I don't own Glee.
How has being a part of New Directions changed your life?
The Warblers are going to Nationals this year.
Blaine almost can't believe it. This has been his dream for so long that he doesn't remember ever wanting anything else. The thrill of New York – the lights, the crushing mass of people, the unending supply of black coffee – it whispered to him with promises of show business, the one thing he truly loves.
He tries not to think about the details. He tries to forget how this trip will be taken alone – how, no matter who is up on that stage with him, he will be singing unaccompanied. Blaine likes the Warblers, he really does. It's just impossible to let himself grow closer to them; even after almost two long years together, how can he burden them with his cowardly friendship?
Blaine remains distant.
He's the detached soloist everyone knows and loves – the aloof and mysterious boy who keeps a façade to hide his own shame. No matter what blessings have befallen him at Dalton, Blaine cannot overcome the fact that, once upon a time, he ran away.
Those scars will never heal. He thinks about being broken for the rest of eternity.
Suddenly, he doesn't feel like singing anymore.
Her world consists of tears and crumpled dollars.
Actually, maybe that's not fair. It's not what Quinn's world consists of that matters – it's what her life doesn't have, not anymore. She doesn't have a cheerleading uniform, or a report card, or even a bed to call her own. She just has Beth.
Her daughter is almost two years old, and Quinn loves her more than – well, anything. Certainly more than her housemate (Puck, who has grown zero inches taller and zero inches kinder) and her job (an assistant manager at Sheets 'N Things, can you believe it?) and the humdrum fact that she is a high school dropout.
She thinks of what she could have been.
She thinks of what her daughter might still be.
The truth is, Quinn's life is ruined. Her world is limited to tears and the absence of crumpled dollars. Beth – beautiful, sweet little Beth – is the only reason she's even attempting to make this mess work. She thinks the worst part is that, when she wakes up in cold sweat to the sound of her daughter's wails, she swears she can hear beautiful singing.
It's never her own voice.
The letter arrives on a Monday.
When Finn opens it, he's halfway distracted by the mountain of macaroni and cheese he's attempting to shove into his mouth. The shock of actually reading it almost makes him forget to chew, and he chokes down the massive mouthful before shouting, "Mom! Mom!"
He got his football scholarship, just like he'd always wanted.
For some reason, his buddies on the team just present half-hearted congrats and shoot him veiled glares when he breaks the news. Finn doesn't take it personally, and just makes it up to them later by stuffing that disabled kid in the Porta-Potty (even though he risks expulsion now, after the incident). He tries to smile as Azimio takes the first roll.
As he's pulling off his sweaty uniform after practice, Finn checks to make sure he's alone in the locker room.
When the coast is clear, he turns on the shower to full blast and begins to belt out his victory song, I Can't Fight This Feeling by good ole R.E.O. Speedwagon.
For some reason, he gets a weird sense of deja-vu – like he's actually on stage, singing this song – wait, no, he's singing a Journey song – and then Finn has to stop and dry off because, well, there's nothing more awkward then imagining yourself in front of a thousand people while in the shower.
He gets the feeling he'd hate show business.
This is exactly why you only sing in the shower, he reminds himself. There are bigger fish to fry.
She almost can't believe it.
The key word, of course, is almost. No matter how much insecurity had festered below the surface in the past, Rachel was always sure she would be a star. Now that she's been accepted into UCLA and plans on majoring in show choir, she can focus on winning Nationals this year – again. As she plunks down into the driver's seat of her car, Rachel sighs happily.
It's true that her beloved Vocal Adrenaline will be at a slight disadvantage without their immensely talented Jesse St. James, but Rachel knows for a fact that her boyfriend will be at all of their performances. He's already scheduled the plane trips around his own busy UCLA class schedule.
Not to mention that Carmel still has her.
As she attempts to control her excitement and actually remain at the speed limit on her way home, Rachel passes her old high school. It's halfway between Carmel and her house, and she sees it every day.
Today, however, it looks different.
She squints out her side window – what is that door there, it looks so familiar – and for a moment nostalgia overtakes her. She remembers silly, mundane little McKinley. She remembers the countless reason why she left: she was so good, the people there were so terrible (all of them now, she thinks sadly) and the slushie facials got really old really fast.
The light turns green and she rockets forward.
Rachel can't help but glance back.
When his father breaks the news about yet another acceptance letter, Mike forces a smile.
Ten minutes later, he's locked himself in his room and thrown open the window. This is officially the worst day of his entire life, and he doesn't plan on weeping about it under his covers. He knows from experience that it won't change anything.
Climbing out onto his roof, Mike wonders why he's so depressed.
There's really no reason for his sadness. Not out here, curled up next to the dark chimney with stars hanging above his head. Not at school, where his letterman jacket allows him leisure to take advanced classes without harassment. Not at home, where his parents expect him to study for a minimum of four hours every night. Not when he's lying on top of his sheets, staring at the ceiling and longing for a feeling he's never had.
He tries not to think about the Ivy League schools that have accepted him. He definitely doesn't think about how many of those schools have dance programs.
Mike closes his eyes and pretends he can hear music.
Brittany doesn't know what to think.
Not that this is new – she doesn't know what to think a lot of the time, especially whenever Coach Sylvester starts talking about the human cannon again. But this kind of confusion is stranger because, for once, she knows what the answers to all of her problems are. It's everyone else who won't play along.
"Santana," she says, "d'you want to join Glee club with me?"
Her best friend laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard, and Brittany drops the issue. No one seems to remember how much fun they had in New Directions, especially before what happened to – anyway,she's tired of trying to make them see. They don't believe in her, so why should she believe in herself?
She doesn't wake up with dreams so vivid she knows they're memories.
She doesn't stroke Lord Tubbington in the morning and whisper, "Being a part of something special makes you special," because that would be silly and strange and stupid – if there is one thing Brittany is not, stupid takes the crown because she knows what she's talking about.
No one sees her dancing around her room, remembering the steps to routines that never even existed.
R.I.P. Kurt Hummel.
We'll never say goodbye to you.