My hair?"

"Of course. I love it," he says casually, and her heart skips a beat. They haven't exchanged the three-word sentiment quite yet, but that's dangerously close.

As he says this, he threads his fingers through it. It's gentle, not rough like she remembers. No one has touched her hair (besides her hairdresser) in quite a while.

They stay huddled together in the warmth of the couch for just over an hour. He has to leave. She says she wishes he could have stayed longer and she agrees quietly.

When he kisses her goodnight, she pretends, and another spark is willed into existence. She can make this work. Jonah was right about one thing.

She's determined.

…

The wedding is fast approaching. Only one week remains. When Kurt tells her she needs a date, she doesn't even blink. She has one.

She pretends not to see his look of disappointment.

She's happy. Jonah makes her happy. She's happy for the first time in months, can't he begrudge her that? Jonah is perfect for her, she's sure of it.

His eyes are green. His hair is blonder now than it was when she met him (summer gives him highlights). He stands almost six feet tall. He has an extensive vocabulary. He understands her.

And he never, ever lets her walk out on him.

She's happy.

Sometimes she starts to wonder if happy is enough, if she just imagined the elation, the joy she experienced in high school.

She hates him for making her wonder.

…

"What's this?" asks Jonah, holding up the scrapbook she's been ever so careful about hiding for the past year.

"It's nothing. It's actually from a really long time ago, so it doesn't even matter."

"Doesn't look like nothing. Ex?" he asks, pointing to her favorite picture (they're both laughing. She misses his laugh). Jonah's tone is careful and controlled.

Controlled. Controllist. The words bring back memories. There must be something wrong with her. It's been nearly a year, and one word can still bring it all crashing back. Attempting to clear her head, she responds.

"Yeah."

"You guys looked…happy." We were, she thinks.

"Don't all boyfriends and girlfriends?"

"No. Not necessarily." He's quiet.

"Why would you choose to be with someone that doesn't make you happy?" She doesn't know why she chooses to ask that. The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

"I don't know," he says, and the way he's looking at her makes her heart drop. He's telling her that he knows. He understands. He just doesn't know why she's doing what she's doing when she knows they'll both get hurt.

She doesn't tell him that she's terrified of falling apart.

…

When she gets to the wedding, she's excited. Jonah is by her side, and they've been steadily avoiding any topics that could cause conflict for the past few days. She heads straight to find Kurt, and bids her date farewell for the time being.

"Kurt, you look fabulous!"

"Don't I always?" he retorts in his flawless, ink black suit. She just rolls her eyes good-naturedly and nudges him with her shoulder.

"I'm so happy for you, Kurt. You and Blaine both deserve this."

"I'm happy too. I just never thought I could have this, and now that it's here…" he breaks off, wiping at an errant tear. "I'm sorry to get all emotional teenager on you Rachel, it's just…a lot to take in."

"Don't be sorry. Everybody cries at weddings," she says, smiling at him. "I'm going to go talk to my dads before the ceremony starts, I haven't seen them in person for a while. Relax," she grabs his hand in mid-air, "you don't need to fidget with your suit. You look fantastic. Really."

He mumbles his thanks and she walks out into the main hall, grinning from ear to ear at the decorations. Kurt is brilliant.

Scanning the tables, she sees her fathers and walks over to them. "Dad! Daddy!"

They turn, and Daddy hops out of his seat, grabbing her in a bear hug. "Rachel! We missed you, darling!"

"I missed you guys too." She's surprised to find herself choking up.

"Well, we know you have some things to do as a maid of honor, sweetheart, but we just wanted you to know that you can always come on home if you need to."

"I know, Dad, thanks." Her voice is thick with repressed tears, and her parents smile at her sadly. Impulsively, she hugs both of them tightly before running back to calm Kurt down from one of his inevitable panic attacks.

She doesn't look behind her, nor does she see her ex-boyfriend talking to her current boyfriend.

She doesn't save herself a whole lot of heartbreak, either.

…

"I do," says Blaine, beaming while one tear runs silently down his cheek.

"Of course I do," says Kurt, and the audience laughs lightly. Without waiting for the words, they lean in with some sort of mutual understanding and their lips meet in the middle. Rachel joins the cheers halfheartedly.

Her mind is somewhere else at the moment.

She hates him for doing this. She hates him for taking away this beautiful moment and making her uncomfortable, nervous, and angry. She hates him so much it hurts.

