Author's Note: So, in the recent Glee episode which was a tribute to Cory Monteith, I decided a little one shot was called for because HOW MUCH MORE "OPEN TO INTERPRETATION" COULD THAT EPISODE BE?! It's okay. I'm okay. I just sometimes get frustrated is all.

So, even though I absolutely abhor the character of Finn (No seriously. That character has so much potential, and the writers of Glee just slaughtered him. No pun intended) I really enjoyed Cory Monteith and the amazing talent he brought to a poorly written character, so I guess this is for him. Because he deserved it. And Finn was... pillsbury dough boy.

:)

Dear Finn:

Guess what?
I miss you.
Every day, I miss you.
I miss you so much I think of you.
And when I think of you, I dream of you.
And when I wake, while pale and weak sunlight is just filtering through the window, and the Earth shakes off the frosty clutches of a cold and frigid night, you're there. For a few precious seconds in the limbo between conscious and asleep, living and dead, you're there, lying beside me, real and alive and THERE. And I can smile into your eyes, and feel you breathe, and be wrapped up in the atmosphere I can only describe as YOU, the atmosphere that ignites my skin, and makes my pulse race, and makes me blush for no reason.
You're there.
And then it hits me.
And then I remember.
And you begin to fade, slip through my very fingers as I see that you're not here. You never were here. And as my grey clouds assemble around my head once more, and proceed to block out a sunny morning, I get up to face my day. The bed is too empty for just me to fill it now. I need to get up and try to forget.
And for a while I do.
I fill my life with meaningless tasks, routine structure and scheduling, making simple conversation and giving cordial, but dead smiles. Nothing more than an arrangement of facial muscles, rather than an emotional expression.
"How are you doing today?"
"Fine, and yourself? How's the wife?"
"Just fine, thanks!"
Enough to be polite, enough to occupy my thoughts; just enough so that I don't have to think. It's almost like a game, every day, seeing how long it lasts. How long can I keep it up this time? If I'm really good at it, some days I can trick myself into thinking that I'm happy.
But sometimes I slip up.
And when I do, it hits me like freight train, the way it knocks that wind out of me.
Sometimes I almost make it. Not today though.
It's 8pm on a weeknight, and I'm so close.
And I pass where you used to sit.
And as it comes into view, I can hear the ghosts of laughter that still linger here, like a background track on the soundtrack of my life. They taunt me with images, memories of the face that used to utter such a simple, crisp and happy laugh.
And then the dam I built breaks.
And the thoughts I shouldn't be thinking, and emotions I shouldn't feel, break through and I try to stop them because they're WRONG. They're wrong, so very, very wrong, but they hit me in the face like a cool breeze after struggling through a hot, damp cave. And a smile tugs at my lips, because to indulge myself in these memories of you feels SO GOOD, and I don't want to stop. I wish the smile away, to disappear forever because it's false. It is the result of memories of days gone by, and nothing more.
They don't exist any more. You don't exist any more. We don't exist any more. They're gone, and you're gone, and that time, that life is gone.
I don't get to be happy anymore.
And with this realization, that isn't new, but all too familiar, the smile finally fades. It's done its job here.
And just like nothing had happened, I continue on my way. I go home.
"How was your day?"
I bring out my deceitful accessory once more, and the dead smile resumes my face.
"Fine."
Polite. To the point. Enough.
And I crawl into my bed, alone, and I sleep.
And I dream.
And the cycle repeats itself.
But it's okay. I'm resigned to it.
Because those few seconds in the morning where no evil can survive are like a drug. They are my high. They are enough to make this withdrawal dubbed "reality" worth it.

Love, always,

Rachel Berry.

Rachel sat back from her desk, and surveyed her letter. After a solid hour of writing, revising, and angrily tearing up pages, she finally felt like she had written exactly what was needed. She was reluctant to even write the damned thing, but there needed to be something. Something real, something in black and white that illustrated her last feelings of him. Something to prove that this was real, this was happening, and she needed to let go.

Now.

She needed to let go now.

In the span of these pages was every emotion and thought she'd been feeling for the past month. She felt cleansed. Better. A certain catharsis was attributed with her feeling with this letter. That this was now real, because she'd made it real.

With these ideas in mind, she slowly, methodically folded up the letter into an envelope, meticulously forming her creases with a careful eye.

A determined eye.

She glided her fingers across the coarse, fancy paper she'd picked up especially for this, and took one last at her work of art.

She drew a lighter out of her pocket, and lit the corner of the envelop, and dropped it into the garbage can. And then she sat there, and watched it burn. She sat and watch her painfully strung out words, ideas, and feelings slowly fade to smoke before her eyes. And she knew that she was done with that.

Authors Note (Again. I love these things): So yeah. That happened. Reviews would be greatly appreciated, because this is the first time I've written anything like this, and I would really like some feedback on it. I feel like it's not quite... right, ya know? So I wanna know what you think.

Thanks for reading :)