Author's Note: If the last stage was hard, then this one was the worst. But you can read and figure that out. I, honestly, just want to take this time to state how much I'm in awe of Lea Michele. I was surprised to hear she was even going to the TCA and then saw her speech on a YouTube clip today and just ... she's such an amazing role model and person. Class act, and officially in my top-5 of girl crushes for being such a beautiful, strong woman.

Stage 3: Depression

Her steps back to the apartment were slow, not in the meandering way they used to be but just aimless. She honestly didn't know how long she'd been out, but the sun was about to set and she'd left the loft right before breakfast - did it count as breakfast if she hadn't eaten, hadn't eaten very much for a while? Rachel wasn't even sure why she'd left so early. More than likely just to get out of the apartment, where Santana was saying goodbye to yet another nightly visitor they all knew they'd never see again (the guy included). It was the only plausible excuse, anyway, considering she'd stopped going to all her extra-curricular dance classes and voice lessons.

School was starting soon and she was meant to begin gathering her books and materials, but she'd still yet to do that. She'd yet to do much of anything for a couple of months now, which was as depressing as she felt. In the back of her mind, Rachel knew she couldn't survive in this state. Everything she'd been working for and everything she dreamed about could be lost, but there was always something holding her back. An old note she'd found when cleaning out an unmarked box. A song playing from someone's iPod in the subway. A tall passerby who turned out to be a stranger.

Or, like earlier, when someone would come up to her and give their condolences. Those had waned considerably since leaving Ohio, but in the middle of her walk to nowhere this morning she ran into Brody. Even now she'd forgotten how he'd heard, instead focused on the memory he recounted for her. His future wife? They'd been broken up and barely on speaking terms at that point, and yet … her heart had fluttered pathetically before when she'd only considered his knight-in-shining-armor rescue. Knowing his intentions made it much, much worse.

Solemnly, Rachel walked into the apartment, not surprised that it was unlocked. They'd all stopped caring, stopped trying. It was eerily quiet inside, which meant Santana was out hooking up with another random stranger to avoid her feelings. Noah, however, was sitting in the middle of the couch, barely visible as there were no lights on and the sun had fallen far past the height of the windows. Still, she could see the bottle of liquor move from resting against his leg to his mouth; it was still mostly full, and she'd realized a few weeks ago that he seemed to be pacing himself. Drinking himself into oblivion was probably what Noah wanted to do to deal with his depression, but it was as if he was aware of the irony.

Without invitation, she moved across the living room and took the empty spot directly to his left. He still hadn't said anything to her (or even really acknowledged her), and for whatever reason she liked that. She was so sick of everyone trying to get her to open up, saying she'd feel better if she talked about it. She still refused to see a psychiatrist despite her fathers' countless attempts, as if she'd share any of her thoughts or feelings with a complete stranger when she wouldn't even do it to those closest to her. She wasn't even sure she had anything to share.

She accepted the bottle he'd extended toward her wordlessly, tipping it back and taking a tentative sip. It felt warm but rough running down her throat, like melted pieces of glass. Once it reached her chest, though, there was this feeling of peace that settled and she found herself taking another longer sip before passing the bottle back to Noah. His pull was much less hesitant, deep and audible as he swallowed heavily and then sighed in the same manner.

"I miss him," he confessed gravely, offering her the bottle again.

She used both hands to take it, wincing a little as she tried to drink more than before. "Me, too."

"He was my best friend." His voice was so hollow, so desperate. He sounded exactly how she felt. "I was shit to him, but he was still my best friend."

Rachel swallowed another mouthful before passing the bottle back to Noah, thinking about his regrets and her own. There was so much that felt unfinished, so much that she'd put off because she thought there would be time. She refused to be one of those people who used someone's death as a reason to live every minute to the fullest, but she couldn't help but hate that she hadn't done so from the beginning.

"I never got to tell him that I loved him."

It wasn't until she felt his arms wrap around her did she realize she was crying. She'd slumped against his chest, her face buried into the fabric of his T-shirt as the tears streamed down her face. She could feel the bottle in his one hand pressed against her back, but the other was stroking her arm in an erratic rhythm that wasn't at all soothing. And that's when she felt a tear hit her cheek that wasn't her own.

If she hadn't been so wrapped up in her own depressing thoughts, she might have tried to pull herself together to console him. Instead, she kept herself nestled next to him, circling her arms around his waist and allowing each of them to mourn their friend without spectacle. Without judgement. Some might have considered it therapeutic, and maybe it was. After all, it was the first time in months when Rachel hadn't thought about Finn's death.

All she could think about was how close they were and yet how she felt more alone than ever.