Disclaimer: I do not own Pitch Perfect or any of the characters associated with it.

She's always got one foot out the door. It's the way it's been, it's the way it'll continue to be.

You love her, that's for sure. She's your sunshine (quite literally; her smile is blinding and her red hair sparkles) and your everything. But she's not all there; her love isn't as strong. It's a lot weaker and you know you're selfish (and she kind of is) by holding her back. But you know at the first chance for an actual love, she'll bolt. It hurts a lot to know you can't make her smile just by walking into the room. She makes you smile, but you can't make her feel the same.

The first time it happens (that she leaves for someone else), she comes back two days later, in tears, apologizing and throwing herself into your arms.

You know, though, she didn't come back because she loved you more. She came back because it fell through. You are her safety cushion, nothing more. When she takes a misstep you're always there, eyes shining with love and comfort and open arms.

You can't say a simple 'no' to her, no matter how many times she leaves.

(You think maybe there was a time you had a real chance to truly make her fall in love with you. There was a time when she was much more willing for an actual relationship, but you pushed her away, citing no desire for a commitment. It kind of hurts, though, now that you're ready and she doesn't want it.)

You give her a grin because, even though you've been crying your eyes out when she ripped out your heart two days ago, you're still madly in love with her and her being there, whether she's crying for you or for her other, that is enough.

(Not really but… she's Chloe Beale. You're in love with her.)

Life goes on like that. Chloe leaves periodically to test things out with someone else but she's always back within two weeks.

It kills you when she's not there. Your relationship with is extremely unhealthy, filled with breakups and makeups (all ended and started with her). You're willing to let her go to find happiness and you drown yourself in mixing when she's gone and drown yourself in her scent when she's there.

But you're not worried.

(Not at all.)

She always comes back.

(She always will.)

Right?

That's wrong.

You do get really worried most of the time. She never goes over two weeks of being gone, but she has hit two weeks exactly before. It scares you to think she might actually leave, but she's always back by that evening.

(A lot of the time before having makeup sex, you can smell the stench of breakup sex on her.)

(Sometimes she screams someone else's name.)

Always.

(You haven't had sex with anyone but her in three years but you know she's given herself up to men and women other than you. Of course, never when you're together, but in those times you're not, she throws herself at the person she thinks she can fall in love with.)

One day she doesn't come.

It's been two weeks and you watch the clock strike midnight, officially counting up to two weeks and one day.

And, damn, it sure as hell hurts. It means she found someone better to spend her nights with, someone better to spend time with. You love her but you won't ever strip her of her happiness, so you don't text her back or talk to her, even when she tries to get your friendship back.

(You know you'll only end up trying to break the two up.)

You find Chloe at your doorstep when you walk back from your apartment six weeks after your breakup.

"What the hell, Beca?" she seethes.

You stare at her in a daze, but manage to get past her and unlock the door. You sprint in and try to shut the door in her face, but she catches it with her foot and opens it.

"Why are you refusing to talk to me?" she asks.

"Oh, I don't know, because we just broke up?" you remark dryly.

Her eyebrows scrunch together (one of her most adorable expressions, truly) and she steps closer to you.

"We didn't really work," she starts, "but I still want to be your friend."

You stare at her again before laughed and she takes a step back. "You don't understand, do you?"

At her confused expression, you laugh harder because it's the only thing stopping you from crying. The tears are still slipping and it's pretty painful to have wracking sobs and wracking laughs at the same time. "We didn't work because you were always bolting. I thought – I thought it would always be me doing that. I was the commitment-phobe. You, though, you were."

After your explanation, she shakes her head roughly. "We didn't work," she reiterates.

"We didn't work because you didn't let us!" you scream in frustration, "I tried, Chlo – I really did. I – I love you. I've told you that before and you never said it back. I knew, from that point on, you always were ready to leave. You never loved me and I regret falling in love with you, but I did and now I'm here. You should have told me to shove off before this happened! You've always had one foot in, one foot out," you rant, breathless.

She steps forward, severely encroaching on your personal space. She tries to wrap you in a hug but you fling her off. "Don't – you – fucking – touch me."

"I didn't mean to lead you on…"

"You could've at least explicitly said you didn't love me! I deserved at least that," you say bitterly, turning away from her. "I think you should go."

From the corner of your eye, you see her nod and leave. You have to resist the strong urge to tell her you didn't mean it, say you'll be fine with being friends with her again because you just crave Chloe.

A friendship won't work because she'll be moved into the role of the shattered hope.

(It's not fucking fair.)

So when Chloe comes back a month later bawling about her latest breakup and trying to wiggle into your arms for a kiss and a hug, you tell her to "shove off" like she should've years ago and shut the door in her face.

(It takes all of your willpower not to open the door again and let her in.)

When you see her walking along the street, her eyes are red and raw (from him or you, you don't know). Her eyes flash to you but flicker away. You blatantly stare at her, fighting the urge to speak to her.

(You're still deeply in love with her.)

She averts her gaze from you and you pass each other without incident, despite the fact you subtly brush shoulders with her just to smell and feel her there.

You're sure she's stopped afterward to turn and stare at you, but you keep walking and don't look back.

That night, you're at home again and you hear a loud banging coming from the door. You jump up and peek through the hole and see red hair. You turn away to leave but Chloe speaks up.

"Goddammit, Beca, open the fucking door!" she screams at you.

You freeze and stay silent, hoping she will go away if she doesn't hear footsteps. "I can hear you breathing," she says impatiently.

With a loud suspiration, you yank open the door and stare at Chloe. "What?" you ask irritably.

Your eyes are red, as are hers. You probably look worse than her; you haven't eaten well in a while and you just lay around all day staring at the ceiling. You haven't smiled in at least three weeks when Jesse made some remark about watching Star Wars with Benji.

"Beca, I really am sorry."

"I don't want to be your friend at all," you say bitterly, about to shut the door again, but Chloe catches the wood against her hand.

"Good," she breathes, "I don't want to be your friend either."

You give her an exasperated expression. "Then why the hell did you come?" you hiss.

"To do this."

Chloe pushes past the door and grabs your waist, pushing you roughly against the door as she spins you around so your back forces the door closed. Her lips lean in and –

She's kissing you with the most passion she's ever kissed you with. Her hands are curling protectively around your waist and your own arms sling against her neck to pull her impossibly closer.

You do some sort of groan-moan as her tongue and yours fight viciously and it's half from the kiss (she's really talented with her tongue; a cappella must do that) and half that she's actually back. When you pull back from the kiss, flustered and breathless, her eyes are sparkling.

(The way yours sparkle when she enters the room.)

Her smile is stretched wide, the sides of her eyes crinkling and her lips revealing straight white teeth.

(The way you smile when she enters the room.)

You lean your forehead against hers. "What changed?" you whisper, hoping she means this.

"I didn't realize what I had until it was gone," she says, shrugging sheepishly. "I'm so sorry, Becs. I used you but – but I really do love you. Will you take me back?"

(And though your brain is yelling for you to stop, your heart answers for you.)

"Yes. God, yes."

(You'll probably regret it again.)

(You don't.)

Maybe that's why you propose a year later and her eyes gleam with love when you slip the ring onto her finger after stuttering out your admittedly awkward proposal, giving her a passionate kiss in front of everyone in the restaurant.

(She's jumped in. No regrets, no hesitation. She's all there.)