"I'm sorry, Quinn," Rachel said, tone somber and expression earnest and eyebrows lowered sympathetically, and her words so trite it was very nearly comical. "I love him."
She laid her fingertips on Quinn's shoulder, so lightly it couldn't even be felt, and, just as if it wasn't right about the entirety of Quinn's heart she was undoing, stretched up and closed her eyes and easily pressed her lips to Quinn's cheek, much too tender and for many moments more than was tolerable.
And Quinn said nothing as she pulled away, and she said nothing as she turned away, and she said nothing as she walked away. Because her words had been bled out or maybe coagulated to nothing articulate or articulable some time ago, and because there was nothing left that needed saying.
But it remained on her skin, like that, the memory of the kiss, neither replicable nor removable; an invisible tattoo.