Authors Note: I really should be working on "Re: Stacks" but I've been writing this in my head for way too long and felt that it should be penned. Post-Mash Up "what-if" one shot.

Green.

Amber.

Red, stop.

Green, go.

Amber, slow.

Red, Stop.

Sometimes when it's late, I take a drive in my truck down to this one traffic light, you know, the one we pass by when I take that long route to your place just because you like to see the great big houses, honestly I don't really know why you enjoy it so much when clearly, your home is comparable if not even more as grand and beautiful as they are. Anyway, back to my point. I drive down to that one traffic light and stay parked watching the lights change.

The first time I did it, it made me feel better almost like it was the one thing in my life that was constant. Then it occurred to me that life is somewhat like them traffic lights. At times it's a bright blazing emerald green, raring to go and full of life. Then it comes to amber, a transition slow down before heading toward a moment of reprise the bright fiery red – a break. Sometimes, the light stays red for a moment too long and when the green finally comes you're just bursting with excitement to go, go, go.

Green is like the time you pulled me into the janitor's closet and the time we jumped into that little car of yours halfway through Spanish and driving to that silly diner place, I have no idea why you like, but actually really enjoy.

Amber is watching the sun set by the spot by the lake wrapped under a blanket with you, as you gasp with amazement at the plethora of colours that is Mother Nature. You told me once that it reminded you of Picasso and how you imagined his palette to look like after he had created all his masterpieces.

Red is watching you stare into space as we lay in bed together, and I know you're thinking of him. You don't look me in the eye the way you do him, but that's okay, because I know you've seen me look at her the same way before.

We might have come into this being replacements for people and at first I was really okay with it, but I've come to realise how hard, how painful, how incredibly heart wrenching it is to be the convenient second, the route people take when the first choice is filled beyond capacity, an easy second to ease the pain. Almost like a desperate grasp for something solid to hold on to, to catch a breath as you plunge into the icy cold water.

One thing I've realised about you is that when you speak, you rarely use your hands when you speak. They're usually tucked in the pockets of your ridiculously short skirts (but who's complaining), crossed in front of you or behind your back. I've heard you tell Kurt before that it's because you're afraid that people will be able to tell how you really feel deep inside when you move your hands. What you probably don't realise though, is that your feet tells what you try so desperately to hide.

When you're nervous, you shuffle your feet and tap your toes together continuously. When you're excited or happy, your feet are rarely planted on the ground, instead your bouncing up and down. When you're angry, your legs are crossed at the knee and you tap your right foot three times before shifting to your left. When you speak to me, you often shift your weight to your right then your left before going back to right where it'll stay for abit longer than the first two times, as if you don't really want to be there but really need to for the show, the charade of forced affection you have toward me.

Sometimes I wonder how we came to be like this, then I realise that we aren't really anything but a lie. As I watch you sleep, you cry and your lips quiver ever so slightly as his name escapes them. In school, I watch the lingering looks you throw his way as he leads her, hands clasped tightly over hers down the hallway. I pretend not to notice but sometimes I'm hit by these terrible pangs. The first time they hit me I was honestly shocked, after all you're Rachel Berry, my second choice. And I'm Noah Puckerman, your second choice. Why should I feel these pangs of…jealousy?

You will wake up tomorrow, and we'll go back to pretending it's okay. But deep down inside, both of us know that we were and are the replacements, the second picks, the convenient choice to make the loss of first pick hurt less.

Sometimes I'm sorry I cannot be the perfect person you want me to be. I say stupid things that hurt the people around me and as you say, secretly socially inept.

I often wonder what you think about when you're snuggled up against me or kiss me, do you see him in my place? I know sometimes you kiss me with your eyes closed because you know you'd rather be with someone else, someone taller, someone lankier, someone whom I'm probably half the man he is.

You're a girl, but you're not just "some girl" to me, Rachel. You could possibly be the one.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Rachel Berry, is that I've come to developing genuine care and affection towards you. I'm on the brink of giving my all to you now, but I can't tell you this because your heart belongs to someone else.

Tonight I'll watch you sleep like I always do, smile as your eyelids flutter ever so slightly, kiss you on your forehead, your temple, your nose, your perfect little lips and tell you that I love you and I'll know that that will have to suffice for now, until you're ready to give me your heart. Til then, I'll be here holding your hand as you watch him, crushed as he walks away with their hands clasped together, wipe away the tears that run free as you dream and carry you back home and hold you in my arms when you're hurting.

One day I'll bring you to that traffic light of mine and we'll watch the lights change and I'll kiss you, because to me, you are perfect. You are everything. And I promise, I swear to God, one day, I'll tell you that, because you deserve the truth. But for now I'm satisfied with holding back but just so you know – I think I love you, no, I know I love you. I really do.