She's dancing with Wes. There is absolutely no way in the universe that she will dance with him. She won't let him bring back memories of their senior prom so easily.

She won't look up again and marvel at how little he's changed. He's still unbelievably tall, lanky, and full of nervous energy. The set of his jaw is still a little bit unsure of itself, as if he isn't sure what he feels.

She knows that he's sure, though. She knows it like she knows this moment was always supposed to happen.

And when she thinks that, she realizes that even if her life isn't a fairytale (and it never will be), fairytales got a few things right. They might not be right in the ideal way, but they make some good points.

Every lie has to come from the truth. It's all there is to build off of.

And that small realization hits her in a big way.

They can't avoid each other any more than she can avoid the stage. They will either end tonight, or…

She doesn't let the thought come into fruition. She has her beginning with Jonah now. It's time to give him up.

They will finally end tonight. The restless nights when he haunts her in his dreams will end. The moments where he steals her breath will end. And the way no one seems to understand her as well as he did will finally, finally end. Closure will come, and those moments where she doesn't think she's good enough will disappear.

She's getting her happy ending tonight.

Maybe life is a little bit like a fairytale, after all.

…

When they announce the dance for the maid(s) of honor and best man (men), Rachel doesn't hesitate.

Fortunately, Mercedes seems to be quite enough to preoccupy both Wes and David while Rachel goes in for the kill. She's tired of waiting for him. She's finally making the first move.

"Come on," she commands, reaching out for his hand. She pretends that she doesn't care that it's the first time they've made actual, skin on skin contact for what feels like forever. She wills the spark out of existence, and nearly fails. It's easier to create one than destroy one.

Her heart rate does not speed up when he puts his hands on her lower back, and her breathing does not become shallow, nor does it come in small gasps. It can't. She belongs to Jonah now.

He holds her carefully, as if she'll break (as if she's a stranger). She keeps her eyes on the ground, all courage draining away the second his gaze tries to meet hers. She can't look up and see the coldness that's surely waiting there.

They sway a bit, and she realizes that they aren't acting like strangers. When he's about to step on her foot, she moves out of instinct, and her face burns with that small recognition. I know you, her actions say.

They speak far louder than the words she can only grasp for.

"Why are you dancing with me?" he asks, tone pleading. He needs an answer as much as she does.

"It ends tonight," she promises, "All of it. I thought we ended a long time ago, but tonight I'm finally letting you go."

It's said with finality, yet somehow the words feel hollow in her mouth.

"Tonight?" he asks, oblivious as ever.

"Tonight."

She pretends not to notice the way he looks at her first, then the ground.

They stay like that until the song finishes, both staring at their shoes, neither willing to acknowledge how well they really know the other.

It's easier to be strangers, just for one song, than to let the memories in.

…

She asks him if they can talk. He says yes. This is it.

They arrive at his condo within ten minutes of leaving the wedding. She fires a text off to Jonah about a migraine of some sort and he just tells her to feel better. She'd be guilty if she weren't doing this for them.

His house smells like him, and just the scent of his body wash and his cologne and his essence is enough to nearly send her over the edge. She balls her fists and marches on into his living room.

She barely prevents a tear from falling when she sees the couch (still blue, still tattered) sitting in front of an unassuming coffee table that she knows he rests his feet on when he's watching a game of some sort on the small, beat up television.

A half empty Starbucks cup rests on the table, but she knows it's filled with hot chocolate. Finn doesn't drink coffee. Her suspicions (observations) are confirmed when she dares to inhale through her nose again. She's assaulted by him, but she can make out a whiff of alcohol as well.

Alcohol?

Kurt's words ring in her ears.

He's miserable. He got wasted the other night. First time I've ever seen him drink.

Could this be because of her?

"Are you intoxicated?" she asks carefully.

"Not right now, no."

"But you were." It isn't a question.

"Why do you even care, Rach?" Hearing her name on his lips, no matter how tired it sounds, sends a thrill rushing through her body. Nobody has called her that in far too long.

"Don't," she warns him, but doesn't elaborate. What could she say?

Don't say my name because I can't stand to hear it.

Don't look at me because I can't stand to see you looking at me that way.

Don't speak to me because I can't stand this fear, this feeling of a new beginning that should have ended so long ago.

She only wishes she could be so bold.

