Quinn remembers rooting around through her makeup, her new hair leering at her from the corner of her eye. She remembers the stinging on her nose and back as she applied her mascara, biting her lip as she did so.

She remembers opening the door to her closet, looking through her new clothes, her old ones shoved to the very back. She remembers pulling out her new clothes, laying them all on her bed and fighting the urge to cry.

She remembers removing her cross necklace, and placing it in the box with a picture of her and Finn, wristband from the hospital and a guitar pick she stole from Puck's house when she lived there. Parts of herself she wants to forget, but knows she can't.

She remembers feeling as lost as ever as she pulled on her tar coloured shirt.

Quinn Fabray was nothing but a memory.

...

Quinn hates being a part of the skanks. She hates smoking, hates the girls and hates the outfits she wears. She hates the way Rachel Berry can see right through her, and hates the way she has to act.

Quinn's always been a good actor, though.

...

She doesn't tell anyone anything anymore. She doesn't tell her mother, nor Mercedes, nor Puck nor Santana. She doesn't tell Brittany, nor Mrs Pillsbury, nor Mr Schuester. It's not as if they can help her.

She doesn't tell them that she cries herself to sleep every night, that she considers getting her tattoo removed every night. She doesn't tell anyone she pulls out her nose ring and prays for it to close up. She doesn't tell anyone about the letters she writes each night, to Beth, to Mercedes, to Santana, to Puck. She doesn't tell anyone that she burns them all with her lighter.

No one would listen, anyway.

...

"I'm fine" she tells Puck, because they've never had on honest relationship.

"You were fine during your pregnancy" he tells her drily, because there's no point in sugar coating it "You were happy, you were nice and you were beautiful. And now-I don't even know who you are."

If she was anyone else, she would have faltered. But she's Quinn and he's Puck so she manages to avoid it, if only barely "Maybe that's a good thing."

"It's not. And it's worse that you don't know who you are, Quinn."

She thinks about how he's always right, even when he doesn't know it.

...

The coffee she drinks burns at her tongue.

But the pain keeps her mind off Beth, and she takes another sip.

...

"This isn't who you are, Quinn" he tells her as she's under the bleachers, watching her flick her lighter on and off.

"Then who am I, exactly?" she demands, scolding herself for letting her voice shake.

"You're Quinn freaking Fabray."

She drops the lighter, frowning at him "I don't know who she is anymore."

...

She's standing at her locker, staring at the blonde dye she's kept hidden at the back.

"This" says a familiar voice, thrusting a photo in her hands "Is you."

He's gone before she can look up, and she stares at the picture. It's her, fast asleep on his bed, her hands on her stomach. It's over a year old, but it feels like just yesterday. She didn't even know he took the picture, and Cheerio Quinn would have called him a stalker.

She shoves the picture and the dye in to her bag, wiping at her eyes furiously. She wishes she could hate him completely.

...

"You're back" he begins the next morning, smiling his cocky smile. She rolls her eyes, before looking down and shaking her head.

"I still don't know who I am."

He shrugs "We'll get there.

She smiles back at him, because he said we. She might not know who she is, but she knows who they are.