Disclaimer: I don't even remotely own Glee a little bit.
Prompt: "P.S. - Sorry doesn't fix everything" - PuckRachel drabble meme at LJ (by: smartalli ) (cause apparently these are helping with my writers block)

The apartment was empty when Rachel entered; not unsurprising, being that she was two hours later then she said she would be (the extra work would be worth it) and she knew he was scheduled to work the line for dinner service that night.

What was surprising was that it was also pitch black.

Frowning in confusion, because Noah always had the light over the stove on (even when we're home); and, if she was getting home after he left the apartment then he turned on the table lamp to the right of the couch.

She did the same for him. It was common courtesy as their cramped apartment made it quite easy to trip over something in the dark.

Rachel merely exhaled and rolled her eyes, deciding to ignore the passive aggressive dig at her late arrival from the audition she had that day (she needed this part; no, they needed this part), and turned on the lamp.

Once her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness in the room she frowned in confusion. Her initial reaction was panic at the sight that met her eyes (what robber re-locks the door Rachel - really?); then the fury pooled in her stomach.

His things, and only his things, were gone.

Promises began to cycle through her head - he would never leave her, he wasn't like his father, he loved her, he wanted to marry her - as her anger grew. Cursing him in her head Rachel grabbed a picture of them off the end table and threw it so that it smashed into the ground.

"Asshole!" she screamed at the shattered glass like it was him. Grabbing her cell phone she dialed his number frantically and was, almost, shocked by how quickly he answered before she screamed at him, "Five years Noah! Five fucking years. I've been working my ass off for two years trying to get discovered and you do this to me? At least I'm home at night!"

The answering laughter ignited her fury further; especially when he added in the most sarcastic tone she had ever heard him use, "Funny choice of words there babe."

She refused to give into the dread that was beginning to take the place of her (completely righteous) fury, "Don't you laugh at me Noah Puckerman. We haven't even been fighting. Why the hell is all your stuff out of our apartment?"

"Oh, I think you probably know why if you dig down real deep. Now, have your little hissy fit and then check out the kitchen table after you're done pretending this is my fault. But, I've really got to go, 'cause while you've been 'working your ass off' as you claim, I've actually got a real job and dinner service starts in twenty minutes. Feel free to lose my number. Oh, and you should probably avoid Santana too."

The silence that followed seemed to suck all the air out of her lungs as his words processed and the dread finally took hold. Slowly Rachel made her way over to their (her) kitchen table and stared down at the photos that were scattered across it.

Photos of her (and that director from last night. That casting agent from two weeks ago. That producer from two months ago.). Swallowing convulsively Rachel tried listening to the excuses she had been making to herself since before she graduated from NYU two years ago.

This time those voices wouldn't come. She couldn't hear how it would all be worth it when she was famous. How she'd be able to help Noah finance his own restaurant. How she'd have a Tony before she was twenty-eight. How she just needed the "right" role (or really any role).

This time she heard the other voices. This time it was her fathers, her professors, her Noah. This time they told her, "we didn't raise you like this." This time they pointed out that, "no one takes anyone on their knees (on their backs) seriously." This time they said, "I don't know who you are."

She stared down at the photos blankly and began shoving those secondary voices back (it was worth it. They needed her to be famous). She tried to ignore the way half the photos were ripped to shreds but couldn't and trembled at the evidence of his anger (hurt, embarrassment...); suddenly grateful she hadn't been home when he received them (she wouldn't have been able to think that fast).

"Okay," she breathed. "This is a set-back. Everyone makes mistakes. Noah made plenty...in high school...long before we were together," she added, chewing on her bottom lip while she thought. "He loves me. It'll be fine."

She quickly pulled her phone out once more and opened a text (don't want to risk him getting burned when he immediately answers upon seeing her number of course), fully intending on sending an apology (excuse) and a request to speak about matters the next day - he always forgiven her when they had their, little, arguments in the past after she apologized. This wouldn't be any different. He could cool down at one of his friends and tomorrow it'd be fine.

However, before she could hit send, a piece of paper, with handwriting she knew as well as her own on it, under the photos caught her eye.

Gingerly she picked it up and began reading -

Rachel,

Got these this morning after you left. I've suspected something for the last few months and I hoped I was wrong...so San asked the PI at the firm she's interning at for a favor...after she called me a moron for every thinking you were cheating.

Thing is? I figured if I was right? That it was because you'd found someone else. That you were in love. I could have, if not understood, at least accepted that.

I never took you for a whore.

How's that working out for you? Not well I guess considering I still pay the rent around here. Have fun figuring out how to do that now - took my name off the lease this afternoon.

- Puck

P.S. - I know you...or I thought I did. So, just that we're clear before you waste your time - sorry doesn't fix everything. Yours have always been excuses anyway.

The lines of the post script drowned out all the voices that kept insisting she was right, it was worth it, they'd be okay and as the letter drifted to the floor her legs collapsed underneath her and she followed it, knees slamming into the tile but barely noticing the physical pain.

The fury and the dread were gone and the one feeling she had been shoving down for (over) two years overwhelmed her (shame). She pressed her hands to her mouth and breathed deeply; she wouldn't cry (she wasn't the one that was allowed to cry here). She gave herself five minutes (an hour) to ignore anything that wasn't her breathing, the burning in her eyes and her thoughts (excuses).

"No," she finally whispered, breaking the deathly silence in the apartment, shaking her head frantically and shoving that feeling back into the recesses of her mind where it lived to be ignored. "No. Fuck it. Fuck him. He never believed in you enough (liar). You don't need him. You'll be fine."

In the long run, it would be worth it. She needed to be famous.

That was all that had ever mattered.

A/N: I fully believe that every single human being has a darker side to their personality and this prompt took me to Rachel's. It took me to the "scary" side of her ambition. Her constant need to remind everyone that she is going to be a star one day...pretty much no matter what. This is the Rachel that sent Sunshine to a crack-house because Sunshine was "more talented and would take her leads and be better liked" in high school. This is the Rachel that got Sandy Ryerson fired, NOT because he was inappropriate with a student but because SHE wasn't getting solos. This is the Rachel that broke open a secret (without any real proof) that ruined three lives, not because Finn needed to know the truth, but because she wanted him to be hers. You get the point.