A/N: One has to wonder how Blair is really dealing with Chuck's betrayal. She's fiercely private and a master pretender, so we don't exactly know how she's feeling. I was strangely curious; here's my interpretation. Thanks for reading and enjoy.

I woke up and I wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
I lie motionless in bed
I thought of you, and where you'd gone
And let the world spin madly on
- The Weepies

Every morning is much the same these days. She wakes up, stretches in her cold bed, hopes she will find the strength to go on. Hopes the memory of him will not linger any longer, that it will fade.

And yet, it does linger, as surely as the sun shines through these paned windows.

(She is used to waking in a cocoon of warmth and security, and she cannot adjust).

She pulls herself out of bed with more of a groan than she would like. She gets dressed without much care, her eyes gliding over clothes (clothes she wore with him, clothes that hold meaning) with easy, practiced precision. This takes no effort; it is mechanical. It feels almost rehearsed, and she resents that.

But only for a moment.

(The truth is, she has come to cherish routine. There is no room for change, for error. Therefore, there is no room for hurt).

And she is not doing well with hurt.

…

Classes are dull. They always were, really – she is much too smart for such condescendingly taught subjects. But it is different now; it is almost surreal. She is acutely aware of how empty she feels. And here, in a room with whitewashed walls and half-asleep students, there is nothing to distract her from this gnawing ache in her chest.

She has always been one to entertain romantic sentiments, and it feels like she is missing some integral part of herself. She refuses to analyze it.

Instead, she embraces the pain, submerges deep in the hollow ache in her core. The bile rises in her throat, and for once, she does not push it down. After all, she is nothing if not masochistic.

(And dating Chuck did nothing to disprove that).

…

She is incapable of pretending she is fine. Her eyes are red and her hair is mussed and it is just so unlike her, and she feels like surely, someone must notice just how –

At least, she thinks she is transparent. But no one really sees through her. She almost wishes someone understood, or at least tried to. But she knows this is an agony she must bear alone. It is a path she has walked too many times.

Serena asks how she's doing (it is late now, dinnertime, and they are staying with Lily as they do every night), but it is a cursory check.

In truth, the blonde has no idea what is going on.

But her navy eyes are concerned, gentle, doleful even, and Blair is grateful for that. She knows the blonde has a lot on her plate (she will forgive the cliché just this once), and she is glad she still cares enough to worry.

But.

"I'm all right," she assures Serena.

There is a moment of silence. And then:

The blonde blinks, nods, turns away.

And see, that is really the problem. Serena cares, but she does not see. She accepts Blair's statement, even as it is so desperately, unfortunately untrue. And for one blinding, bleeding moment, Blair wishes she had another best friend.

(But only for a moment. Because Serena is more than her best friend – she is her sister. And you do not forsake your sister).

…

Even Nate intervenes.

He corners her on the Columbia campus, and his eyes are hard, but soft, too, pliable and rigid all at once, that incomparable, inimitable mixture that used to entrance her so (now, it only saddens her, and she does not know why).

His hand rests on her arm. He smiles slightly (it is almost instinctive; she is breaking and he has always had a rescuer complex). She stumbles.

"Talk to him," he orders, strong and sure. She goes weak at the knees, but not because he is so handsome – although she has never tried to deny that. No, she is falling now because she knows his words are right, and she knows she must take his advice. And she is ridiculously, unimaginably afraid.

Because Blair Waldorf doesn't do vulnerable, but she is falling apart.

…

And really, it's not about what he did. (Of course it is). It's about who he is, who she is, who they were when they were...whatever they were. She breaks off in her own thoughts, sighing a little and wiping an errant tear from her cheeks.

Her reflection stares back at her, blank and unalive (it is not a word, she knows, but she is past caring). This person is not someone she recognizes. Who has she become without him?

…

The turning point is upon her, and she knows it, she feels it. She misses him; that much is obvious. But that has never been a problem. She worries this just isn't healthy.

But she smiles a little, because he loves her, and that is magical in it of itself. She's not sure what it means, but she feels hopeful, buoyed.

Another day has ended. (She comes to this conclusion every day).

She knows she will forgive him. It's just a matter of time now.

And maybe that's okay.

fin