The third time a glass was broken on the kitchen floor, she fled the house, and he let her go, because he was tired of it. He was tired of trying to understand – trying to force her to get help she wasn't interested in getting. He felt like he was pushing through something bigger than both of them, and that this was not a quirk – not in the least. The redheaded woman with the beautiful smile and charming accent held something deeper than just a compulsive need to sanitize.

And, if he wanted to be honest, Will Schuester knew that he'd really known that all along.

It's in his nature to be the knight in shining armour. He's convinced that he, of all people, can make things better. And maybe he could have, if she'd been willing to let him; if she'd been willing to take that extra step, he's convinced he could have added her to the list of people over the years who have been helped by Will Schuester. But she isn't a student, and she's not interested in being saved.

And in the end, he realized, that attitude he had of being able to be the one to fix her was selfish. It's different with adults; they hold the broken pieces so close to appear so normal. Without knowing Emma like he did, he may have never known the pieces behind why she couldn't move past the illness that literally ruined her life, and started to ruin his, too.

What he didn't realize is that it's not his battle to fight, nor is it his call to make.

Now, he sits, and waits for her to return, wondering if this will be the moment she'll walk out, or if he'll muster up enough courage to try again.

But when you're walking on eggshells constantly in a relationship, is it worth saving?

/~/

"I don't want to go to the movie tonight," she said offhandedly, crossing her legs on the couch and looking him in the eye. "I'm tired, it'll be too dirty, and I'd rather just rent something here."

"We always stay in. I'm getting tired of staying in."

She'd sighed. "It's a lot for me to go out, Will. It requires a lot of preparation."

"So maybe we don't go to a movie. Can't we just leave the house? For maybe even an hour?"

She got agoraphobic in the summer; he hadn't realized how much of her illness depended on safe spaces. He fast understood that she only went out when she had to, and in horrible, awful times when she couldn't go two steps without rubber gloves and Lysol wipes, even in her own house, she got groceries delivered and she'd also call in sick to work.

He was more than a little concerned at that point, but something in her eyes made him turn away. He donned a pair of her rubber gloves. "I'll wash the dishes, then."

"No, don't." She stood up. "You just . . . don't do it right, Will." Suddenly, she started to cry, and he got annoyed. This always happened. This was always the way. And after three months of this, it was wearing on him.

"You need help," he suddenly boomed at her. "You need help, Emma. Why won't you let me help you?"

"Because!" She stamped her small foot; her hair flew out around her face, a flaming frenzy matching her reddening cheeks. "I deal with it myself. I can do this myself; I've done this since I was eight, Will. You need to lay off!"

Her voice got quieter, then, and she looked down, her face tearstained. "Can you . . . go? Can you just go?" She sighed, deeply, shakily. "I need some space. I just need . . . just go, please?"

"You always need space. You always want me to go." He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but this was always what happened. She always pushed him away, dealt with it herself, and he was tired of it. "Let me help. Let me help you, Emma. I love you."

The words pulled her out of her reverie, but her face didn't change. "Then let me deal with it myself. You can't fix this, Will."

"You never let me try!"

She threw up her hands. "It's a mental illness. It's not something that can be fixed. It's hell, every day, it's hell. And nobody gets it – least of all you!"

In her fit of temper, she brushed against the counter, and the glass he'd set by the sink to wash later toppled, falling onto the ceramic tile, spreading crystal shards everywhere. One cut her nyloned foot; the other scraped past her arm.

At the sight of the blood, she started to cry again, and he reached out, blindly, to catch her, or hold her, or something. She ignored him, brushing past, leaving a splotch of blood on the sleeve of his white shirt, and slammed the door of the bathroom so hard the apartment shook.

This was living with Emma, these days. The fighting, the darkness, the way she wouldn't look at him, the way he could barely touch her.

He sat on the floor beside the glass, after she had gone, and wondered why the hell he couldn't get through to any of the women he dated, but especially, why he couldn't seem to make Emma happy.

/~/

She came back, but she didn't say anything. She went into their room, closed the door, and he sighed and got ready to sleep on the couch. At this point, he didn't know what to do, nor was he sure he cared. He was done trying to understand.

Will began to spread the blanket on the couch when he heard the bedroom door open, and Emma stepped out, dressed in her nightgown. She came over and stood beside him, helping him smooth the blanket on the couch, and then she sighed.

"What? What can I do for you, Em?" He asked her the question automatically, but she didn't answer. When she did, her voice was sad.

"I'm not sure this is going to work."

He sat on the couch, ready to hear her reasons, and then he looked up into her eyes and his filled with tears.

She looked sad. "Oh, Will."

"I don't know what I can do to make it better," he said. "I've tried to change everything for you. My house is cleaner than I've ever seen it, I do things your way, I try to give you space . . . what am I doing wrong?"

She sat beside him, and took his hand in both of her own. He watched where the fingers joined and she spoke, softly.

"You don't get it. You think that little things . . . they make it better. They make it easier, Will, but nothing makes it better. It's like living in a big vacuum. There are germs on every single surface. I'm terrified of them."

"But . . ." he tried to rationalize. "They're just germs. Most of them won't even make you sick."

