Author's Note (A/N):

Alternate Universe.

Faberry.

Some original characters, some canon characters… I change things to suit the story as I see fit. Personalities may not be completely to canon, but I find the characters are more likeable with my own spin… ;) Plus Quinn I feel like isn't really used as well as she could be, especially since Dianna is a total BAMF.

This story loosely follows the stories of some old flames and I, but feel free to suggest plot ideas! I love reading your opinions about how the story should go! I usually update weekly… Sometimes daily if you play nice and leave me lots of reviews telling me you need an update. I can usually provide as I tend to write 1-2 chapters ahead of what I post!

Constructive criticism welcome as always!

I don't own Glee. Don't sue me, Ryan Murphy!

I also don't have a beta. All grammatical mistakes are mine. Leave a comment if you're interested in becoming a beta for me!

Lines Crossed

Chapter One: "An Anonymous Admirer"

It all started with a kiss.

The kiss was a chaste one, an unthinking one that was over before it had even begun, and when our lips broke apart, I knew that our lives were forever changed by a single kiss that lasted no longer than a second.

The ridiculousness of such a statement was and still is not lost upon me.

How can such a short kiss change a life?

If you were the one to feel the brush of her lips, to feel how her hand fell just to the right of the small of your back, caressing the rise of your hip and then tightening to pull you closer, deeper.

And those moments, those moments leading up to the kiss! You're so close to her, and she's close to you, and you can't move apart for the sake of having the very breath ripped from your body. You're looking at her lips, then her eyes, her beautiful eyes—eyes of a thousand colors—and she is looking back at you through them, and her soul glimmers just below those myriad of hues. You could fall upon her, but you don't for fear of losing her, losing that moment…

Jesus, it was so much more than just a kiss.

I suppose, to properly tell the whole story, I should start before the kiss—before everything changed irrevocably.

Before she became everything I thought about, everything I longed for, and everything I knew I could never have.

I usually skipped fourth period, mostly because it was gym and I hated doing anything remotely athletic. Plus being the size of a twelve year old at five foot two does not bode well in sports, especially since the current unit was Dodgeball.

I possessed one talent and that was my voice. I sang better than anyone else in William McKinley High and that was a (mostly) undisputed fact among the student body.

However, my powerful voice would not save me now.

As I stood there, on the very edge of the basketball court, trying desperately to be the best sitting duck I could, I hoped would be struck somewhere in a lower, less-painful region so I could rejoin the ranks of the losers on the outskirts.

When a large red ball made contact against the moisturized skin of my face, I realized how much I hated going to school here at McKinley. The sting and the loud smacking sound faded quickly, but the humiliation of twenty plus students staring, pointing and laughing at me did not.

"That feel good, Hobbit?" Santana Lopez taunted, McKinley's high resident Queen of Mean and my personal tormentor. She raised her well-muscled arms, kissing each of her biceps, and then began to aggressively scan the line of terrified students for her next victim. She reminded me of some sort of animalistic predator, intent on bringing pain to those smaller and weaker than her.

I hurried to the fringes of my team's side, reversed and slid down against the wall, trying to fade into the background as much as possible. I drew my knees up and rested my chin on top of them, wrapping my arms around myself and squeezing as tight as I possibly could. Maybe I could implode, disappear with a whoosh inside myself and never be seen again.

"It'll be all right, Rachel," A voice drew my attention outward, and I looked to my right—looked to my best friend and fellow social outcast, Kurt Hummel.

Kurt was even more uncool than I because he was gay. Well, more than just gay, he channeled the essence of Elizabeth Taylor and Madonna both in fashion sense and in dramatic flair. Right now he was forced to wear our school's gym uniform, a bland mix of red cotton shorts and heather gray t-shirts, but his unique style was boldly proclaimed by his shiny lip-gloss (man-gloss, he called it) and equally flamboyant silvery glitter eye-shadow.

"They'll find a new target within seconds," he was trying to make me feel better, and I smiled gratefully up at him. It was good to have a friend like him. Without Kurt, I would be lost in a sea of loneliness—without Kurt, I wouldn't have a single friend in the world.

"They always do," I agreed with him. "I'm just glad I'm out now and you can tell me where exactly you bought that awesome shade of eye-shadow."

Before Kurt could respond, something that looked like a blurred missile struck him square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and subsequently muting any reply he was about to make.

I looked up quickly, seeing David Karofsky, another stupid football playing bully, doubled over and laughing hysterically. Turning back to Kurt, I could see he was doubled over as well, but instead Kurt was choking and wheezing little huffs and puffs of pure agony.

