Santana never loved Brittany.
That's the conclusion she draws as she's sitting alone in her dingy little apartment on the corner of hopeless and nowhere, thinking over the last few years objectively.
Oh sure, she loved the idea of Brittany, the idea of her soft skin and softer words, words that ran like silk through her fingers and seemed to escape before she could even begin to grasp them. Or maybe they were never there at all.
That's not to say she was a liar, all those years. She wasn't lying to Brittany when she told her she was a genius; she wasn't lying to herself when she thought her pulse would quicken at every glimpse of golden locks glinting in the sunlight. What she felt was real; she just seriously doubted it had ever been love.
If love was just wanting to watch someone's movements, all day, every day, then she loved Brittany.
If love was seconds slowing to hours, just staring at crystal orbs, then she loved Brittany.
If love was desperately grasping for a label for her feelings, then she - well, she loved Brittany.
Love wasn't praying for an excuse not to talk. Love wasn't running and hiding and being too scared to even talk to her, in case that pretty pink mouth said something she wasn't ready to hear. And love sure as Hell wasn't pushing someone as far away as possible, just to lurk further in the darkness of her wardrobe.
So, maybe she didn't love her. Not in the literal sense anyway. The idea of her, sure, Santana loved the Brittany she created in her mind. But that Brittany never pushed, never wanted more (Her Brittany always understood fear. Seems like all this one ever did was grab and tear and rip at all her weak points until there was nothing, nothing left, nothing remaining, nothing for her.).
If they'd met in a different time, then Santana would have loved Brittany with all her heart. But in high school, her heart had been too buried beneath the tonne of secrets and lies and self loathing to even consider letting someone else in.
What she thought was love came from her head, not her heart.