"Will, until you've vomited liquefied cow dung and blood, you don't know what sick is. Sorry. And that's not even what it is. I felt so out of control that day. And I've never been able to get that back."

He leaned against her, and she dropped a kiss on his head, but she still shook her own in return. "It's like living every day, waiting for the next accident. The next step. What sick student will I encounter today? What mess can I not handle? Who gets to see me break down?"

"Then why won't you get help?"

"I HAVE gotten help," she said, her voice rising. He squeezed her hand, and after a moment, she squeezed back.

"I've gotten help. I've been to retreats, to the hospital. I've stayed in the psych ward for a week. I went on medication. I've done it, Will. And it helps, briefly. There's a little break where I just don't seem to care. And then I get sick, or something happens, and it all comes flooding back. So I work around it."

"I'm trying to work around it!"

"And it's not fair to you. And Will, you're never going to get it because you can't get past the fact that you think you can fix it. No one can fix it."

"I don't want to give this up," he whispered.

"It's not fair to make you live this way," she whispered back. "Don't fight me on this, Will."

"Don't you love me?" He rarely asked her – he didn't really want to know, most days. They had a tenuous relationship and anything could upset it – he knew that, but he didn't want to admit it.

"Oh, Will." She looked down again. "I do. I do, but I can't do this. I'm sorry."

She left a few hours later, dressed, her bags packed, and told him she'd be back for the four Anthropologie dresses in the closet that she had no garment bag for.

He nodded, kissed her cheek, closed the door, and began to cry in a way he hadn't since he was a little boy.

Across town, she did the same – but with a feeling of blessed relief.

/~/

A few days passed. He didn't call her, though he longed to. He tried to find things to do, including visiting his parents, which was a mistake. Not only did he get an earful of lecture from his father, his mother waved a wine glass of Cabernet Sauvignon around, spilled it all over the tablecloth, burped and proceeded to vomit onto their new hardwood floor. Will left after helping his father get his inebriated mother to bed, went home, and proceeded to get drunk himself.

She called on the fifth day.

"Hi," she began, her voice shaky, nervous, so undeniably Emma that he smiled just listening to her.

"Hi."

"I don't want to turn this into an "if you do this I'll do that." That's not why I'm calling."

"Okay."

"I miss you," she said, and then sighed. "But I can't live with you. Not anymore."

And because he'd been expecting it for five days, he didn't react. "Okay."

There was a long silence, then, "But is that okay?"

He didn't answer her, and she sighed again, this time with tears. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Please, Emma. Don't apologize."

"I do apologize!" she said, her voice louder. "I do because I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I couldn't make a good thing in my life last."

And then, he apologized. "I'm sorry that I rushed you into this. This was my idea. I'm sorry I couldn't make you comfortable."

She was silent for awhile, and they listened to the hum of the phone line before she spoke again. "I don't want to break up. I just don't want to live together . . . for now."

"I want you to get help. Again," he said, harshly. "I don't care what you do, but I want you to try. This . . . Emma, this isn't normal. And it isn't fair. Not to you, and not to me. I fell in love with you because you're a strong, amazing person. Not someone who's afraid all the time."

She replied, her voice angry. "I'm both, Will. I'm this person and I'm the person you fell in love with. You can't wipe the slate clean and start again, okay? You're either in this accepting me fully, or you can leave. I'm not making you stay, but I'm not accepting ultimatums."

He shook his head, forgetting she couldn't see it. "I have to go."

"Now you're shutting down."

"I need some time to figure this out, Em. I need some time to . . . understand."

And she agreed. "Okay."

They hung up, and he logged online to study obsessive-compulsive disorder.

/~/

They met at school two days later. He sat in her pretty office and smiled sheepishly.

"So, I was an asshole."

"Why?" She was in control again, writing elegantly on the pad of paper in front of her, and he smiled. This was Emma in her element; this was Emma in complete control of her life and her surroundings.

"Because you can't fix OCD. You just can't." His voice was incredulous, as if he was so arrogant to think he could, but she understood, and she looked at him, her face soft.

"No, you can't. And I don't want you to think I haven't worked on this. I have."

"I know."

"I know it seems like all I do is melt down and freak out. That's a big part of me. But Will, it's not all of me. It takes a lot to live with this disorder. To even be here some days is a stretch. And I do it because I realize that no one is going to stop for me. And I don't have any right to ask anyone to do that, either."

He nodded, understanding her finally. "But you never asked me if it was bothering me. You never let me in."

"Defence mechanism," she grimaced, and he took her hand, squeezing it in his big warm one.

"I want to try again."

She looked at him, her brown eyes locking with his hazel ones, and smiled. "Even with all my crazy?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice growing stronger. "Yes, even with all your crazy."

"Well. I can't promise it won't be easy. Even now that you sort of understand."

"It's not going to be easy. That's not why I want to try again."

"Then why?"

He smiled, his face tired, and she felt bad, briefly, but he squeezed her hand again.

"Because I love you, Emma Pillsbury. Don't you know that yet?"

She blinked then, and he saw the tears in her eyes glimmer before her strong look was back on her face again.

"I love you, too."