Santana Lopez stamped out her cigarette in the pouring rain on a non-descript Tuesday, stood outside a decrepit old Chinese takeaway, and wondered where the fuck it had gone wrong. She lit another cigarette sheltered under a tram shelter, and swore when the rain put it out and the wind caught her skirt and raised it above the level of her stockings. The builders across the sheet shouted lewdly at her, horrible words which caught in her hair, trailing her down 48th Street. She swore at them, at the rain, at San Francisco, at her past, empty present and blank, bleak future.

San Franciso was supposed to have been the best thing ever to have happened to her; on her 19th birthday her parents had presented her with the plane tickets and apartment lease as if it were the best gift she could ever have recieved. She needed it at the time, needed to leave Ohio and her old life behind, it was to be her fresh start. You may even find yourself, her father had said, as if finding oneself was as easy as a move away from the life and experiences that had thus far defined you. As if it weren't failed relationships, failed studies, failed job applications, failed job placements, a failure to move on. But she was just a single cell in the lifeblood of a city full of the lost,
and her presence blended so far in to the thousands of other twenty-somethings who were trying to discover their true identity, until she was just a flake of ash dropping from the cigarette San Francisco held in its mouth, falling to the ground and shattering like the illusion of happiness to be found on her voyage of self-discovery. Just another lesbian in San Francisco.

Her friends had all grown up and moved on; Quinn to Florida with her husband to start a family, Tina and Mike to England where they were performing on the West End, Mercedes to Pennsylvania with her husband persuing his footballing career with the Pittsburgh Steelers, Artie to L.A where he was working on his next feature film, and Puck was touring Europe with his band. Blaine, Kurt, Rachel and Sam had all gone to New York, where all but Sam had created a successful career in performing. Sam was primarily a youth worker, but he ran a small local gym in Queens too. Only Finn had stayed in Ohio, but Santana could not even find solidarity with him - his life as the football coach at McKinley High was one he found fulfilling and worthwhile, whereas hers languished behind in self-pity and what felt like a slow, particular kind of rot.

She didn't like to think of Brittany, but did so every day. Her face was all she saw in the period of drift between sleep and wake, and every smile she ever saw she immediately compared to Brittany's, every laugh she ever heard, every kiss she had received and ever would, and every face she ever glanced at. On her morning walk to work at the restaurant, the cars would scream past her and with every wave of noise, a wave of memory would sweep over her and cause her to shake and light another cigarette, trying to smoke away the nightmare of February the 15th that would stay with her forever. She could still remember it all, every detail. The long, typical highway, Brittany's laugh as she pressed the acceleration down on her beat up Lexus as hard as she could, the wind whistling through the open window and the freedom and thoughts of their Valentines weekend. She could remember telling Brittany to slow down, telling her to be careful at the intersection coming up because God knows what other cars could be there, rushing out the story of her great-uncle who had nearly died on a highway in Nevada. She could remember seeing the jack-kniefed truck ahead of her, screaming at Brittany to brake, brake, brake, BRAKE NOW! She could still see the look of blind panic spreading across Brittany's face as the brakes failed them, could still feel the last, desperate grasp of her hand as the truck sped ever closer and then how the impact broke them apart forever.

Closure was never an option. It had been obvious Brittany's parents hadn't approved of her relationship with Santana, and had blamed the Glee club for their daughters sexuality. In fact, though none were taken too seriously, they had threatened to move Brittany away from Ohio for good and give her a fresh start. Not a single person Santana knew had been invited to Brittany's funeral. She guessed it had been a family affair, a small funeral, as if the sadness would be lessened the smaller a deal over her death there was. Nobody had even seen her parents after the accident, and shortly after their old home was sold on, a new family living there, and many did not question it, could not imagine what they must have gone through. Brittany deserved so much more, and Santana had run from her memory and the terrifying reality and pain of loving unconditionally.
Now, here in the life she has made, Santana pushed open the door of her apartment and threw her keys onto the mail table. The movement sent a small envelope flying off the surface, and, curious, she bent down to pick it up. It had been hastily addressed and sealed, and the stamp had been placed on at a 45 degree angle, the corners slightly bent. She tore it open,
and read the note inside -
'Santana,
I got a call from Finn earlier, and he said that there was a kid he coached who was talking about his cousin who was a cheerleader ten years ago, Brittany. He said when he had commented how terrible it was about her, the kid looked confused and asked what he meant. When Finn explained, the kid told him that he had seen Britt a couple of years ago in Wisconsin at a family wedding, and then they went out to play.
I don't have the details for you, but I can recommend the white pages - her dad was a stonemason.
Sorry this has been abrupt, and sorry I couldn't be of more help to you. I also apologise if this has been a terrible mistake, but I know you would rather I had told you.
I hope all is well with you, we must catch up soon, when I'm not so busy.
Love, Rachel x'
Santana's heart leapt and hammered inside her chest. What was going on? She knew she had to find out. Maybe, had she gained any level of closure she would leave well enough alone, but her wounds were still open and bleeding, the worst this endeavour could do would be pour a little salt on them, and what did that matter? The most important thing in Santana's life was - is - Brittany, and that would always be the case. She went to her laptop and ordered a copy of the Wisconsin white pages. The future had lit up like a firework in front of her, and the sparks danced around as she closed her eyes and imagined what might be.