I reached out to Kurt, trying to envelop him in my arms and keep him from the eventual impending realization of his own humiliation but he pushed me back gently. I knew he felt the need to stand, to run, and to leave all this cruel torment behind him. I knew because I shared his feelings, shared his burdens, and shared his pain.

"That's what you get, Faggot," Karofsky yelled in our direction, "BOOM!" He mimicked the wind-up toss he had used to throw the ball at Kurt, and then brought his fist upward in an arrogant display of victory. "Making little Fags cry since the day I was born," he called to his fellow chortling football buddies.

I bit my tongue. It was useless to retort back to them, I would only anger them further and there would be worse things done to both Kurt and I on another day.

Coach Beiste, the new gym teacher, having seen the whole incident, ran over quickly to where we were sitting and dismissed us from the gym before ordering Karofsky to run one hundred laps. I didn't stick around to watch his resulting temper-tantrum; instead I helped Kurt to his feet so we could try to escape without further public humiliation or pain.

As Kurt and I hustled from the gym, I kept my eyes on the waxed wooden floor until we reached the safety of the outside hallway, where we could collapse against the lockers and relish our moment of safety. "One day," I heard myself say as I let my head fall back to rest against the metal of a random student's locker, "We will break free of this place, escape to New York, and become huge stars on Broadway. "

Kurt didn't reply. I turned to look at him and saw he had his eyes closed; one single tear glistened against the paleness of his cheek before it fell and stained a tiny dark circle on his rubicund shorts. I reached out, and wiped away the next tear glittering by his right eye before it could fall with the pad of my thumb. I let my hand plummet to his chin where I gently turned his head so when he did finally open his eyes, we were interlocked in a stare.

"Say it Kurt," I demanded, "Please."

He nodded once, and I lowered my hand before he caught my wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Yes," he agreed, "We're going to break free and we'll never look back to Lima, Ohio."

We'll never look back…

That night, in my room, I opened up my Tumblr account so I could reblog yet another picture of my personal hero, Barbra Streisand. There was a tiny red mark indicating I had a message waiting on me from a fellow Tumblr-addict, or perhaps even from an Anonymous user. Most students at McKinley High had never heard of Tumblr, so I felt no fear of it being another taunting message like the usual ones I received on Facebook or Myspace.

It was probably just Kurt again, sending me more pictures of Ryan Gosling and Zac Efron with captions like 'MINE BITCH!' or 'My future husband doing future husband-like things!' written under every single one.

As I clicked on the mark, opened up my inbox and proceeded to be astonished by what I found there.

You don't know me… But I know you. We go to the same school and although we haven't spoken much, I think you're really pretty and I felt the need to tell you so. I'm a little shy and I'm pretty sure I'm not your type, but everyone deserves to be told they're beautiful. . . Especially if they are as beautiful as you are, Rachel Berry.

Anonymous Admirer

I stared at the block of text for a long moment, before hastily writing underneath in response:

Thank you. Just thank you. And if you were able to write something as sweet as that, you are definitely my type. Come off Anon, please?

I clicked 'post' before I could stop myself and anxiously began refreshing my Dashboard, hoping to see that delicious red mark again. After about thirty minutes, I gave up and began my usual routine of preparing for sleep—a process that would take at least an hour or longer if one of my two dads decided to interrupt.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, I sat back down in front of my Macbook Pro again, hoping to find a message waiting on me from my sweet anonymous admirer. A little stab of excitement resounded through me when I saw that in fact I did have one new message waiting on me.

I can't. For a variety of reasons, but the best being I'm not ready yet. Can I ask you a question? A serious one, I promise. I'll ask it here and if you don't feel comfortable answering, you don't have to. How do you feel about gay relationships?

Anonymous Admirer

How did I feel about gay relationships? I had two gay Dads for Streisand's sake! Not to mention the fact that my best (and only) friend in the world was incredibly gay. Like that famous line in Mean Girls, Kurt was almost too gay to function and I loved him all the more for it.

Of course I was accepting of the gays! Hell, buy me the Legalize Gay t-shirt and I would proudly wear it to school weekly! Fag-hag? You betcha!

This person clearly didn't know me very well at all. . . Which didn't really narrow down the options of who it could be, since that left everyone in McKinley except for Kurt.

My best friend Kurt is gay, and I was raised by two Dads. I would say I'm pretty accepting of everything gay. Are you gay…?

