Finn watches Quinn wade through black-clad crowd in the parking lot with a pang he can't quite explain, the door of his truck still reverberating from her abrupt exit. He thinks that for a dude who's been in as many tumultuous relationships as he has, he still knows jack-shit about love. I mean, even after being with Quinn (twice), Rachel, and Brittany and Santana (if you count that night at Breadstix or his ill-fated motel tryst – and, well, Finn doesn't want those to count), he feels woefully ignorant about all the like…nuances of the term. Maybe that's why Quinn's taking this whole break-up thing so badly, especially since he told her still loves her and all. He probably didn't explain it very well – I mean, how can he, when he hardly understands it himself?
It's not like he was planning to say that to her – hell, he wasn't even planning to break up with Quinn until halfway through Sue's eulogy – but he's not like, sorry he said it either. 'Cause it's true…isn't it? He does love Quinn. Just not in the way he should. Not enough. Finn thinks that maybe he loves, like, the idea of Quinn, more than Quinn herself. She was his first love, after all, and once upon a time he thought she was gonna be the mother of his child. And yeah, maybe he shouldn't still love her after all this time, since she did him wrong like that, but it's not like he was the model boyfriend either, you know? Spending so much time hovering around Rachel; kissing her…in the auditorium, in the bowling alley, like a million and a half times in his head. He thinks that his love for Quinn is sort of abstract and fuzzy around the edges and touched with color of obligation – but it does move him, it doesn't shake him, it doesn't make him want to stay.
And Finn thinks that maybe it's okay – this sort of unconventional, hard to define love. 'Cause if he's being honest, he's got a lot of it in his life. Take Burt, for example, whom he loves with a fierceness tempered by caution, by a fear that only a fatherless son can understand; or Kurt, whom he's come to love like a brother, even if the edges of that love are tinged with guilt and remorse and ugly words he can never unsay. Hell, even the way he loves Puck makes like zero sense. I mean, the dude's broken up the only two serious relationships that Finn's ever had, and he's got a shit attitude to boot, but still Finn loves him with the loyalty of friendships forged on nursery school playgrounds and homes that aren't whole.
And then there's Rachel. A paradox of epic proportions. Finn thinks his love for her is like, the most obvious, but also the hardest to explain. He doesn't know why he loves Rachel, or even how – it's just like…he doesn't know how to not love her, even if he tries. And God knows he's tried. It's like she's a part of him, or something; like he can get rid of her just as soon as he can toss out his lungs and liver. Even now, just catching a glimpse of her across the parking lot rocks him with an intense visceral reaction, like a warmth, like he can feel her from the inside out. He can't even pretend that he doesn't love her 'cause what his brain fails to admit his stomach can't deny.
Besides, Finn's not sure he wants to pretend anymore.
Maybe he never really did in the first place.