"You know what, Rach? I'm sick of this. I'm so sick of all of this. I'm sick of pretending I'm all right because I'm not. So please, just tell me that you're over me so we both can move on."

He sounds tired, so tired. She's heard him speak twice so far, but she drinks in his voice in a way that makes a voice inside of her scream in protest. She smothers the voice with a flick of her hair and tries to reply to him somehow.

"I-" she cuts off and Finn waits for her to finish expectantly. She doesn't. It's one of very few times she's ever been at a loss for words.

(Out of those few, most were because of him).

When she still can't seem to force the words out of her mouth, he decides to continue. "I see you everywhere. God, I just missed you so damn much. You know I slept on this couch for the first two weeks after we broke up?"

"Why did you break up with me?" she finally asks, not able to wait a moment longer.

"So you wouldn't get stuck here." The answer fills her with rage, not unlike that moment. It's rare that she snaps. Desperate times call for desperate measures, she supposes.

"You could have at least called, or emailed, or something! Do you realize that maybe, just maybe I was hurting too? That I deserved a better explanation? I love you, Finn. I loved you so much that I broke. I'm not over you. I don't know if I ever will be. But I have a boyfriend, and I'm trying to close this gaping hole you left one day at a time."

"You love me." It's a whisper. Subconsciously, she used the present tense. She isn't taking it back.

"Yes," she admits, "But I don't need you like I did before." It's easily the truest thing she's said all night.

Every part of her yearns to turn around, to leave it at that. She gets the last word and everything is over. But she won't. She's standing up for herself and for him. She's finally finding the courage that she needed all along. She holds his gaze, unwavering, and he seems as surprised as she is that she's still here.

"Do you remember Nationals junior year?"

Of course she does.

"I've had that song stuck in my head on and off ever since we…ended."

Somehow, she doesn't think he means 'Light up the Night.'

"And it hurts, Rachel. It hurts so much that I can't breathe sometimes. I just remember your laugh and I'll break down like some kind of lovesick idiot. And you know what the worst part is? It's knowing that you're better off now. You have your name in lights, your new boyfriend, your dream. And all this time, I was dreaming about you."

"Do you honestly think I'm better off?"

Her voice is quiet tonight. It's so quiet she barely recognizes it as her own. She's used to having to shout to be heard.

It's ironic that when someone is finally listening, she's reduced to barely a whisper.

"No one gets me in New York. I can't call you whenever someone says something that reminds me of you, and I can't send you a text to tell you how I'm feeling. Jonah is exactly what I need right now. He's one of my best friends. But he doesn't get me the way you did."

She feels like they're trading stories, trying to find out who was the most pathetic, and she doesn't want that. She wants closure. She wants the butterflies in her stomach to sleep just this once.

He doesn't help. "I'm sorry."

It's hard to hate him when he has that expression on his face. He looks…heartbroken. But she can't do this to herself. She can't just let him back in. She won't break so easily this time.

"I'm sorry, too. But that doesn't change anything. I have to go home now, and I'm sure Jonah is waiting for me to call him back." She manages a watery smile. "Take care of yourself, Finn. I hope you find someone that makes you happy."

Then she hugs him. His warmth envelops her, and she tries her hardest not to be affected by it. She's transported back years by one embrace, and she feels tears welling up. She doesn't allow them to fall.

"I love you," he says into her hair, so quietly she barely catches it. She knows that when he says this, his eyes widen, even though she can't see them. It's how he's always been. When he says something that actually means something, he surprises himself.

"Goodbye, Finn," she replies.

When she turns to leave, it isn't snappy or dramatic. It's calm. It's the goodbye she never perfected in high school.

It's a turn that takes the courage she finally, finally has.

She doesn't look back once.

…

When Jonah asks her where in the world she went, she replies (just a little bit mysteriously) that she had some unfinished business to take care of.

She doesn't say whether it really got taken care of or not.

…

The leaves are starting to turn crimson on the tree that hovers over her favorite bench in Central Park. She sits, reveling in the light, cool breeze that rustles the life around her. She hums a tune softly, gently, and it fills the air, swelling on every note that she hits perfectly. She hears a bird respond with a lively chirp and smiles sadly. This was going to be their bench.

When she first moved to the big city, she knew she needed something to show him. He was going to come out during spring break and she was going to be his tour guide. After days of extensive searching, this bench had stood out.

Its simplicity had won her over in seconds.

Now she sits on the very same bench, trying to sift through her feelings.

