"I can't - I can't, anymore."
It comes out wrong, in the middle of a dinner when you were really planning it differently, in a letter or something.
You thinks your chest can't feel any tighter as Rachel drops her fork down to her plate, a quizzical arch to her brow - she had been talking your ear off about something you can't recall, like the tenth time her dads took her to see Wicked when she was twelve or something, and you just interrupted.
You want to memorize every word now, but the question slips her lips before you can hit rewind on your life.
"What're you talking about, Quinn? Are you okay? You look sick."
You wish she wouldn't look at you like that, wide eyes the shade of caramel, colored with concern saturating her voice.
You think you might be sick, actually. After all, it's bile that creeps up your throat, or maybe it's your heart stuck there, trying to force the words out.
Looking anywhere but her (youcan'tlookintothoseyesagainno), you glance around committing everything to memory: the sheet paper of last week's assignment still clinging to the magnet on the fridge, that stupid arygle sweater you love draped over an empty chair, dull from being worn again and again. It's your favorite on her. You wish you would have told her sooner.
But it's late. You're doing this for her, you remind yourself. You think of community colleges and every rejected university letter told you, and when you had to give up the most important little person in your life to give her a chance of something better.
There really should have been a manual on it or something. Maybe you would have been forewarned the second time wasn't any easier.
You think it actually might be worse, and the prickling at the edges of your eyes starts to betray you. Your chest heaves and your breath is shallow.
Before you can stop it a chair scrapes against the floor and her arms are all over you, holding you close and kissing away your tears. She loves you so much.
Prying her arms away from you, you get up and take several steps backwards, your eyes trained on her still.
"I can't be with you anymore."
You're suddenly mouthing off reasons that sound transparent and mocking even to you, and you can't shut up, you just keep talking at a faster pace as she shakes her head, trembling as she steps closer to you. You feel the stinging slap against your cheek after you feel your heart break.
"You're lying." And you're shaking your head no, because she may be Rachel Berry, straight A student and undoubtedly the star of glee club, but she can't see past you. You know she can sing along to Rent in six different languages and you know she's the smartest person you know, but feelings and the reasoning behind them were never her forte. It's what outcast her before.
It's what made you love and hate her for seeing more in you than you know is there.
But you're a Lima loser, and big city lights are calling; you won't let your brightest star flicker out in this dying old town.