You sigh as you look in the mirror. You've just finished removing your makeup, your face, your cover. Your eyes have bags the size of Venus under them and your exhaustion is clear not only from that but from every tired fold that has accumulated on your face in the past few months. Your exhaustion is clear from the way your smile never looks quite right anymore. From the twinkle that's left your eyes and the wrinkles at the corners of them.
You know this is about her. Because everything in your life is about her. It has been for as long as you can remember. There's just one problem: she's not yours anymore.
The worst part about all of this is that there's nobody to blame but yourself. I mean, yeah, you could get mad that Trouty Mouth Sam Evans stole her away from you, but then again you weren't together when that happened, were you?
This is all your fault. All of it. You could have just fought a little bit harder when you realized how hard it is to have a long-distance relationship. You could have told Brittany you wanted her back when you went back to Lima to do Grease; it was clear she needed you. You could have just told her the truth when you went back during Diva week instead of pretending you had a girlfriend and pretending you were okay when, really, you weren't. You could have done a lot of things differently. But now you're here, in New York, and while that's amazing, there's one thing missing and it's her. But she's still in Lima. Still with Trouty. And you're living with what used to be your biggest enemy. Is this how low you've gotten?
At least when you were still in Louisville you had other friends. And yeah, maybe you partied too much and maybe you had trouble keeping up with your insane schedule and maybe it kind of felt like the world was just swallowing you up one piece at a time and eventually all that was left was your head sticking out over the water you were drowning in, but at least you were never this alone. Maybe you were being sucked away from the surface of the Earth and being replaced with some version of yourself that wasn't really you, but at least you didn't have to feel ashamed every time you looked in a mirror.
If you're honest, the break-up didn't feel real to you until you moved to New York. Maybe you needed a change of scenery before the truth could kick in. Or maybe it's the fact that Brittany suggested you move here and, in a way, even though you know it's not true, it feels like she wanted to get rid of you. In any case, it has kicked in by now, and though the reaction may be belated, your feelings have never been this intense before.
Every time you look in the mirror, you don't see the Santana Lopez you used to. You no longer think to yourself "I'm awesome" when you see your own face. And while doing that might have made you a bitch, at least you had some confidence, some self esteem. Maybe Brittany was a bigger part of your identity than you thought, because now that she's gone and you no longer have your sweet, innocent second half to protect from the world, it feels like you're almost completely gone, too.
And, in a way, you are gone. Maybe not entirely. But you're fading. And Berry and Hummel are too caught up in their own busy Broadway and NYADA-filled lives to even notice that you haven't been coming home most nights and that, on the ones you do, you barely speak, that you always smell like smoke and strangers, that you've lost that vicious snarky manner you once displayed at every chance.
As you continue to stare at your paler, softer, sadder face in the mirror, you can barely recognize the girl staring back at you. Who are you without her? You're just an idiot and a slut who goes out every night she can and drinks herself into oblivion, who hooks up with strangers all in a pathetic attempt to maybe one day come across someone whose lips taste of the same sweet cherry-scented lip gloss, whose hair feels as soft between your fingers, whose body you feel as familiar with as hers.
It's all in good fun until you realize that this isn't a life, this isn't an identity. To the few people you've come to know in New York you're a hero, the girl who can party until she drops, the girl who never shows any emotion. But partying has never really given you your smile back, now has it? Partying has never really brought you your life back. And it never will. Because only she can do that.
But she's gone. And she isn't coming back, not this time, you blew your chance with her when you pussied out for the last time. When you were too scared to come out, she stood by your side. When you tore down all her friends, she stood by your side. When you basically told everyone that fame was more important to you than her, she stood by your side. Through everything, she stood by your side, and how have you repaid her? You broke up with her over some bullshit reason. I guess you just assumed you'd get back together in no time.
All you do is think about yourself. After everything she's done for you. She is the only person in the whole world you were ever truly honest with. She was always by your side, no matter how much of a bitch you were, not only to her but to everyone else. And maybe while you were still in high school you got high off of her love one too many times. Maybe you thought it wasn't possible for her to be without you. Maybe you assumed she didn't exist without you. It was always Brittany and Santana, Santana and Brittany. But that's a two-way street. And now you're the one desperately clinging to the past, the one with no identity, while she's moved on and blossomed into this amazing human being that is perfectly capable of leading her own life without you thrown in the mix.
Barely anyone from back home even talks to you anymore. You and Brittany still text occasionally, of course, and tonight you'd like nothing more than to call her and hear her voice, that same angelic voice that used to make all your pain go away so you'd never actually have to deal with it on your own. But it's Saturday night, one of the few you've stayed home while Berry and Hummel have gone out, and you know she's probably with Sam right now. So you refrain from picking up the phone though your fingers ache to dial her number.
Instead you sigh, glance at yourself again. You are disgusted by your own face.
Running to the toilet, you heave some bile into it. Maybe drinking every day isn't good for you. As you stand up shakily and flush the toilet, your eyes flit around the tiny bathroom in the loft. You pause briefly when your gaze falls on your razor blade. You contemplate for a minute. It looks so appealing. You've always thought red suited you, wouldn't you love to see some blood dripping down your tan arms? Or maybe down your throat. Wouldn't that maybe help you get some of that signature Santana Lopez sex appeal back? Blood red. Your color.
Your gaze lingers on the razor blade a little bit longer. A shudder passes through you and you shake it off. No. You can't do this. Not like this, you're not supposed to end like this. You're not the type of person to just give up. You're too hot and talented and amazing, right? You'd never take yourself away from the world, what a travesty that would be.
Besides, what about her. She'd be sad, right? Of course she would. Even though she doesn't need you anymore, you were still very important to her at one point in time. Or so you think. So you hope.
Your head fills with images of that beautiful, simple, angelic face. Images of it laughing at something one of the Glee club members she loves so much says. Images of it smiling at you just as you're about to kiss. Images of it red and sweaty after an intense Cheerios practice, yet still full of life and energy. She is so full of life. She always has been.
Opposites attract, don't they?
God, you'd love to just end it. It wouldn't even have to be with razor blades. Pills would be easier. Berry and Hummel would have less clean-up that way.
But you can't. Not today, not like this. You can't let her last memory of you be you going crazy jealous over her and that damn Trouty Mouth. You still have time to make some new ones.
If not for yourself, you're doing this for her. So you sigh, cast one more glance at your reflection in the mirror while you brush your teeth to get rid of the bad taste, pick up your phone and briefly debate calling her again, before you clear your head of all things Brittany and try to forget your life as you settle down in front of the TV. Alone.
You'll live to see another shitty, lonely, fucked up day that you don't really want to see. You'll live to survive another empty night you're only surviving for a girl that probably doesn't even think about you anymore.
Santana Lopez will not die like this. Not in this city she's grown to hate so much.
Maybe one day you will get Brittany back. Who knows. Maybe you'll die with her, old and happy, married, in Lima, the town you never liked but need in the weirdest way. Who knows. For now, all you can do is fight back tears (you haven't actually cried in days, somehow you never quite can no matter how much you want to) and hope tomorrow won't be quite as drab.
It's been eight days since you last talked to her. Eight days, nine hours and twenty-two minutes. Maybe she'll call you tomorrow. It's that hope that will keep you going again and again and again. Berry and Hummel won't be so lucky to get rid of you quite yet.