*0*0*
Sign Away Your Hopes & Dreams
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Rachel
*0*0*
The left side of the bed lay empty. The covers were untouched, and the pillows perfectly aligned. It hadn't been slept in, like you knew it wouldn't have been, but a part of you hoped it had all been a dream.
As usual on the cold winter mornings, you found yourself staring at the vacant spot with longing. Each day, you would look a little longer, pray a little harder, but to no avail. Rolling over, you'd pretend you'd never looked in the first place, and go about your day, trying to forget her absence.
It would work. You could function. You could pretend everything was just great. You'd do the rounds, you'd show up and put on your best face, because you would not show your sadness. Until, that is, you went to bed, because goddammit, the left side of the bed still lay empty.
Turning off the light, after changing into your sleepwear, you would pad across the room and seek out the right side of the bed. Carefully climbing under the covers, trying not to disturb the left side, you'd fight for sleep to come and take you, but not without one last look. Just in case, you'd tell yourself.
Searching in the dark, your eyes adjusting to the light, you'd find the empty pillow, the slightly rumpled covers from your sloppy movements, but all in all, it was untouched. Void, like it was five minutes ago, like it was that morning, like it was last night, and just like it was yesterday morning.
As always, the left side of the bed lay empty.
You'd never learn, you'd constantly check, and on rare occasions, your mind would play along with you. The soft, hazy silhouette would lie there, filling the spot you longed to fill, and you could pretend it was true.
It would vanish in an instant, and you'd be left with greater heartache than before. But it was worth it, you would concede, just thinking back on those precious moments when the left side of the bed was no longer empty.
On those days, your friends would look at you with worry, as you'd smile a little brighter and tell them all would be well. You were convinced that it was a sign; always a sign. They'd frown in response and their words would hang on the tips of their tongues just waiting to spill over. It wasn't healthy. You needed to move on. You couldn't keep living in the past. None of this could be good for you.
They didn't know anything.
The left side of their beds did not lie empty, so their opinion was invalid.
Waking up in the morning used to be one of your favourite things, because there she was, lying right in front of you. She would curl up in your arms, kiss your temple and drift back to sleep when you tried to wake her. It was always futile, so you'd slip out of the bed, and she'd roll over onto your side and bury herself in the covers.
You wanted that back, and you were not ready to give up on it. It was driving you certifiably insane, you were sure of it, but no one had picked up on that, so you had nothing to worry about, yet. You knew, deep, deep down, you knew that one day, one day you'd wake and the left side of the bed would be graced with her presence.
She'd be there, her features unmarred until you tried to wake her, when her brow would furrow and she'd whine at you. That's when your hands would seek her out, pull her closer, and she'd cocoon herself in your body, your legs entwining and your skin caressing hers. She'd be half asleep, but conscious enough to hear your murmurings about waking up, and to appease you, she'd kiss your temple, sweetly, softly, and try to go back to sleep.
That always brought a smile to your lips, but now, now it only brought tears and sadness. You couldn't give up, though. You couldn't give up on her. You loved her, you adored her, she was your life. You could not give up the hope that one day, one day soon, she'd take the left side, you'd take the right and you would fall asleep in each other's arms.
You couldn't lose that, no matter what anyone said.
*0*0*
Her toothbrush in your bathroom was almost your undoing one morning. You had reached for your own, grabbed hers, and then froze. It was white and red, as real as she was, but unlike Santana, the toothbrush was still there.
You placed it back in the cup and grabbed your own, but all you could think about was her standing in that damn bathroom, brushing her teeth while trying to have a conversation with you. You'd be sitting on the bed, pretending to listen, humming every now and then, and she knew it. She'd come back in, rolling her eyes, and climb into bed with you, bitching about how she'd need to repeat her story.
And when you kissed her in apology, it was the toothpaste she liked that you tasted on her lips, and it all came back to her toothbrush, which you had been staring at for more than twenty minutes.
You were late for work; you were seriously late for work, but you couldn't look away. This piece of her, this reminder of her existence, was still in your life, still visible for all to see. She wasn't. She wasn't there. She had only left her belongings in your house and her handprints on your heart. Nothing more.
It took you an inordinate amount of time to shake yourself free, to brush your teeth with your own toothbrush, and then you found yourself taking a seat on the left side of the bed. Your mind could conjure her up, the times she was lying there sick from the cold, or when she went to bed early, and it all felt so real.
It was real. It was real to you! And that was the problem. It still felt like she was in the next room, puttering about and only within touching distance. But she wasn't, and you still hadn't come to terms with that yet.
You called in sick, curling up on her side, holding her pillow close, and trying to inhale as much of the scent left on it. It was a hopeless feat, but you attempted to anyway. That seemed to be happening a lot lately; finding hopeless causes, attempting hopeless tasks, hopelessly longing for her again.
Was that what you had become? Were you now hopeless?
Some of your friends would say yes, the others would say no but with a hint of a pause to make it clear they weren't sure. You felt hopeless, stuck on her, stuck in this life, but you couldn't pick it up and move on. You couldn't let go, and you hated yourself for it.
Santana wasn't coming back. She wasn't going to walk through those doors. She wasn't going to join you back in bed again. She wasn't going to kiss you goodnight. And worst of all, she wasn't going to love you any longer.
You'd had your shot. You had been there and done that. You had shared those first few tentative kisses in college, and you had asked her out. You had confessed your attraction, your feelings for her, and she had done the same. You had dated her, moved in with her, loved her. You'd done it all, except hold onto her.
That was your biggest regret, your worst mistake, and your undoing.
*0*0*
When you opened the door, you knew exactly what was to come, what to expect. The eyes of your closest friend, Santana's best friend, were heavy with a sadness you'd come to know all too well, and in her hand were the papers you never wanted to sign.
