You can't help but wonder if she misses you.
You haven't spoken to her. Hell, you haven't even spoken about her since you left Lima. Not really. Maybe a small mention here and there, a soft smile gracing your lips as her name tumbles from your lips, only to quickly morph into a frown as you realise. Kurt and Rachel don't say anything, not that they care, Kurt's seemingly too wrapped up in Adam and Rachel being her usual obnoxious self after her break up with Brody, talking about how 'the wound is fresh'.
Your wound hasn't even begun to heal.
You sit on your bed while they're at NYADA. You don't start work until tomorrow, and you've grown bored of sightseeing. So you sit on the bed, with your Rubix cube. And you think. She's the only one who's ever seen you play with it. It's old, the colours faded and the stickers tattered from years of usage. The cube is small and fits well in your hands as you twist and turn the sides in your attempt to complete it. You do of course, naturally, you've had it since you were 8 years old as a birthday present from an aunt you've never met. You don't even think about what you're doing as the colours slot into place, right forward, bottom right, right backward, bottom right, turn cube, left forward, bottom left, left backward, green side solved. You listen to the soft clicking as you turn it automatically, not even registering the practised hand movements.
Your mind isn't blank. No. It's far from it, but you find that being able to fiddle with the cube means that you can force yourself to think of different things. Things that aren't anything to do with a certain cheerleader and her smile, pinky links, or hand holds, laughter, or tears, words of love, or songs of love, anything but her catlike eyes and smile, that cheeky grin she gives you before she blows your mind with her killer dance moves, anything but her crystal blue eyes, and sunkissed hair, anything but her cheesy jokes about pizza and leprechauns and ducks residing in hats. Anything but the memories that flood your mind. With every click of the cube another thought is pushed to the back of your mind.
Click. Sex isn't dating.
Click. The plumbing's different.
Click. I just want you.
Click. I'm so yours.
Click. Proudly so.
Yet every single one is like a dagger straight to the heart.
Click. I've been afraid of changing.
Click. Cos I've built my life around you.
Click. And I feel that when I'm with you, it's alright.
Click. I know it's right.
Digging deeper and deeper.
Click. Wait, was that supposed to say lesbian?
Click. I love you Santana.
Click. My girlfriend.
Twisting and turning inside your chest.
Click. First time, ever I saw your face.
Wrenching your heart from inside of you.
Click. You are the best thing, that's ever been mine.
You don't want to remember.
Click. Make no mistake. She's mine.
But somehow you can't forget.
Click. I'll always love you the most.
It's your fault.
Then there's a crash as you hate yourself even more. You take your self hatred out on the cube as it finds its way to the wall and smashes to the floor, the dull echo of what was once the bright colours of the squares strewn about the floor in a mess as you tuck your head against your knees and cry. You sob and shake and scream your anger and you sadness and your fucking self loathing into the empty apartment. You don't know how long you sit there, thrashing and clawing at your skin, your arms and face an ugly harsh red as your nails scrape against them, but eventually you can't any more, you're tired. Your throat is sore from the screaming, your cheeks hot and your eyes puffed up from the tears, your body aching. Yet, you feel numb. You know you deserve the pain, you don't hate her. You never could.
The next thing you remember is Kurt coming home, and walking into your 'room'. You sit up slowly on the bed, your soul tired from hating, you have the imprints of the pillow on your face as your tired eyes register his porcelain face. Neither of you says anything. Nothing needs to be. He just cleans up the remnants of your Rubix cube from the floor as you curl back up into a ball, holding back your tears until he is gone.
Neither you nor Kurt mention anything about it afterwards, he doesn't try to talk about it, he knows you'll come to him if you're ready to, when you're ready to. You're grateful for that, because you know that some day soon, you will talk to him, and tell him everything, but for now you'll hold it up inside.
It's not until you wake up a few days later and see a brand new, untouched cube resting on your dresser, that you go to him. You don't say anything, just wrap your arms around his neck and hug him, a silent thank you that assures you both that you're okay, and that you will talk about this. Eventually.
Until then though you settle for the cube.
Click.
Click.
Click.