With a click, it appeared on my page, and I began to refresh over and over again. Then, suddenly, it hit me—if my Anon was gay, and interested in me, that would make the Anon of the feminine gender.

I never really considered the idea of dating a girl, but to be fair, I never really considered dating anyone at all. I never felt attracted to anyone in particular. Kurt was the one who talked obsessively about boys, I always listened and gave my opinion on important dilemmas like Jacob vs. Edward, but for the most part, I was much more focused on my career than men.

Now, with the idea of a girl liking me placed in my head, I tried to figure out if I liked girls… well, like that. I always liked that Katy Perry song, but I also liked that other song It's Raining Men—did that make me gayer or straighter?

There was no answer. I had never tried to be with anyone and certainly never actually kissed or even hugged anyone except Kurt (which didn't count because he was like the Lady GaGa version of a Teddy Bear to me), so I couldn't even begin to come to a fair answer.

While I was internally debating with myself, I didn't see the red indicator of a new message until almost ten minutes later. I clicked on it and read eagerly.

I don't know. I think so. I – I felt something when I saw you sing last week. I wanted to kiss you. Is that weird? I think it is, to tell a complete stranger you wanted to kiss them. When you were singing, I felt like I knew you. Now that's definitely strange, I know, but it's true. I felt like you were singing to me. I wish you would sing to me. I think I'd really like that. I hope someday to talk to you in person, just to have your attention for a second, but until then, I hope you have a wonderful night. Sweet dreams.

Anonymous Admirer

I couldn't stop myself. I furiously wrote back without even re-reading the words I typed.

Don't go, Anon. I don't think it's weird. Singing is supposed to encourage emotional response from an audience, and it makes me happy to know my voice did that for you. You should talk to me in person. Maybe I would want to kiss you too if I knew you. I've never wanted to kiss anyone before. You have all of my attention now. More than anyone else ever has… If you don't respond to this, well, goodnight to you too.

Leaning back, I stared at my Dashboard for a long second, realizing that my Anonymous Admirer wasn't going to write back tonight, maybe not ever.

But my heart was lifted somehow. Someone, somewhere out there, thought I was beautiful and had wanted to kiss me. Me! My whole life I considered myself ugly and awkward and just un-kissable as possible, and here was a total stranger admitting she had fantasies about doing the very thing I always doubted!

I stood up and walked to my bed, falling quickly into soft Egyptian cotton sheets and mounds of feather pillows. I grabbed my childhood stuffed animal, a pink colored unicorn I named Star, and clutched her tightly to my chest. "Someone thinks I'm beautiful," I beamed reaching out to turn off the light before snuggling Star tightly.

I decided not to worry about my Anonymous Admirer's gender.

Not yet.

"That's so romantic," Kurt purred as I rehashed the evening's happening to him during lunch the next day. "She sounds like a regular Princess Charming. I never really imagined you as having a gay relationship, Berry, but suddenly I can see it. I mean you always wear that atrocious plaid lumberjack shirt at least once a month. And those horrible boots you bought when we went to Marshall's last year, talk about a bad fashion decision!"

I drew myself indignantly. "I'll have you know that is a very en vogue pair of Kate Spade boots, and plaid button downs are very chic for the high school student!"

"Where did you read that, After Ellen?"

"Huh?" I furrowed my brows, "What's After Ellen?"

Kurt laughed and touched my hand lightly, "You have so much to learn, young lesbo."

"I'm not a lesbo! At least, I don't think I am… Can we not label this? I don't even know her name or what she looks like—"

"You just know she goes to McKinley and has a big fat lesbian crush on you. She's in lesbians with you, BerryBoop!" Kurt sang the last part in a sing-song before placing his hands on hips with an annunciated flourish.

"The only gay one I'm seeing at this table is you," I retorted before stealing his pudding cup. I ignored his reproachful look and peeled back the plastic covering so I could lick the vanilla goodness off the top. Kurt watched me for a long moment, before he rested his chin in his hand and gave me a long, knowing look. "What?" I asked, licking the inside of the carton now, enjoying the way the cream melted in my mouth.

"Oh yeah," he grinned, "I'm the only gay one here…"

I put down the pudding cup immediately, flushing. "You are ridiculous."

The bell rang, signaling we needed to hurry back to the second period. They only gave us five minutes to get to and from classes. My class, AP Biology, was all the way at the other side of the school so I needed to really get a move on. I said my goodbyes to Kurt and waved as he headed off in the opposite direction, slinging his large and rhinestone-infested messenger bag like a battering ram to clear his way.

