Summary: You're not quite sure what she's looking for, but with the way she's gazing into your eyes, you hope she finds it.

A/N: Title comes from Emeli Sande's song of the same name. Santana's thoughts are in italics. I do not own Glee or Emeli Sande's music. Bummer.

You pick up your phone, it's 7a.m. and you're wide awake.

Rotating the thin device in your hand and palming its cool flat surface, you mull over your decision. It's 7a.m. for Pete's sake, yet you can't control your fingers as they type in your passcode and peruse your contacts. You scroll through the alphabetical listings: As, Bs, and Cs, until you finally land on the Ds housing the one number you've been too afraid to call.

But under some spell or a whim of courage you push the call button. The other end suddenly comes to life and her voice trickles through the line. The butterflies in your stomach burst to the surface in all of their effervescent glory as you hear her groggily answer, "Hello? Santana?"

You want to talk, to make your voice work would really be ideal, but instead you try to quickly disconnect the call in hopes that you could be quiet long enough so the receiver won't be able to pick up your whispered confessions.

You're beautiful, so beautiful. Come over.

It's not like she doesn't have a clue you harbor feelings for her, she's seen your longing glances and she's returned your shy smiles. But that doesn't mean you can call her out of the blue and confess something like that. Hell, you haven't confessed your feelings like that in such a long time.

Please say you love me back.

Images of blonde hair invade your mind and you're utterly powerless to stop the gasp that lodges in your throat. It's been two months, one week, and three days since you've seen that shade of blonde. You're sure she's busy with classes and settling in to her new life in Massachusetts. But, god, you miss her terribly. And no matter what's going on you just wish –

No, don't think like that. Not now. Your mind has been slipping into autopilot a lot lately. It seems like every chance it gets to wander, it makes its way down memory lane. Making its home on a street you could never forget, but hurts too much to walk alone.

It's better when it doesn't involve feelings. It's better when it doesn't involve eye contact.

You remember the day you uttered that nonsense like it was yesterday. You were sitting there with her, running your fingers through her hair and trying to come down from your post orgasmic high. Sure, it sucked that she was dating Artie, but you were able to be with her still. She still wanted you, even when you were too scared to admit how much you wanted her.

And yet, in that moment of tranquility, there came this feeling creeping up the back of your mind that happiness with Br-her was something so far out of your reach. That somehow you would always be that bad piece of fruit that no one wants to buy. That, just like the toys you received on Christmases past, you'd always be lost in the shuffle of moving on to newer and better things.

And now every day feels like a war where you walk around so mad at the world because you're missing the only thing that has ever made you feel loved and whole. Have you ever felt like your life was on hold, your happiness only a fragment of what it could be, because you knew that your 'something better' was right around the corner? Because that's what this war is like. This war that you were thrust in to. And, frankly, you don't want to fight anymore. You're just too tired.

You should be somewhere with people as awesome as you. You need someone who has their life together.

Your heart clenches at the replay of those words that flowed from a place of hurt and misunderstanding. She just didn't see those qualities in herself. Didn't believe she was as awesome as you or that she didn't need to have everything planned because you would build your life together. Around each other. You don't know how many times you've berated yourself for not pulling her to the side and telling her, again, how much you needed her and loved her. That she was beautiful, and innocent, and everything that's good in this miserable world. And that, no matter what, she's the one who was made for you and you for her.

You shake your head, unsuccessfully trying to clear the thoughts from further analysis. She's happy at MIT. It's the only thing keeping you from hopping on the first train over there. Well, that and you're still broke. Which is why you slip on your jeans and t-shirt to head in to the diner to pick up your check.

You're immediately bombarded by the sounds and lights and smells of a very active and vibrant New York City. People rushing past, bumping shoulders. Cars whipping between lanes. Cabbies honking their horns.

You pass a couple sitting on a bench, the blonde girl staring adoringly at her boyfriend, and quickly turn away before the memory morphs into something you long to see again. But a couple slides into your path and you see them walking in front of you with their fingers laced together, arms swinging between them comfortably. And as he leans over and bumps the smaller girl's shoulder playfully, a giggle comes tumbling from her mouth at the silly games he plays. That's what happy looks like.

That's what you used to be like when she was around. But not now. Not when all the signs seem to say that love is long gone. And you know there isn't much you wouldn't give to go back to the start of it all. Back when loving her was easy. When the only trouble you had was avoiding coach Sue's wrath and not making any noise sneaking into each other's bedroom windows. When time stood still as you locked eyes across the room. In the moments of breathless wonder when you were wrapped up in each other.

Before you said goodbye.

Too many times you've stayed up late at night wondering what she's doing and if you've crossed her mind.

Too many times you've dialed six digits on your phone just to hang it up and spend the night alone.

You walk into the diner and your eyes gravitate to the far side of the room. Sometimes when the lights land just right on that head of blonde hair it transforms your day into a nightmare. It's close but not the right shade. And close just isn't close enough today.