Is she happy now? She thinks so. She's happy, and she's content to be with Jonah. Being with Jonah is easy. It's nothing like the drama of high school.

Can she live without him? She's already proven that she can.

Is she over him?

(The jury's still out on that one.)

Suddenly the bench doesn't seem so warm and inviting. The cool wood feels harsh as it bites into her leg and the sound of rustling branches seems sinister. The day darkens, and she reluctantly gets up. There's a hint of urgency in her step as she walks out to the streets, then to her apartment, and she blames it on the bench.

She doesn't blame it on the uneasy feeling she gets when she thinks about him.

…

"I love you," says Jonah.

She freezes, trying to find the right words to respond with. The tile floor is chilling under her bare feet, and she can't help but think that this is anticlimactic compared to her high school days, where everything seemed to sparkle. She doesn't want to break his heart, but she can't lie to him.

She gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "I know." She ignores the knowing understanding present on his gentle features, so different.

She's trying. She'll get there. She just needs a little more time.

…

"Kurt? Did you ever feel like everything seemed brighter in high school?"

"How so?" he asks, looking up from a pair of designer jeans he's been examining.

"Like everything was, I don't know, covered in glitter?" she asks, feeling monumentally stupid. In true Berry fashion, however, she presses on, strangely desperate to have him agree, to know it isn't just her. "Like everything shined just a little bit brighter back then?"

"You're a superstar on Broadway and you're saying things were brighter back then?" He laughs harshly. "This is the best life's going to get for you. You might as well live it instead of always looking back."

"You're right. I look back a lot, don't I? I guess that even though I hated it, high school was where I started out. It isn't an experience I can just write out of my head."

"If you can do that with any experience, please teach me how. Those dumpster dives are really annoying to dream about."

She winces. "I'll let you know. I love that pair, by the way. They're perfect for you."

"They are," he agrees, and makes for the dressing room in a flurry of clothes and sashaying and the essence of diva that could really only be defined as Kurt.

She turns to a pile of tops, not really paying attention to the clothing in front of her while she ponders the truths that were just revealed. She looks back for a lot of reasons. She knows it. But right now, she can only think of one.

"Rachel! Put down that animal patterned, disgustingly juvenile sweater right this instant! I swear, it's like Glee club all over again. Oh, the horrors of high school."

She grins and throws back, "Who's looking back now?""

He just fixes his hair and smiles ruefully. "Guilty. But really, I blame you. That sweater brought back a lot…none of it good, by the way. If you were considering buying that after all the time we've spent shopping I'll officially consider myself a failure." His phone beeps merrily and he pushes it out of his pocket. "Oh, Finn's here to pick me up. And apparently, and I quote, nobody keeps Hudson waiting." He rolls his eyes, drops the jeans haphazardly, and hugs her tightly.

With a cheerful promise to see her later, he turns out of the store. Rachel's eyes follow him through the glass window until he's out of sight, then she looks down at the sweater she was holding.

Kurt was right about it bringing him back to high school.

It's the same shirt she was wearing when they kissed for the third time.

…

She giggles as he leads her into the janitor's closet.

"We are so going to get caught! Finn!"

"Don't worry about it," he says, a mischievous glint in his eye. He shuts the door behind them, and the scent stings her nose. She pretends not to notice and resists commenting. He follows her lead (doesn't he always?).

"Oh my gosh, this is so cliché on so many levels."

He takes a moment, but she can see the recognition light up his eyes as he agrees that yes, this is cliché, but people must do it for a reason, right?

"You're a lot smarter than people give you credit for," she smiles.

"I really, really like you, Rachel."

"I like you, too."

It's the closest they've gotten to saying the only three words that really matter. They have two down. Only one to edit.

With those three words (three mild words) he leans in. She lets him kiss her, and she kisses back, and she feels warmth swell up inside of her as she gets on her tiptoes. She can feel his hands on her face, in her hair, and finally resting on her shoulders. She knows the scratchy woolen material isn't the softest to the touch, but he certainly doesn't seem to mind.

Suddenly, they hear footsteps and she jumps as if she's been burned. They both freeze until the steps fade away, then he bursts into laughter. She can only make out "your face!" in his breathless exclamations, but it's enough to make her crack a smile too.

"I'm not the one who chose the janitor's closet. Which, by the way, doesn't even have a lock! I don't even want to think about who else has been in here doing awful things. Imagine if Puck or Santana…" she shudders delicately.

