It is more or less the way she'd imagined: considerably more even, but with a price. It's as if her right hemisphere has been short circuited, or really more like it's underconnected, and she has to make do mostly with her left. What used to flow through the conduit of her body and mind now has to be perceived, pondered, pre-amped, and pushed out. Her scene work in class has become stilted. She is full of self-doubt. But: she is no longer crying on the way to rehearsals.

Funny, isn't it, how the ups win her friends and attention and fun sometimes, how the downs alienate people always, and how people stay away even longer than the downs last. And super-funny how the even bits make her disappear (kind of). So now, she's invisible. Except when she's making an ass of herself onstage. She's still competent, it's just that it feels less than it used to; it feels squeezed, forced.

And it's not like this other thing was unexpected. She was vaguely resigned to it already, but reading it: another variation of "It's not you, it's me." It's not like she hasn't heard that one before. Several times. (She's even used it.) It's just that after several times, it seems like a pattern, and at the heart of that pattern, at the heart of it is one thing. Herself. It was probably the sweetest, nicest, most polite rejection she's ever read. But No still feels like No. Rachel's never coming to New Haven.

The adrenaline is still surging through her system, same as ever. Hot. Same as when her father threw her out. Big or small, rejection has the same effect, no matter the little green pills.

So, three weeks in. Three weeks. This isn't even the full effect. Her acting sucks. She can't connect with her (kind of) friends. She's no longer the party girl with her party girl power. Or the HBIC with her HBIC power. It's so fucking cold here.

What's that? What's that sound? Why can't it just shut up? Phone. Just the phone. Pick it up.

"Q? I'm going to New York. Meet me?"

For a moment, she can't catch her breath.

"Quinn? Are you there?"

"Yeeeeaaah?"

"I'm staying with Hummelberry. They have this huge place, I'm sure you could crash on the floor with me, c'mon, meet me there."

The returned train pass is still in her hand, and it hasn't expired quite yet.

"When?" She checks her calendar. She could do it, for a day or two. And Rachel would never have to know how deeply she's cut her.

Two more weeks. The full effect. Maybe by then she'd know better how to feel stuff in an even (kind of) way. She wouldn't even have to hang out with Hummelberry. She could go on the town with Santana, who at the least knows her better than anyone else she's seen since June.

It's crazy, but suddenly she wants the possibility of connection, or the re-connection, enough to risk the further heartbreak (is that what it is?) of a couple days with a disinterested Rachel.

"Hmmm, maybe…"

"No bullshit, Fabray, be there. Be there. Because Hummelberry will make me crazy if you're not. And because— because— "

"What?"

"Never mind. Just be there."

And that was that. Suddenly the girl who has been her lieutenant and her backup and her enemy and her frenemy and her friend (kind of) is treating her like she's worthy of her time and care and attention, even if it's still a little prickly. Even if the ridiculous fool still hasn't done right by Brittany, she has to admit Santana offers something Rachel hasn't since she reached New York. Reciprocity. Her own brand maybe, but reciprocity. Suddenly she feels wanted, she feels somehow important, she feels… loved (kind of).

Her back still aches, and her legs tingle from time to time, but she keeps moving forward, as best she can.

She unlocks her phone and taps in a message: Crashing your party with Santana :) Q

And another: On my way.