Rachel slides next to you, bumping her hip into yours, and you're suddenly aware that you had been staring. "Hey Rach."

"Are you okay? I called your name like fifteen times. You look like you just saw a ghost."

If only she knew how right her words are. You did see a ghost. A ghost of your past brought on by the lies your eyes told you to believe in. You shrug your shoulders. You could just nod and try to move on, but you've actually gotten closer to Rachel since moving to New York. She's a little over the top as a roommate, sometimes, but you've become genuine friends. And you know that she's heard you crying a few times at night. Your mind tormenting you by dreaming of happier times.

Times where you could hear Br-her sleeping breaths. Feel them loop their way across your chest and weave in to the very depths of your being. See the moonlight breaking through the darkness and cast its eerie glow onto the wall next to your window. You sometimes wake up swearing that you had just felt the warmth of her skin again—allowing that moment to draw you back in. Yet when you wake up without her you're so confused that letting the tears fall down is the only thing you can do.

Rachel pulls you out of your thoughts as she pushes a few numbers on the jukebox. "C'mon, loosen up a little. It's the lull between the lunch and dinner crowds. Dance with me."

When the music kicks in you lose yourself to the rhythm and the beat, but you sure miss following the steps of your dancer's feet. And all it does is help renew a blocked out memory of that girl you once knew who could smile and light up the entire room.

Rachel twists you around and you kick your feet, jumping and jiving and laughing with her. Momentarily letting go of your pain to let loose and play. Blonde flashes in front of your eyes again and you lose sync and stumble trying desperately to get your heart to calm down. The girl, the one you work with, smiles and takes your hand. This isn't the first time she's looked at you that way. Nor is it the first time you don't know what to say.

Brown eyes peer into yours and silently say that she'll wait for you. That she'll wait while you figure everything out. She'll wait until the old is lost to the new. She'll wait so long as she gets to have you.

And you know how she feels. You know you're in the same boat. Hoping and waiting for your dreams to come true. But it's not fair for her. She has no chance to win your heart. Not when it doesn't really belong to you. Not when it is miles away with the only person you've ever given it to. The only person it has ever belonged to. That special someone that still has it: the only one you're waiting for.

Your arms long for no other.

Your heart beats for only one.

Brown eyes search yours again, trying to impart promises that you know she can't deliver. She is a circle, but the hole in you is sphere. She could cover you on the surface, but what you need is depth. That space, that vital piece where your heart should reside, can't be replaced by what she has to offer. She could never be your perfect fit. No, your perfect fit is embodied in someone else.

Her hand lands gently on your arm—fingers brushing your wrist as she tries to charm her way past your defenses. But movement catches your eye and you notice her fingertips trailing over the tattered strings hanging there.

Your bracelet.

The multicolored rainbow pattern draws you back to a time after graduation where suntan lotion and aloe could be smelled for days on end. You two had spent every minute together, not wanting to live within the scope of reality that you would be leaving for Louisville while she would be stuck in Lima. She had come over to your house one rainy afternoon with a bag full of string and made you sit down to make bracelets with her. Well, she didn't make you, but you pretended to pout until she gave you enough kisses to hold you over for the hour it took to get started. The plan was to make enough for everyone in New Directions. Plans never seem to work with you two.

You had tried to see what style of bracelet she was making, but she wouldn't let you. She hid her project under a napkin (how ironic) and told you to keep your prying eyes away. So you sat on the other side of the table, periodically glancing up to see her tongue peeking from between her lips, brow furrowed in intense concentration. At the end of the hour, once you both had completed one bracelet, you reached for more string to start the next. But she grabbed your wrist and pulled you closer. She told you how much she loved you and would miss you and for the first time she cried at the thought of being so far away from you. That's when you had promised you would only do laundry at home. That you'd always make time for her, whether it was a video chat or texting or random visits. You had no idea how busy college would be at the time, but you were 100 percent sincere in your promises.

You brushed the stray tears from her eyes and reached for the bracelet you just made. Rainbow. You told her how your only thought while making the bracelets was wanting to give her something to wear that you put time and effort into. That no one else was going to get a bracelet from you because they just weren't special enough. She chastised you for saying they weren't special, but the smirk that played on her lips told you she knew what you were really saying. Then she surprised you with an all red bracelet—saying she made it for you, but had a better idea. She wanted you to keep the rainbow bracelet so you would always think of her when you saw it and she would keep the red bracelet so she could always be reminded of you and your hotness.

You pressed your lips together and caressed her body. Using the remainder of the evening to leave her with a memory of the hotness you have together.

Your cell phone rings loudly from your pocket, bringing you back to reality from your trance like state. The other blonde drops your hand and watches your every move while standing beside you. You quickly fish your phone out and feel your breath escape is a hushed gasp. Do Not Call is flashing across your screen. It was a silly thing you had read on a blog last fall after the event as you've come to call it. Once you found out the love of your life was moving on, you searched the web high and low for a way to ease the pain. One website had suggested changing your ex's name to "Do Not Call" so you wouldn't be tempted to dial their number. So you did. And it worked.

