I don't own anything you recognize.

Blaine told me he loved me today.

Why are you crying so hard, tears streaming down your face, Mercedes?

Blaine told me he loved me.

No need to sing for me, Rachel, we know well enough your angst. Although the emotion in your eyes looks sincere enough. For what?

He said it. Finally. Whispered in my ear. His voice sounded so broken, so afraid.

Why do you look so confused, Brittney? And why is Santana comforting you?

He kissed me.

Why so guilty, Karofsky? Go too far this time around? I seem to remember a brick wall, and lots of blood, and lots of black. I don't want to remember. So I forget.

(Please don't start stuttering, Tina. It only makes Mike hold you tighter, and Artie looks heartbroken enough already.)

I'm not sure why I couldn't kiss back, but my eyes were closed in bliss, I promise.

Why does Puck look so broken? And Quinn, so afraid? And Sam, so furious, his eye has a black ring around it, and he winces every time he twitches it.

(So do I, actually, but why?)

And Finn, my father, my stepmother, why are you hunched over me, red eyed?

(This is why I moisturize. I can feel my whole body hurting— is that what happens to you when your skin gets too dry? But it hurts— to the bone.)

It feels free, to be like this. It's a little like floating.

I'm not sure whether that's because of Blaine, though.

There's a beeping noise. A continuous one. I don't know what it is, exactly, but with the familiar itchy cloth on me, and all of this pain, I can imagine.

I can see a glowing green line, completely straight, like I never could be, on a black backdrop.

Maybe if I was—

But I wasn't.

I can see you crying. I can see you all crying.

Rachel and Finn seem to be together now. That's good. They've made up. And Quinn and Puck find comfort in each other and Mercedes. Artie, Tina, Mike—they're figuring it out.

Dad. You have Carole.

Isn't it awful? It seems, your whole life, every time you gain a family member, you lose another.

Mom, me. Me, Carol.

Except you got Finn, too. So that's okay. There's a replacement.

Just don't let him tear up the high thread count sheets in the laundry. They're expensive.

And make sure he's careful when he bakes.

And don't—

Don't blame Blaine.

Blaine.

Courage.

You told me you loved me.

I can see you, you're sobbing over me. It's kind of like an out of body experience.

Don't cry for me, Blaine.

I was nothing special. Well, maybe my hair.

Karofsky's in prison clothes. Think on that.

This may happen again, with others, but not quite so often as it could have.

Courage, Blaine.

I'd tell you I love you, but I—

Forget it. Who cares if I can't talk?

Who cares if I never talk again?

I just need to say—

Courage, Blaine.

I love you.

A/N: This is an alternate ending to another story I posted. Or, rather, that one was an alternate ending to this. But I decided to post this one anyways, so here it is. Please review!