I had always told myself love was bullshit. A sappy fantasy invented by Hallmark to bring in a few bucks on Valentine's Day or an easy way to get into someone's pants. The only person you can count on is yourself, was my go-to motto. That was, until I met Rachel Berry.
She was a force to be reckoned with – driven, powerful, outspoken, stubborn, opinionated, annoying, egotistical, and beautiful. Half of the time I wasn't sure if I liked her or hated her guts. But I had enjoyed that. It kept me on my toes. I never quite knew what to expect with Rachel. And so, slowly but surely, I had fallen in love. And for some crazy, unknown reason she loved me back.
We planned our entire future lives together. Well, Rach planned; I mostly just sat there and nodded. Whatever made her happy made me happy. Yes, I was that whipped. She promised we'd grow old together. But first we would graduate McKinley with a national title under our Glee Club belts and she would be accepted into Julliard, it was her dream school. I would end up at NYU studying journalism, because she knew the only thing I loved more than her was the feeling I got when I was scribbling words furiously across a blank sheet of paper. We'd have our own dorm rooms, but we probably would never sleep alone. What was hers would be mine, she swore to it. We'd spend warm days lazing away in Central Park and colder days huddled up with hot chocolate mugs, sharing a scarf in a quaint city coffee shop. Eventually we would finish college with shiny new degrees and millions of job offers. Once we were rich and (in her case) famous, we'd buy a giant penthouse apartment together. We could get married and adopt children and kiss eachother in the secluded corners of the nursing home we would inevitably end up in.
The one unyielding part of that plan was the trip. Ah, the famous trip, my mom, Judy, would sigh exasperatedly every time her daughter and presumed future daughter would bring it up. It was virtually set in stone. Before we went to college, Rachel and I were supposed to hop in my beat up Mustang and drive all the way from Ohio to New York City. We had looked up hotels and interesting tourist stops and what we would eat and how long it would take us and even gas prices practically before junior year started. We reserved rooms a year before we needed to, without even seeking a safety net.
I was young, naïve, and incredibly in love. I truly believed things would go off without a hitch, so I mailed my response to NYU without even glancing at the unopened UCLA acceptance letter that had sat, pitiful, on my desk for weeks. I started packing for our road trip six months in advance, loving the jolt of excitement that coursed through my veins at the prospect of spending a week alone with Rachel. We had spent all of our pooled savings from working at the diner across town and singing duets outside of the mall to ensure the elusive trip would be amazing. Everything would be perfect.
However, what Rachel Berry didn't anticipate in her carefully constructed outline of our future, was that I would break her heart.
A/N: First time dabbling in Faberry, just a backstory, let me know whatcha think.