Tonight gave me feelings and then I put my iPod on shuffle and this happened.

Dedicated to anyone and everyone who has ever felt regret. It's never too late.

Back to December

By Santana Lopez

It was cold, I remember because I gave you my jacket to wear because the one you had on wasn't warm enough. We walked down the streets of Lima, we were visiting our parents for the holidays, and you wanted to see the decorated houses. It was quiet and it had finally stopped snowing when we reached the front steps of your parent's house, we were staying there for the week, and you stopped me from opening the front door.

You tugged on the sleeve of my sweater until my hand fell freely into yours and then you squeezed it gently, the way you do when you have something to say. I turned to face you and gave you a smile, I wondered what you were going to say, and I assumed something about how we needed to tell your parents to decorate the house more next year. Your eyes shone in the moonlight and the way that you smiled back at me told me that what you were about to say had nothing to do with reindeer or icicle lights strung from gutters.

You breathed out slowly and I remember watching the steam puff out light clouds of smoke, making you look mysteriously beautiful, almost more beautiful than I had ever seen you. Our fingers laced and then you reached for my other hand and did the same, linking your fingers into my own and you cleared your throat. You shuffled in place, your shoes crunched some snow that was stuck to the wood of your porch and I couldn't fight the nervous flutter that swam around in my stomach.

Letting go of one of my hands, you lifted yours and brought it up to brush the backs of your fingers against my cheek. Even though it was freezing out, I could feel your warmth against my skin and I shuddered. You told me I was beautiful and that I made you happy. I nodded because I felt the same way and I knew that if I said the same just then that you would smile sheepishly back at me and giggle. So, like I said, I nodded and then I squeezed your hand, the one that was still gripping mine and I realized that you were shaking.

Concerned, I asked you if you were cold and if you wanted to go inside. But you shook your head, adamantly too, and told me that you weren't cold just nervous. I stared at you, curiously, and watched as your hand left my cheek and you dipped your index and thumb into the front pocket of your jeans. Slowly, literally like slow motion, you lifted your hand back up and held it between us and between your index finger and thumb was something shining back at me.

My heart jumped, my breath was taken away and I'm pretty sure my eyes were comically wide. I took a step back, just one, but you noticed it. I said your name, it was like a whisper, and I was once again greeted by the cloudy air of hot mixing with cold almost blurring my vision of the ring between your fingers.

I woke up the next day, my back hurt, my head ached and I had bags under my eyes. I glanced over to the left and saw my bags propped up against the wall of my parent's living room. The couch was not as comfy as we used to think it was when we were in high school, when comfort was a tiny detail we cared nothing for, as long as we had each other. But there I was, alone on a couch with a sore neck and a thin sheet covering my body.

When we returned to our apartment that night we awkwardly walked on eggshells around each other, only whispering out half hearted apologies when getting in each other's way. You sat in the kitchen while I was in the bedroom, our bedroom, and packed a few things. With my jacket on and two bags slung over my shoulder I headed for the door, I think you were watching me, but when I turned around as I reached the door you were gone. I heard the door to the bedroom, our bedroom, close and I sighed, giving the place one last look over before walking out.

Slowly, my things left our apartment, your apartment, and I kept some in storage because the one bedroom studio I found wasn't big enough. I tried to decorate but couldn't find the strength to, I couldn't even hang pictures because they were all of us, you. I remember sitting on my bed one night staring out the window and I stared at the moon. It was full, like it was that night that your eyes sparkled so brightly.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and soon it was a year and a half and the temporary one bedroom turned into a two year lease. I went on some interviews because working as a barista was not really conducive to the lifestyle I had always pictured for myself as an aspiring writer. I got a job to write obituaries for a while until finally my boss decided I had a knack for words and I got a promotion then soon my own column. Ironically enough, I had a stint writing an advice column and people would usually ask for relationship advice.

I could easily answer them because I had been the one to love in secret, to love from a far, to love with fear, to love in pain and, well, to love in general. I was going through my old clippings the other day and I couldn't help but wonder if you ever read them. As I read them over I found myself laughing myself to tears until the tears were no longer funny, but sadder than anything and I remembered that first time you saw me cry. I had unintentionally made you cry, you told me that I was too beautiful to be so sad and that even if it was hard work, you'd never let me cry again.

But, as I read over the advice I had given people I felt a pang in my chest, the same one I have felt since that night in December. See, I could relate to those who loved in secret, loved from a far, loved with fear, loved in and pain and just plain loved because I loved. Beside the article clippings was an envelope that has since been worn from being opened and handled over and over again. It was from a guy in Chicago, our city, asking how to get over love. I remember when I first read his letter and his request for advice I stared at the paper for a long while but I never did answer.

And even still, almost a year since I first read his letter, I cannot answer 'Justin Love' because I don't know. I found love, the kind that books and movies are about. But, I lost it and I can't give 'Justin Love' advice because I am not over it, love that is. I used to think love was overrated, that it came and went like the seasons but it wasn't until I lost it that I realized how wrong I was, how wrong I have been.