"Ew, okay, that's just nasty." He tries to maneuver around her to get to the door, but ends up hitting the rack of cleaners in a move that can only be described as 'Finn.' A particularly vibrant blue one ends up tipping, and she barely has time to react before her front is covered in chemicals.

"Sorry!" he nearly shouts. She shushes him and turns to open the door. Before she does, she decides to remind him of one last thing.

"I have an extra set of clothes in my locker," he looks at her, confused as always, "Slushies. Anyways, you can't tell anyone about this. I'm not about to put a blemish on my spotless record. Okay?"

He nods.

Later that night, she decides against putting the shirt in the washer.

It comes with her to New York, vaguely heart-shaped (according to him, at least) stain and all. When she sees it lying in her still unpacked box of old clothes, she just smiles fondly. He won't get to her this time. She won't let him.

…

Life gets easier.

Her playlists slowly start to merge, though some songs are completely discarded (she hates to do it, but My Man brings back so many memories she convinces herself it's better this way, really).

She finally bakes the zucchini bread months late, but the sense of accomplishment is far greater than the guilt for never bringing it to the potluck. She doesn't even think anybody noticed.

The scent of coffee is warm and delicious rather than painful. The scent of alcohol still hurts, though.

She avoids animal sweaters like the plague, though she was doing that already. Her fashion sense has drastically improved.

She tells Jonah she loves him. (Later that night, when she's in bed, she pretends that she meant it).

She bakes her first batch of chocolate chip cookies in over eighteen months and the taste nearly brings her to tears. She overcomes and powers through, and no one was able to see the crack in her composure.

She isn't sure if it's because she's better composed now or because there was only ever one person who could see right through her like a sheet of glass.

She tells herself she doesn't care.

She tells herself a lot of things during those six weeks, some more true than others. It doesn't matter to her, though.

All that matters is that she's finally moving on.

…

Some days are harder.

Jonah finds her curled up with her box (a suggestion made by her now fired psychologist) of everything that reminds her of him. It's huge and it's bursting with painful memories. What would be even more painful to her would be to forget them.

She was sifting through the old pictures with tears running down her face when she'd become exhausted. She was so, so tired of trying to move on. She was tired of pretending she was fine. She was tired of all of it.

When she wakes up, the photos are back in the box, organized by date, and the sweater is hanging in her closet.

Rachel-

I found you with this stuff (asleep) on the floor, so I put it away for you. Just know you can always talk to me if you need to. I love you.

-Jonah

She doesn't deserve him. It's her first thought when she reads the note. He's so kind, so understanding, and so patient. He's always been sure of himself and of his love for her, and he's never wavered once.

He's everything she would have asked for if you'd asked her in her freshman year.

But nobody did. And now, her standards have changed.

Looking back, she realizes that once she met him, nobody ever really had a chance.

…

"Jonah?" she asks, voice strong and determined.

"Yeah, what's up?" He sounds preoccupied, but she knows that the papers sitting on his desk are mainly for show. He isn't busy. He just likes people to think that he is. As she really looks at him, no comparisons in her mind, she sees a person that she wouldn't have given the time of day if they'd met at any other time.

"I can't do this anymore." This gets his attention.

"Wait, Rachel, what do you mean?"

"I'm breaking up with you." She's proud when her voice doesn't tremble at all.

"Why? This is so sudden, I didn't-"

"We never should have gotten together. When we met, I was in a really bad spot in my life. I was…broken, and I needed help putting myself back together. You helped me, Jonah. I'm just sorry that I couldn't see you as the person you truly are. I just saw you as my best friend."

"I understand." And she can tell that he does. She can tell that he expected this. It makes her feel exponentially worse. He's making it easier for her.

"I'm really, really sorry. You deserve someone who can love you better than I can. Promise we'll still be friends?" she asks suddenly. It's desperate, but she doesn't want to lose him. Her selfish streak never really disappeared.

"I can't do that. We can try, but I won't lie to you like that. I can't."

"Then we'll try. I'm not saying goodbye, by the way. I don't say it unless I mean it."

"Then I won't say goodbye, either. This is about him, isn't it?" he asks gently.

She pauses for a moment before answering with the truth. "In a way, yes. But at the same time, I won't go crawling after him. I'm beyond that. I just need to get my life on track and look at me, for once. Then maybe I can date again."

