This isn't happy & no, I don't have napkins.
Poem of the day: somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond -E. E. Cummings
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
Rachel kicks off her shoes and throws herself head down on the bed. The bed is soft, newly made and it smells of absolutely nothing. Just a generic bland smell typical of millions boring on-the-road hotels. It's a five star name with twinkling lights of the city below but it couldn't matter less. Her body is exhausted, drained, drenched in the screams and applause of her fans from the concert some minutes ago. Or maybe a small eternity. Or maybe just a flash.
She shouldn't miss her. She's successful, has a free field for vast exploration, she's doing what she loves and she's blessed with supportive friends and family. Her life isn't empty.
She shouldn't miss her because Quinn has done little but hurt her. Over and over. Because it's been years, because there's a void, and it's confusing. But she does anyway.
Rachel grabs the phone in an odd compulsion and the dials the number stored from high school. It goes to voicemail. It just says "you've reached voicemail number such and such, please leave a message after the beep" and she doesn't even know if it's still even the blonde's phone she's getting. She waits until the signal comes, she wants that second of hanging in the nothingness, of free fall. She hangs up. And then it's silent.
Rachel decides (it's a conscious, intentional, cognitive effort) not to fall in love with her. No pretty hazel eyes to haunt her, no wavy hair flowing to catch her thoughts, no buzzing laughter dancing in her eyes. No, none of that.
The first day when they meet, it's been a while. Quinn is happy at Yale and maybe it's the first time she's letting herself try to be Quinn, try to find what that means and can be. They talk about drama and philosophy, about food in New York and the homeless in New Haven. It doesn't matter and neither will remember it later.
The second day, Quinn just sits in front of her at breakfast, huffs or puffs or grunts some sort of annoyed noise and steals Rachel's kiwi. The blonde holds the door when they leave the cafeteria and Rachel thinks she's too young to be bothered with sticking to decisions.
The third day, she's about to leave. Quinn is cold as they walk in between the Gothic buildings of Yale's campus. Rachel gives her her denim jacket and laces their fingers together.
Before she gets on her train back, they kiss on the cheeks and smile.
There really is no choice.
"Hey, loser." Quinn's voice is soft, melodic, poetic, home.
Rachel looks at her with expecting eyes.
They walk arm in arm.
Quinn takes Rachel to an event organized by Yale's LGBT activist group. It's a vigil. A young man with fire red hair speaks about the devastating cruelty and adversity in life. His lover, it turns out, has killed himself after being harassed. No one knew.
Quinn cries and Rachel tugs on her arm and wraps her in the most tender embrace she can give.
Quinn shakes and shakes and shakes, so Rachel almost feels like she knows but at the same time she doesn't dare ask for anything specific. She's certain it could destroy her.
They walk to the nearest coffee shop and the petite singer offers to buy coffee but Quinn gets her own. They sit together and look through the window.
Rachel sees the bruises on Quinn's lips, the dark marks of red on her neck.
"It's parties mostly," her friend – friend?- says. Nonchalant and unbothered.
Rachel cries on the train back because never first choice is such a cliché.
Sometimes it hurts because it was never real.
Sometimes it's so real, it's cold air draining the life out from her lungs.
Rachel texts her, "People talk. People ask. There's nothing going between us, right? We're friend, right? I'm not confusing you or messing things up?"
There's a few minutes passing, then, "Oh. I was worried you'd see things that way. No no, no messing things up. We're friends. We're good, right?"
Rachel texts back saying that sure, yes, of course, no worries.
Later she types "I'm in love with you" but that one never gets sent.
They pass each other by like strangers on the streets.
Quinn goes to work in Paris. Rachel watches the pictures flood of her fake, fake smiles.
Rachel is on Broadway. Then Rachel is at the Tony's, and after on tour.
"I'll never have you," she cries alone.
The darkness doesn't answer.
"Rachel, she was your friend, there was never anything more, she didn't give you more than that. Move on. It's in your head."
No one knows but Rachel sends her off before her flight to France.
No one gets to know and some memories are too laughable, too pretty, too sad, too strange, too easy and too hard to explain.
"I'll miss you."
"Oh, Rachel."
They hold each other for a while. Quinn leaves. Rachel stands and watches.
Her phone rings.
It's been years of trying to forget.
"I miss you too, Rachel," she sighs.
She lets it ring.
And then it's silent.