Like the good host you were, you invited her in, you spoke of the news and other current topics, doing everything to beat around the bush. This was a routine the two of you knew well, having done so many times before, and right on cue, Quinn stopped you with a single look, halting you completely.
Sitting in the living room, curled up in the armchair, the one Santana hated but sat in anyway, you watched as Quinn took a hefty drink of her wine and waited. You knew she'd speak first. She always did, just like she always brought those papers.
Somehow, you'd managed to fob off never signing them, and it had worked. But now, your time was up, and she was looking at you expectantly. You pretended as if you weren't aware what was going on, but Quinn wasn't having any of it. She pulled the papers from the envelope, and sharply placed a pen on top.
It always hurt when she forced reality on you, pulling you under, making you drown in memories, thoughts, unshed tears, and no matter how hard you tried, you were always taken off guard by it.
"How is she?" you asked, and you watched her flinch at your question. You wanted to flinch, too, because rather than know yourself, you needed to pry information out of people.
How had that happened?
"Rachel, please," Quinn began, shaking her head, as if she wasn't going to go along with this. You needed her to. You had to know, because it ate you up at night, kept you awake, kept you imagining her coming back to you.
"I just want to know if she's-"
"You need to sign these, that's what you need to do. I need you to sign these," Quinn interrupted, pushing the papers at you again, and your eyes darted down to them briefly.
They would seal your fate. They were cease all current existence with Santana. They would make the ring on your fourth finger obsolete, and they'd tear you to your very core. She would no longer be your wife, but your ex-wife. She'd not have any ties to you, and you, none to her.
With one swirl of your pen, the bond the two of you made so many years before would be broken, and you'd have to face up to the fact that your wife had walked out on you, had picked up her things and left. This time it wasn't a silly misunderstanding. This time it wasn't an argument out of hand.
This time it was finished. The end. Time was up. Game over.
And there was nothing you could do about it.
"I just don't know how it all went so wrong," you admitted shakily.
"The two of you grew up," Quinn murmured, as if she hated being the one to break that news to you. "Santana just wants different things now than when she did when she was twenty one."
"You mean she wants someone else." The words were bitter on your tongue, like poison, and your chest ached in pain. Just the thought, the image of her with someone else, it stung you to your very core.
"Don't-" Quinn said quickly, and you quietened her with a wave of your hands.
"I get it. I had just always hoped…" Your hopes were clearly foolish, these papers told you that much, and maybe now was the time to let her go. She didn't want you anymore, despite how much you wanted her.
"Rachel," Quinn said, her tone soft, careful, as if she could break you. She probably could, but that was neither here nor there.
Reaching for the pen, a movement you had never made before when Quinn had done this, you scribbled your signature on the dotted lines she had marked. It took no time at all, and your eyes lingered over Santana's signature, rushed and quick, as if you were nothing but a hindrance she needed rid of sooner rather than later.
When you laid the pen flat on the table, sliding the papers back over to her, the silence dragged on. You were pretty sure Quinn was shocked you'd signed them, and you were too, in all honesty. But there was a time for bowing out gracefully, and you had missed that by a good three months. Now, you needed to just give up.
"Did she ever love me?" you wondered, frowning at the thought. It was stupid, and Quinn looked at you with such pity that you felt idiotic even asking.
"You know she did." Yes, you did.
"So then why did she stop?"
That was the one question that couldn't be answered, the one that plagued your mind most days and nights, and with just one look, you knew Quinn didn't have anything to add.
She couldn't speak about this, not when she was so close to the both of you. She knew more of your relationship downfalls than either of you, you suspected. But she couldn't comment, she couldn't keep pulling you back together after each fight, after each spat, and this time she couldn't salvage the shattered pieces of your marriage, no matter how much you wished she would.
You allowed her to collect her things in due time, and then showed her the door. After that, you succumbed to the agony of knowing it was almost over. It was almost time to face facts, to accept reality, to know that this wasn't a misunderstanding.
Santana had made her decision, and it was crystal clear.
This wasn't all one big mistake; you had been the mistake.
*0*0*
The left side of the bed lay empty, and this time, you knew she'd never grace it with her presence.
That morning, you'd said goodbye to your marriage for good, with a phone call from Quinn letting you know the divorce had been filed and was final. Just like that, it was done. All those years, over in a flash, like they meant nothing.
And now you were alone, surrounded by your thoughts, your memories, your dreams and hopes of your life with Santana. Before, you hadn't been able to accept what was happening, but that had all changed. There was no going back from this.
You were now divorced, which set your relationship with her in stone.
Of course, your friends, including Quinn, had tried hard to make you stay with them for a few days, in case you did anything stupid, but you managed to escape. All you wanted, what you needed, was to crawl into bed, and stare at the space she once inhabited.
The left side of the bed was always going to be hers. In this bed, in the next, in every hotel bed you slept in, in every guest room at a friend's house you stayed in, the left side would always belong to Santana.
Slipping off your shoes, dropping your clothes to the floor, you climbed into bed in nothing but a sleep shirt and your underwear. You were going to bed, you were pretending this day had never happened, and when you woke, she'd be there.
You'd wake and her face would be looking back at yours, like you dreamt it had every night since she walked out, like you wished it had every day since she left you, and like you prayed it had every second since she had broken you.
All you wanted was one moment, one moment to see her again, to kiss those lips, to cuddle up in those arms and never let go. You wanted the left side of the bed to be filled with her warm, soft body, and listen to her heartbeat, her intake of breath, and feel her with you once more.
You could only dream, as when you woke, the left side of the bed remained empty, as it always would.
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