[candles - darren criss and chris colfer]
[you're prejudiced]
"Dean? Dean, answer me, don't stay quiet – "
"I – I did," Padma's fiancé says quietly.
A sudden pain tugs at her chest, and she pushes Dean away from her. "Just go, Dean."
"Padma – "
"Leave my house."
"Our house, Padma – "
"My house, Dean. I paid for it. You're some kind of starving artist. You contributed nothing."
"Padma, I'm trying to make this work – "
The young woman huffs. "Yeah, which is why you stole paints, you idiot. You can never provide for yourself, and I'm sick of it. You're a nothing."
"Sorry, Padma, but you can't say anything like that. You're prejudiced, your family's been rich your whole life. And it's not like you're doing anything significant with your life."
Padma's expression hardens further. "Leave my fucking house."
"I love you, Padma," Dean says, resigned, and turns away, shuffling towards the foyer.
She doesn't care. She doesn't. Padma doesn't care.
So she tells herself. She tells herself it doesn't matter, that Dean was never meant for her in the first place. She tries not to think of how hard it'll be to tell Parvati they're in a hard place; she tries not to remember the reality of Dean and his artistic intelligence, his humor, his kindness.
But she's not quite successful.