AN: This is a bit of a drabble I wrote for no particular reason. I might continue it, I might not. We'll see what happens.

If I do continue this story, there will be triggers later on, which I will list when the time comes.

I don't own Glee

Dear Charlotte,

I honestly have no idea how I'm supposed to begin this letter. After all, it's not like you're ever going to read it. Because you're not alive. You're gone. You're dead.

You're dead.

You're dead.

You're dead.

See, that's a new thing for me. You wouldn't know, since you haven't been around, but Dr. Edwards (he keeps telling me to call him Paul but I can't bring myself to do it) says it's a "really big step" in my life or something along those lines. The fact that I can tell myself that you're dead.

And it only took six months, ten days and approximately twenty-one hours.

I guess you can call that progress.

"Blaine, sweetie, we're here."

My eyes slowly blinked open. I peeled my right cheek off the window of the passenger seat. Sure, it had only been a twenty minute ride to the school, but when you're like me and barely get a few hours of sleep every night, you take every moment you can to shut your eyes and try to rest.

My hand slowly made its way to the seat belt buckle, which I unclasped before opening my door. Suddenly I felt the metal collide with another object and I groaned. I could hear my mother sigh from her seat beside me.

I assessed the damage, and luckily there wasn't a scratch on the bright orange car parked beside ours. Although even if it had been scratched, I wouldn't have cared. Anyone who drove such an obnoxious car deserved it.

"Good luck at school today! I know you'll do great!" my mother said enthusiastically as I picked my brown messenger bag off the floor. Even if she genuinely meant it, I couldn't help but feel as if she was only trying to reassure the both of us. We both knew the day was going to be hell for me. I hadn't been to school since the beginning of last March, and as a result I had to repeat my Junior year. To make matters worse, I was starting at a brand new school: Dalton Academy for Boys.

I always used to think going to a new school would be exciting. It would be a fresh start; An opportunity to become whoever I wanted to be, whether it was myself or a different person entirely. But that was before March; Before everything that happened and before reality bitch slapped me in the face. Now a new school was a nightmare. It was just another situation of forced social interaction that I no longer had any desire to take part in.

"Bye, Mom." I muttered as I shut the door of her silver sedan.

I walked to the stairs at the front of the school, then turned to watch her drive away until her car was out of sight. Now I was on my own for the first time in ages.

I pushed through the double doors of the large brick building and stepped inside. I'd already been here a few times, twice for different tours of the building and once when my parents had to sign some papers for my enrollment. The entire school was gorgeous, with wooden walls and stone floors and tall ceilings that made it feel like a smaller version of Hogwarts. Again, it was somewhere I could picture myself loving had I been here at the start of last year. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case, so instead of reveling in the architecture and grandeur of the school, I simply focused on making it through the day in one piece.

I guess you could say that I'm doing alright now. We all are. Dad's still working at his law firm, making disgusting amounts of money. Mom's still at home, fussing over everything and keeping the house looking spotless (or as I remember you used to say, "as if nobody even lives here at all", which will always be the most accurate description in my opinion). Cooper's off somewhere in California, auditioning for who knows what. We really don't hear from him all that often. And me? Well, as I've said, I'm "making progress". I'm still around and I'm kind of functioning in society, so I count that as doing just fine.

My parents chose this school for me for several reasons. First of all, its zero-tolerance bullying policy. Ever since I came out as gay at the beginning of my sophomore year, I had faced relentless taunts and even beatings at the public school I'd gone to. Dalton Academy kept me safe from all that torture.

Second of all, the school had an extremely rigorous academic curriculum that would not only keep me challenged, but also occupied. My parents believed that since I was so messed up, I needed to focus on something to keep myself from going crazy. That "something" turned out to be academics. I really had no problem with it. I'd always been someone who enjoyed learning and worked hard in school, so some interesting but intense courses weren't a worry.

Lastly, and I think most importantly, the school had a large number of on-site psychologists available to all students. Apparently Dalton was a school notorious for taking in traumatized kids from schools all over the state, hence the high medical-staff-to-student ratio. My mom said the doctors would "always be there to help" whenever I needed them, under the delusion that I'd actually be willing to talk to some random strangers about my problems. I already saw one psychologist twice a week, but apparently that wasn't enough. Still, I wasn't forced to talk to any of the Dalton doctors, so as long as I avoided doing anything crazy in school, I would be in the clear.