"Good idea. I still love you, Rachel."

"I love you, too."

It's the only time she's ever said it to him without lying. It feels like freedom.

…

Her first call is Kurt.

"Jonah and I broke up."

"I'm so sorry! Do you need anything? Ice cream? Chick flicks?"

"Don't be sorry. I broke up with him and I'm standing by my decision. Though a girls' night in would be nice. Can you call Mercedes?"

"Yeah, of course."

"And Kurt?"

"Mhm?"

"Thanks. Just…for being there when no one else was."

"What are best frenemies for? Without you I'd have no competitive spirit. What kind of a Kurt Hummel would that be?"

"A decidedly less fabulous one."

"Agreed. I'll be over with Mercedes in about twenty with all the necessities."

"Great. I'll be here."

"You better."

She grins into the phone as the dial tone plays, and it's a real smile. It feels so good that she stays like that, picking up her house with a smile so huge she must look mentally insane. She doesn't care.

She sings off the stage for the first time in months and it almost feels foreign. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling, she forges ahead, and soon she's singing choice lines from every song she can think of. She's made it through about thirty with no intention of stopping when the doorbell rings. Still humming, she opens it to reveal two of the best friends a girl could ask for.

"In a good mood?" asks a pajama-clad Mercedes Jones. With a squeal, Rachel throws herself at her, and they both nearly tumble to the ground.

The night passes in a blur. She never wants it to end.

But soon enough, reality takes over, and she wakes up late Monday morning. Sending her friends off sadly, she rushes to get ready and speeds the whole way to the theatre.

She sings in the car. She sings as she runs out of the parking lot. She's still singing when she waits in the wings for her cue. She sings through costume changes and through lunch.

She sings about love, heartbreak, friendship, the sun, birds, revenge, and sorrow.

She sings, and it's like greeting a long lost friend.

In a way, she is. She's greeting the old Rachel Berry. She's back.

…

She hurriedly adjusts her scarf as she steps forward in line.

"I'd like a decaf Americano, please." She slips the change across the table and steps aside to wait for her order. As she waits, she thinks about the short-term. It's her best mechanism. She doesn't have to think about the long-term. As long as she can focus on what's coming now, she can control what comes next.

In her head, the logic is infallible.

She grabs her coffee with shaking hands (it is winter, after all) when it's announced, and she hurries out of the door, humming a tune she'd heard on the radio. It's pop infused and lacks emotion in every sense of the word, but it carries no painful memories. It's simple.

She nearly trips over a crack in the pavement, but manages to regain her balance seconds before toppling over. It's how her life has been lately. Countless shortcomings masked by composure.

She finally reaches her apartment building and opens the door, closing her eyes briefly as the warmth assaults her. It's lovely.

She barely stops herself from cursing under her breath when she realizes that her umbrella is still at the coffee shop, two blocks away. The forecast gave a one hundred percent chance of rain starting in about an hour, and it's already drizzling. She supposes she could buy another, but it was her favorite.

Grumbling, she stomps back through the revolving door, not seeing the figure until it's far too late and she can feel the warm liquid seeping through her new, thigh length navy pea coat.

"I'm so-"

"Rachel?" he breathes, and the word sorry gets stuck in her throat. Her breath is gone. It can't be.

She turns her eyes upward nervously, and they widen when her fears are confirmed. She's looking into a pair of warm, brown eyes now nearly round in shock and it's all so familiar.

She could kiss him right now and it wouldn't even feel strange.

He cut his hair. It's the second thing she notices.

He looks exhausted; the rings under his eyes are far too dark from just one night of lost sleep.

"Hi," she says, and it's so anticlimactic yet so absolutely perfect for the moment that she smiles. He lifts his lips into a crooked reply and she's breathless once again.

"Sorry about…" he gestures vaguely to her shirt.

"It's fine," she tells him.

They tread carefully.

He offers to buy her another coffee and she accepts graciously, saying she needs to go back to grab her umbrella anyways. They walk and make small talk about Lima and how everyone's been, and Rachel doesn't think anything has felt so natural for her since one year, eight months, and twenty-six days before.

Since After Finn began and her world came crashing down.

It's funny how even after all they've been through (and after all the effort she put into forgetting him), he still defines her life.

When he buys her a coffee (and a hot chocolate for himself) they sit down in a set of couches in the corner, and she thinks that maybe life can be a little like a fairytale after all.

End