AN: So the idea I had is to give glee some backstory (and possibly some future story) by writing very short stories. I'm not going to let myself go over 3 word pages. So far I have ideas for Santana, Brittany, (because Brittana is endgame) Puck, Quinn and Rachel. Let me know if you like it. Also to anyone who was reading my old Brittana fanfic, sorry I got lost off, I had v. important exams last summer and now I'm struggling with how to reconcile the story from what it is to what I wish it was so it may get abandoned thoroughly and completely (although there are 3 more chapters written so if anyone wants them I'll post them.)
Santana - Why She Loved Me.
The ache of missing her always hits me in sad and sweet ways. Hidden deep within me, surfacing infrequently now but in moments you'd never expect to find it. Like now. Thinking about the infrequency with which I miss her has made me miss her.
When we had first broken up it had been all consuming. I had hidden in my dorm room, back in St Louis, red eyed and heartbroken with my over protective roommate hovering like the helicopter parent I'd never had. Have some tea. She would say. Or she'd try and coax me from under the covers to watch a soppy movie with her as if that would make me feel better. My life had felt like a black hole. The future I'd imagined, and the stories we'd lived rapidly slipping into its depths.
But over time this feeling dissipated. It became at first a deep seated longing situated somewhere between the eternal lump in my throat and the deepest pit of my stomach where I imagine we keep our souls. Then there came the days where the pain became abstract. Where I'd catch myself mid-laugh and feel surprised the noise was coming from me, and then I'd figure out why I was surprised and that would make me miss her. These were the days when if her name was spoken in conversation by Rachel or Kurt there'd be an awkward glance between them. A casual flick of their heads towards me. I'd pause almost imperceptibly in eating my plate of egg-plant lasagne, or doing up my shoelaces and then casually continue, the burn mark of her name fading the way condensation rises on a window after a child has drawn on it.
The hardest thing about missing her was the fact that I had simultaneously lost a lover and a best friend. She was the one who, since I the tender age of seven, I had ran to every time I had interesting news. Every time some development occurred in my life. She was the one I'd watch goofy movies with. The one I could count on to always have ice cream just because I wanted it. When we were children she was the one I had a secret language with. She was the girl who taught me to do handstands and to tie my shoelaces. When we reached junior high, she was the one I made dance routines with. Her house was the first place I went to a sleepover. She was the one I'd share my lunches, my music, my secrets and later my heart with. Everywhere I turned she was there. Every memory I have is laced with her presence like an underlying current in a lake. One that can drag you down before you even know it. Her presence in my memories was suffocating for a while as I learned to reconcile her image of lover with the friend I knew we could only be.
It is strange to think of her in this light: suffocating. She has saved me more times than I can imagine and I in all honesty I don't know why. I find it impossible to believe that she can look at me, me whose waist is too thin and cheekbones too high, me who is fickle and neurotic and insecure, me who has brought her so much pain, and find someone who takes her breath away and makes her stomach do backflips. Or I mean to say, she did look at me and see that. Now… I don't know.
The first time she saved me I was merely a child. She saved me from the grief that strangled my house. The grief for a brother I had not known. A grief that I could not be a part of but was intrinsically a factor in. As a child I would creep through the hushed halls of my home – my father, a doctor, being absent, my mother locked away in her room – desperate for the moment I would answer the door to her beaming face and breathe in a rush of fresh air. From the walls around me loomed the pictures of the brother I had never known, pressing down on me and robbing my lungs of all air. Here he was, learning to ride a tricycle, and here graduating high school and here in the final picture wearing his uniform. I had come along late, an afterthought perhaps but more probably an accident, and had been only two when he died and was shipped home with an American flag draped across his coffin. Suffice to say, my mother has never quite recovered and I have paid penance for my existence in a world he does not: Never able to live up to her expectations, for all she really wants is her son back.
The second time she saved me it was from myself – a destructive power I had not foreseen even as I span wildly out of control. She made me go to a counsellor. And one night, when she found me shaking with withdrawal symptoms all she said was, Oh San, a myriad of emotions wrapped in the two simple syllables. She taught me to love myself. To be proud of who I am. And for that, I can never repay her.
So you see, she is truly part of me. Her presence in me can neither be denied nor ignored but somehow for everyone's benefit it must be forgotten. That is what I'm telling myself right now.
Because right now, I miss her in a different way. A way I'd never really thought about before until it happened. Because today I kissed another girl and meant it. Not like with Elaine – a stupid ploy that she saw right through – but for real. In an, I like her, kind of way. Dani didn't taste like her though. Her lips didn't feel the same under mine. Her body felt too large, her hands too soft, her face too wide. Her hair was too long and her scent was different. Not bad different - she smelt of laundry detergent and peaches – none of this was bad different. It was just different. Unfamiliar. Like returning to your childhood home after your parents have remodelled your room. Familiar territory but utterly unrecognisable. Tinged with sadness and nostalgia. And you can't help but wish you were ten years old again and didn't have a worry in the world and your teddy bear still sat on your wardrobe. So right now that's how I miss her.
Right now, I'm staring at her name on my phone. It says Britt 3 3 3. And underneath are written seven words. Typed minutes ago by me. I met someone today. I miss you. Despite their juxtaposition, they are not intended to hurt. Simply to state. Simply to let her know how I feel. Carefully, I move my thumb forward and hover over the send button but after a moment's hesitation I tap the delete button, as I knew I would even from beginning to type. I always chicken out you see. Fickle, neurotic and insecure. I really have no idea why she loves me. Loved me. Why she loved me.