There's a flutter in her stomach. The kind that's always there; in every Glee rehearsal and performance, and in her English and Chemistry class. The kind that sits there every time she is in a room with her. And she knows it's not the baby. It's too early for that, anyway.
Her skin prickles. She's almost comfortable, except not really, with it by now. The way the hairs in her arm stand up when they're almost too close, the way the goose bumps rise in her skin when they accidentally touch.
She's too aware of everything when they are close. Her facial expressions, her breathing, how many times her eyes blink. Everything. The tightness in her chest when it's her own boyfriend that wears the expression she tries desperately to contain when she looks at her. It doesn't look like he's trying to hide it and she's upset about it. Not by the reasons she should, though.
This time, there are tears in her eyes. It happens sometimes, but most of that times she's alone, not in a stage with other eleven kids and a teacher watching. But this thing they are doing, this thing she's doing, it's for her. And she can't believe it.
All these feelings have kind of always been there, she knows. She almost can't remember a time when they weren't.
Her body is going through all kinds of reactions. They get strong when the two of them get close, and they get lighter when they drift apart by the choreography. Her body's a mess. Her mind is a mess. But the moment is perfect.
They stand side by side and all comes at once. The flutter, the prickles, the hair standing up, the goose bumps, the awareness of her every move. They are standing very close together and she almost can't take it. She wants to grab her hand. She feels physical pain by restraining her own muscles from moving. She's so, so close.
She can't help the tears now, the way everything inside burns and her right hand twitches. She's going to do it. She can pass it as part of the choreography later; maybe she won't even bring it up. So she decides to give her body what it wants, just this once, she promises herself.
Her body does a little jump like electrity for a second, a second of bliss when she feels skin against her own. The second flies away and she realizes the touch is familiar, the skin is not soft, and the hand is too big.
Finn. He's always in the middle. She can't blame him, he can't help it. He's her boyfriend and he's a boy and he's supposed to do what he's doing. She was a second away from making yet another mistake. He was there, in the middle, to stop her.
Her hand is being held by Finn and his other hand is wrapped around hers. Quinn feels jealousy, desperation, sadness, loneliness, sin; all wash over her in just a second.
She cries harder, the tears finally rolling down her cheeks. Rachel doesn't even glances her way once it's over.