Love is one of those once in a lifetime things. It's the thing people write books about because a love story in writing can never be altered. Love is the kind of thing that makes people do stupid things like stand in the rain just to kiss a little longer, hold boom boxes over their heads or write an article to get a girl's attention. Love is like a unicorn, rare but so very beautiful, amazing and breathtaking.

I've never been one to admit when I'm wrong or apologize first. But I was wrong and I'm sorry.

I've spent the past two years thinking about how I should have said 'yes' when you proposed to me that night in December. How I should have said 'yes' and watch you slip the ring on my finger, telling you how much I love you. But instead, I've spent the past two years replaying that night and how I said 'no', telling you that we were still so young and that I had so many things I had yet to do. I said 'no', explaining that we had our student loans we were still paying off and that I was the head barista at the coffee shop on our block.

I've spent the past two years thinking about you and how you made me feel. Just thinking about you, I still get those feelings and I wonder how you feel. If I could go back to that December night I would have said 'yes' because instead of sitting here wondering if you are even going to read this, I would be sitting at our kitchen table with your hand in mine. If I could go back to December I would have kissed you silly until we stumbled into the snow and laughed until our sides hurt.

Every day since I moved out, I wake up talking myself into marching over to see you and tell you that I made a mistake. But each day ends the same, wishes unfulfilled and empty promises I make to myself. I miss your smile, your laugh, the way your hair looks in the morning and your voice in my ear when you whisper. I miss that look you had when the moonlight made your eyes glisten, like you were in on a secret that not even I knew, not then at least. I think I know now, I'm only sorry it's taken me so long to say it out loud.

Love is like a unicorn, rare but so very beautiful, amazing and breathtaking. It's you.

"Goodnight Lopez," Roger says as he tucks his briefcase under his arm and waves at the young Latina still sitting at her desk with her chin in her hand. "Go home, you work too hard." He tells her and she smiles back at him, watching him leave her all alone with her thoughts once again.

She sighs, her eyes scan the computer screen, she's going over a few things before she packs it in and calls it a night. It's been about two weeks since she got her promotion and it's been exhausting trying to keep up with her own ideas and trying to keep her boss happy. With a double click of the mouse the screen goes black, she rubs her eyes and pushes her chair out from her desk and leans over to grab her bag.

The office lights are pretty much out, the hallway looking like something out of a horror movie complete with the nightly janitor who smiles creepily at her as she walks by. She closes the flaps of her black trench coat, what kind of a newspaper write would she be if she didn't own one, and ties it shut. It's early December so the Chicago streets are pretty brutal and as she makes her way down the steps to the ground level she shivers preparing herself.

She waves the security guard Joe goodnight as she passes him at his station right in front of the large wooden door of her office building. Pulling out her cell phone from her pocket she presses the top button to check the time. Santana rolls her eyes and huffs because in less than six hours she has to wake up and return back to this place.

The cold wind smacks her in the face as soon as she steps out onto the tiny cement staircase of the building and she jams her hands into her jacket. Her feet quickly move down the four steps, bringing her to the sidewalk within seconds and she turns left to head to the corner to catch a taxi. But, after a few steps she stops completely. She stands still, her brow furrows and suddenly the cold, winter breeze is just a minor setback.

Her forehead smoothes out, she blinks a few times and takes a deep breath before spinning completely around. The air catches in her throat, her lips part and a puff of white pops from her mouth nearly distorting her vision. But, even through a rain drenched windshield she'd be able to recognize that face anywhere.

Her blonde hair is tied back, it's in a ponytail like the way she used to wear it in high school, and she is wearing a familiar winter coat. Her sneakers are worn, they're the kind she used to always wear to the dance studio when she had practice or rehearsal or just needed to let out steam. The pants of her sweat pants are slightly bunched up stopping just below her muscular calf. Santana takes a few tentative steps towards her, Brittany does the same, cautiously moving towards the dark haired woman.

Brittany shivers a bit which does not go unnoticed by Santana and the Latina shoots her a concerned look. Her head drops and her brown eyes look down at her trench coat and then back up to Brittany.

"Are you cold?" Santana asks and she points to the wooden doors of her office building. "Do you wanna go inside?" Her voice is so soft, it's almost not there and she realizes as her hand drops back down to her side that this scene is all too familiar, but different.

"I'm not cold." Brittany tells her, shaking her head from side to side and letting out a long breath. A rustling sound distracts Santana and she takes notice to the thing that Brittany is pulling out from under her arm. It's their newspaper, Santana's newspaper. "I'm not cold Santana," She repeats, her blue eyes boring into brown ones and she holds the paper out further so that Santana can see that it's opened to her article. "I'm just nervous." Brittany admits and she glances down at the paper for a moment, silently letting Santana understand, letting Santana get it.

This time, she does.