She's quiet.

Which, oddly enough, isn't that unusual when she's with you. She does talk to you a lot. She is Rachel Berry, after all. But with you it's never pointless chatter just to fill the silence. Or maybe it is and you're enough of a fool to hang on to every word she says.

The silences have never been like this, though. Since you've become kind of friends, it's always been easy, comfortable.

This is different. She's sitting there beside your hospital bed with her head bowed staring at the phone she's flipping over and over in her hands. This is awkward and heavy and it feels like she has something on her mind, but is afraid to say what.

"Rachel?"

She doesn't look at you at first. She just keeps flipping her phone over in her hands.

"Santana told me."

The first thing you feel is relief. Because you know exactly what it is Santana told her, and you're thankful you didn't have to tell her yourself. Next, you wonder why. You told Santana for a reason. She's the last person you would expect to give that particular secret away.

Rachel seems to sense your question.

"We – we didn't know –" Rachel sniffles and pulls some Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe her tears away. "We thought you were going to die, Quinn," she finishes quietly.

She looks at you now. Even looking like she hasn't slept in four days, with red eyes and smudged makeup, she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. You forget to breathe for a moment.

Then she takes hold of your right hand with her left. Her very ring-free left hand.

You lock eyes with her. You don't speak the question, but she understands. She answers you with that tiny little almost-nod. The smile that goes with it is a bit more genuine this time.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks.

"I was scared." You were, and you still are, but that's not the real reason. Rachel can tell you're not giving her the whole truth. She gives you a look that you taught her, complete with a raised eyebrow. "You knew."

She had to have known. Rachel's smart, she's perceptive, especially when it comes to you. There's no way she hadn't added up every time you stared at her across the choir room or held on a bit too long when you hugged.

"I – you still could've told me."

"I've had about as much rejection as I can handle, thanks."

"Maybe I wouldn't have rejected you."

That is something you have never considered. You've imagined kissing her, and doing a bit more than kissing, taking her on a hundred different perfect first dates, you've even imagined a future together in New York. But you have never been able to imagine confessing your feelings for her resulting in anything other than heartbreak.

"Quinn." She squeezes your hand to get your attention. "Why didn't you say anything? If had known – I don't know. You were just going to let me marry him. You – you gave up on me."

When she says that there's a look on her face that you've only seen once before, when she told you Kurt had gotten his NYADA letter and she hadn't.

"I could never give up on you." You pause to look at her and she appears almost hopeful. For the first time, you let the idea that she might actually have some more-than-friendly feeling for you enter your mind. "You were happy with him. I tried to stop you at first because you were doing it for the wrong reasons, but he really does make you happy. That's all I want Rachel, for you to be happy."

"What about you?"

"If you're happy, then I'll be happy."

"No you won't. I know what it feels like to watch the one you love be with someone else. It's not a nice feeling, Quinn."

You know exactly what it feels like, but you don't point that out. You don't want her to feel guilty for that.

"Why are you doing this? You love him enough that you almost married him, so why are you dangling this in front of me?"

She shakes her head.

"Don't you get it, Quinn? You aren't the only one who's been hiding something for the last couple years." Then with one final squeeze of your hand, she stands up and walks out of your room.

Once she's gone, your eyes drift over to the flowers she left on the small table beside your bed. It takes you a while to recognize the white blossoms, but the pale green paper they're wrapped in stirs your memory. Gardenias.