As I walked, I could feel someone's eyes on me. I looked up, usually I liked to look at my feet when I traveled down the hallway—it was a great defense against slushies—but there was something about the eyes that were drilling holes into my forehead that made me want to look up. My gaze searched the crowded hallway, but my senses could not tell me exactly where the stare was coming from, and so as I prepared to let my gaze fall back down to the ground again, I was startled to feel someone grab my wrist.

The grip on my arm was firm and it spun me round like we were two dancers executing a specific move. With a jolt, once my feet stopped twirling, I found myself face to face with the one and only Santana Lopez.

I stammered something intelligible before I noticed the giant Styrofoam cup in her right hand. "Oh no," was all I could manage before she raised it above my head and tilted it downward. I gasped as I was doused in freezing cold purple liquid. It dripped down my face, down my shirt and into my bra before collecting in an icy pool at my feet.

Santana's laughter was all I heard as I ran for the nearest bathroom, the sugary wetness spread across my body already beginning to get incredibly sticky.

The bathroom was devoid of others, and once the door was shut behind me I felt safe enough to let the shaking sobs burst forth from my lips. I ran to the sink, turning on the water so I could wash myself clean of my public humiliation.

There were so many thoughts racing through my mind. Thoughts that claimed I was ugly, thoughts that screamed I deserved this, and thoughts that whispered I deserved such horrible actions because maybe I had been evil in a past life… Or maybe these girls could look inside my soul and see something evil that I couldn't see.

But one was different from the usual negativity. One thought said: I think you're beautiful, and I want to kiss you. My secret anonymous admirer, a life-raft in a swirling sea of horrible emotion, reached out to me and I clung desperately onto her, even if she was only a good albeit brief memory.

The door opened but I didn't hear the squeak of the hinges, I was too busy clutching onto the porcelain base of the sink, too busy lost in my thoughts, wondering who she was… Where she was…

"Rachel, right?"

I looked up and saw the most beautiful girl in the entire school standing before me. Locks of short blonde hair framed her face, and her lips were full and round and pursed in a worried sort of way, and the way she looked at me was strange… Not intimidating in the sense that I thought she might hurt me, but that she might reach out and touch me and I didn't know if I could handle such a thing.

"Yeah," I replied, backing away. "You're Quinn Fabray."

She nodded.

I retreated until I ran out of space, my spine making contact with the coolness of the rough cinderblock wall.

Quinn was best friends with Santana, and therefore I expected Santana to walk in at any moment. My eyes drifted to the door and Quinn looked behind her before realization dawned slowly upon her face.

"Oh, she's not – I mean, Santana's not coming." I stiffened at the mention of Santana, refusing to relax despite Quinn's attempt to soothe me. "I came because I…" Quinn trailed off, unsure suddenly. "I don't know actually. It was mean what she did. She can be so mean." The last part was said mostly to herself, I thought, as she lowered her head shamefully and played with the ends of her lace cardigan.

I noticed she wasn't wearing her Cheerios uniform. Normally she was always wearing that stupid polyester outfit, but today she was dressed like America's Sweetheart. She wore a soft white lace cardigan over a gorgeous baby-doll yellow shirt, while light-wash American Eagle jeans hugged her hips in all the right places, and she wore a pair of brown leather gladiator sandals on her feet. A small golden cross hung from her neck, and it reminded me of random facts about her.

She was president of the Celibacy Club.

She sang "This Little Light of Mine" once in a school assembly and it was surprisingly really good. I remember she held a candle that couldn't even begin to shine as brightly as her golden hair.

One time in my sophomore year, she bent down suddenly to help me retrieve my books when a gaggle of Cheerios knocked them from my hands while telling me to shuffle back to the Shire. I remembered when she leaned forward to give me my Geology textbook, she smelled like warm vanilla sugar.

She was absolutely beautiful. And suddenly, it struck me, that she was compassionate.

"It's okay," the ridiculousness of my words echoed back to me after each syllable, but it didn't stop me from saying them anyway, "I'm not mad at Santana. I know she only does it because if she didn't do it to me, then someone would do it to her."

Survival of the fittest and all...

"It's more than that," Quinn said softly, touching the cross around her neck absentmindedly, and I decided that must be what she did whenever she was lost in thought. "She's jealous of your voice, I think. She would never admit it, but we've talked about how you sing and…"

Quinn Fabray! The most popular girl in school openly admitting she held conversations about me with her fellow royal McKinley High court-members? I couldn't believe it! I stood there, slack-jawed, and stupidly mute.