Some days I like to lay down in the backyard and look up at the clouds. I bring a bag of that biscotti Mom always buys from the bakery down the street and take it to that patch of grass between the bushes in the garden that we found together when we were playing Hide-and-Seek with Cooper all those years ago. I look up at the sky and see what kinds of shapes I can make out of the blue and white. Mostly I see animals like rabbits and sheep and whatever has a vaguely undefined shape that can be made easily. But once in a blue moon I manage to see a spider. A body and eight clearly shaped legs. Every time I see one, I think of you and how when we were little you used to sneak into my room at night and read Charlotte's Web to me until I fell asleep. I remember it was always your favorite book because you loved Charlotte so much. Now that I look back, I realize that you were just like Charlotte, in more ways than just your name. Ironic how that turned out, though, since she dies too.

The first thing I noticed about the boys in the school was that all of them seemed to act exactly the same. They wore their uniforms the same way, they walked down the halls in straight formations and they all participated in most of their classes. As I made my way from class to class, I constantly felt self-conscious, worried that I'd stand out because my tie wasn't straight or because the gel in my hair wasn't holding my dark curls down well enough.

Despite all this, I managed to make it through my entire first day unscathed. I took notes in my classes and answered when I was called upon, I remembered where I was supposed to be going and didn't get lost a single time and most of all I didn't have to talk to another student at all. Sure, it sounded pretty monotonous, but I considered it a success.

That was until I was leaving the school and passed by the music room near the back of the building.

As I walked by the door, I heard a sound that I never thought I'd ever miss. The sound of a group of students singing. The large wooden door was slightly ajar, so I stood against the wall and simply listened. Boys sang without accompaniment, harmonizing with one another so perfectly I couldn't believe I was listening to it live. One boy stood out among all the others, singing the lead of a song I knew by heart.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly...

But the voice wasn't standing out just because of the melody. It was so pure, so delicate, so...beautiful. It was more beautiful than anything I'd ever heard in my life. It was high and rich, but distinctly masculine in its own way. I stood mesmerized beside the door, unable to do anything but listen as the music engulfed and surrounded me.

I'd be lying if I say I don't miss you. Not a day goes by when I don't miss you. I miss your laugh and your voice and the way you'd always rub my back when I was sad. I miss the way you'd roll your eyes whenever Mom and Dad lectured you about your curfew or when Cooper teased you about the boys you went out with. I miss the days when I'd come home late from school and find you baking brownies and cupcakes just because you could. Those were my favorite nights because you, Cooper and I would eat everything you'd baked while sitting on the couch and watching old Disney movies. We'd always sing along, and you'd yell at me for adding harmony when it was completely unnecessary, but you'd never keep me from singing.

I think it was those nights that really made me love music and singing (and the occasional dancing, but we all know our "dancing" really just consisted of the three of us jumping up and down on the couches). But since you left us, I haven't really sung at all. It's not the same anymore, now that Cooper's never home and you're gone. It's not the same when I'm alone.

I was snapped out of my daze when I heard a stream of footsteps and chatter approach the music room door. Immediately I panicked. I didn't want any of the boys to know I'd been spying on them. That would make me the weird new kid, and I couldn't stand that sort of attention. It would also cause social interaction, which I was most certainly not ready for.

So I did the first thing I could, which was bolt down the hall as fast as I could. In retrospect, that probably wasn't the greatest idea either, since some of the boys probably saw me running like a madman as I dashed out the back door. Either way, nobody saw my face, so I was safe.

My mom picked me up, asking why I was so late and saying how worried she was. I lied and told her I had to stay after to speak with a few teachers. She took that as a plausible answer, seeing as how it was my first day and all, then proceeded to barrage me with questions about my day. I answered them all generically, saying "yes", "no" and "good" when necessary. At that moment, I really couldn't care less about what my mother had to say. All I could think about was the voice I'd heard through the wooden door, and how no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get it out of my head.

I guess I should end this letter now. After all, I plan to write a lot more, so I have a lot more time to say everything I want to say.

Dr. Edwards was right. I do feel kind of better now. He was the one who told me that writing everything down would help me to deal with it. Of course, he didn't say that I should be writing to my dead sister, but I feel like writing to you will give me a sort of goodbye that I never actually got.

I'm leaving this letter at your gravestone. I know someone's going to come by and take it, and that you'll never actually see it, but I think when I come back next week, I'll pretend that you did find it, and that your spirit's still here to pick up the flowers Mom and Dad leave every so often and the funny little things Cooper leaves when he comes to visit (just a warning: I think he might bring another jar of Nutella next time since it always was your favorite).

I miss you, Charlotte. I hope they're treating you well up there.

Love,

Blaine.