Until this morning.

You stare at your phone for a minute, watching her smiling face light up your screen. The picture is the one where you're kissing her cheek as she grins cheesily at the camera. It's her caller ID on your phone and it's the picture you have in your card wallet and framed on your parent's wall at home. You remember the words you whispered in her ear the night you took the picture, the same night you made the bracelets—

You're my home.

And those three words have never ringed so true as today when you just want to see her face. You did a report in your English class over a poet who's quote makes you think of the love you two share: "Where you love is home. Home that your feet may leave, but not your heart." She is your home. You've never felt more sure about anything else in your life.

You vaguely hear the chime on the diner door ding as you try to pry your eyes away from the picture of the girl you long to hold near.

"San?"

Time stops.

Like it literally stops for a moment as your brain registers the voice that haunts your every dream. And you close your eyes, trying to will your mind to stop playing these evil tricks on you.

She's not here. She's not here. She's not here.

But the scent of vanilla and something distinctly Brittany invades your nose.

"San… Look at me, please."

Your eyes timidly take in the woman in front of you. Her black jeans sit snugly on her hips, grey and white sweater falling loosely off of one shoulder, messenger bag tossed carelessly into the booth you're standing next to. Her angelic blonde hair is falling around her shoulders, messy but beautiful. She doesn't have any makeup on. But you don't care – she doesn't need to wear makeup. It allows you to see the dusting of her freckles across the bridge of her nose better. And you can see faint lines from where she must have fallen asleep on her ride over. Wait, "Britt, what are you doing here?"

She doesn't answer you immediately. Instead taking a tiny step away from you- your heart aching at the action.

"You called so I came." She shakes her head and runs her hand through her hair. "I knew I should've called Rachel or Kurt first. Let me guess, you butt dialed me?"

"No." You shake your head, wanting nothing more than to wipe the dejected look off of her face. "I called, but I didn't know what to say…"

You take a step forward, completely forgetting where you are, and wrap her up in your arms. You won't deny the rush of warmth you feel as she wraps her arms around your waist and squeezes you just as tight. You've missed this.

You pull back from the embrace, just enough to make eye contact, and search her baby blues for something you haven't seen in a while. And she looks back at you while seemingly searching for the same thing. You're not quite sure what she's looking for, but with the way she's gazing into your eyes, you hope she finds it.

When I'm with Brittany, I finally understand what people are talking about when they talk about being in love.

You bite the corner of your bottom lip, the confession to your abuela once again playing in your mind. But the words of so many others try to drown it out:

You need someone who challenges you.

You need someone who will sweep you off your feet.

You need a woman that is smart, independent, and sexy without trying to be.

But those people, all meaning well while they tried to comfort you, only served to reinforce that she is the only one who's ever made sense. She is the only one who has ever challenged you to be a better version of yourself without belittling you. She is the only one who's stuck around when you've said things and done things in the heat of anger or hurt that you didn't mean. She's constantly supported you and voted for you and always believed in the woman you were trying to hide. She is a genius. She not only got early admittance to MIT, but she's also the most people-wise person you've ever known. She has the intuition and ability to read people that could rival that of any professional profiler. She is independent and successful. She showed everyone what she was capable of when she ran for and won (by a landslide) the student class elections on a platform she developed all on her own. And, god, she is sexy. Sexy beyond words. Whether she's dressed in the fanciest dress ready for a night out dancing and partying, or she's wearing sweats and one of your old t-shirts and a funny animal hat or leg warmers on her arms… she's always the only one you have ga-ga eyes for. She is beautiful and contagiously optimistic and freaking brilliant. And she's the only one you can ever see in your future. As your wife. As the mother of your children. As your once-in-a-lifetime love.

But then there are the words that haunt you day and night, the words that cut you so deep you're still not sure if that wound will ever heal… The words that taunt you even now:

You're in love with Brittany and you're afraid she might not love you back.

Those words cause the first fraction of fear to cross your face. And it's that infinitesimal detail, what most others would never notice, that catches her attention. She knows that look. She's seen it a million times. And you hope, no, you pray that she still fee—

"I love you, Santana. I love you more than I ever loved anyone else in this world. Don't ever question my love for you. My heart is yours… It beats only for you."

She has a way with words that no one else does and on more than one occasion she has said something to make you realize just how special you are to her. But here, in this moment, you know that no other words are needed. Those words that she uttered, somehow knowing exactly what you needed to hear, break something within you and you find that for the first time in months there are three words sitting on the tip of your tongue that you never thought you'd get to say again. Three words that haven't been uttered for anyone else because they were never meant for anyone else. And as your eyes, once again, lock with the crystal clear blue you hope to spend the rest of your life drowning in, you whisper out your heart's deepest confession...

"I love you, too."

Brittana. Forever. (and always)