"Well, anyway, I just think she's envious. We—I don't hate you or anything. You have a good voice." Quinn said with a smile. The slight curving of her lips made me realize further just how pretty she was.

I studied her, like it was for the first time, even though we had gone to the same high school for three years and interacted sporadically.

Her eyes were hazel, but more green than anything else. Those eyes were the color of the sea when the sun hits it just so, dark deep emerald with hints of tawny yellow. I found myself staring into them longer than what was probably polite, so I flushed and looked away, back to my feet again, studying the way my toes peeped out from their secure home of ballet flats.

"Thank you," I murmured softly. "For what you said about my voice, I mean. Some days I think it's all I have." The admission left my lips effortlessly, and I felt myself flush deeper.

Who was I to confess so much to Quinn Fabray? Who was I to assume that she even cared about my pathetic life?

"You always look at the ground." Quinn susurrated back, almost pensive sounding, and I got the same feeling I had when I was walking down the hall. I looked up sharply, and I found those hazel eyes looking at me with curiosity and something more… Something so much more.

"What?" I asked, a little stunned by her words. She said them so softly, I had barely heard her, but it was more the look in her eyes that made me feel absolutely breathless.

"N-nothing, nothing. I need to go. I hope you're okay. Really, I—" She took two steps toward me, her hands clenched at her sides like she were afraid she might reach out and touch me.

Like she didn't trust herself not to touch me.

Our eyes locked together for a second more and then she broke the contact, looking down, and whispering a final line.

"I do." And with that, she turned and left.

She left me there, a thousand questions running through my mind, a thousand thoughts… I shook myself slightly, heading back to the sink so I clean up and head to AP Bio. I needed to talk to Kurt. He would know what the hell just happened.

"It's simple," Kurt concluded after I told him what happened after school. "She's in lesbians with you."

"Quinn Fabray?" I raised my eyebrows and sat up from where we were sprawled out on my bed. "She's dating Finn Hudson and has been since… oh, forever? I don't really think that points to her being a lesbian."

"Wanda Sykes was married to a man for six years," Kurt said pointedly.

"Who's Wanda Sykes?" I asked absentmindedly. "Is she a singing lesbian?"

Kurt smacked his palm to his forehead in disgust. "Rachel," he sighed, "If you are going to be a gay lady you at the very least need to know who Wanda Sykes is!"

"I can google her! What's her best song?"

He shook his head repeatedly, before standing up to go to my computer. "It's time for a serious gay education. First we will look at Hannah Harto, because if there's any gay in there, she will bring it out and then we'll move on to Jenna Anne because, dear god, I'm even lesbicurious for her."

"Kurt you can't be lesbicurious! You would technically be straight or transgender, which actually might make a lot of sense—"

Kurt waved his hand dismissively, "Semantics, BerryBoop! Youtube is teeming with lesbians; we should post a video of you singing and I'm sure—"

"Wait," I interrupted him, "Can we check my Tumblr first?"

He rolled his glitter-donned eyes but obliged me. When I saw the red notification of a new message, I shoved him roughly out of the way.

Reaching out to touch you is like trying to touch a star. I know I'll never reach you, but it doesn't stop me from trying.

I read that somewhere, it made me think of you… I want to talk to you. Would you consider writing to me? If so, here's my email: . Tell me, what's your favorite song? Your favorite place? What do you think about when you look down?

Anonymous Admirer

"Whoa," I heard Kurt say.

"Yeah," I echoed back.

We sat there in silence for a long time before Kurt clicked on the email application at the bottom of my screen.

I looked at him, my eyes full of confusion, "Do you really think I should write her? She's some anonymous stranger… What if it's some kind of cruel joke?"

He smiled at me, and his eyes were incredibly kind. Kurt always possessed such kind eyes. No matter how mean the world was to him, he was still… Kurt. Sweet, adorable, funny and my best friend, and I longed to tell him how much I loved him in that moment, but it was senseless. He already knew.

"You'll never know for sure. But do you think it's worth the risk?"

The question hung in the air unanswered.

I looked back at the screen. I frowned. Was it?

(A/N:)

What do you guys think? Should Miss Berry write back? Is Quinn her Anonymous Admirer? Kurt needs a sexy boo to lust after… Should I bring Blaine in or someone entirely different? I think we need another girl to make the Anonymous Admirer jealous so maybe she'll make herself known to Rachel, eh?

Leave your thoughts before you click that back button!

Until next time loves,