It continued like that for weeks. One missed call from Blaine, exactly one, every day, more or less around the same time, after 9:00 pm. It had been their scheduled Skype date time, what seemed like forever ago.

Various texts here and there from Tina, Sam, Finn, even Puck who seemed to be visiting the New Directions and was extremely concerned, something very un-Puck-like as far as Kurt was concerned. And yet Kurt couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't bring himself to answer the phone, even though he sat there, staring at it at 9:00 every night, waiting for it to ring. It had become a routine.

He wouldn't allow himself to ruin things anymore. He'd decided that. Blaine was too important, too special, and he deserved so much more than all the pain Kurt caused him. Yes, he was hurting now, Kurt knew that, but this was supposed to help him. In the long run, Blaine would be okay. He had to be. Kurt knew he was doing the right thing (or wanted to know so…) and wouldn't let himself break. He couldn't contact Blaine, but hearing the phone ring every night, watching it light up with Blaine's smiling face on the screen, from a happier time…it was all he had. It was as close as he could get without touching, allowing for a connection that wasn't really there, but he could imagine long enough to keep it from hurting too much.

The day the calls stopped was the day he broke.

It was a Thursday night, over a month since the first voicemail, (those of which Kurt had saved and listened to constantly, hearing Blaine's voice holding him over every time he was close to breaking).

At 9:00, he sat at his desk, working on a paper he wasn't really focusing on at all, eyes drifting constantly to his phone, waiting.

Minutes passed. Twenty. Then thirty. Then fifity.

Kurt stared at his phone in horror, stomach turning as the minutes ticked by, only three minutes left until 10:00.

Blaine was never late. Not once in over a month had he called at any time later than 9:59, and that had happened all of once.

Kurt swallowed hard, feeling sick, his eyes stinging, waiting, head hurting, confused.

Blaine would call. He always called.

9:58

9:59

10:00

Kurt let out an involuntary cross between a gasp and a sob as the clock read 10:01. Blaine wasn't going to call.

He'd given up.

Kurt wanted to scream, wanted to snatch his phone off the desk, call Blaine and scream, cry, demand to know why he hadn't called, why he was doing this, but then again, Kurt was in no position to be making demands.

With a sob he stood up from his desk, shoving everything off in one swift motion before turning and storming towards his room. He fell against his bed, curling up and crying loudly into his hands, not caring who heard.

Blaine had given up. He was gone. It was over.

Kurt screamed into a pillow, wrapping his arms tightly around himself, feeling like he might disintegrate if he didn't. He didn't know where the flood of emotion had come from, why the flood gates had burst and everything was flowing out of him in sharp, painful flashes, and he would have been afraid of himself in that moment if he'd had it in him to care.

It wasn't fair. It couldn't be over. He needed it to be real, no matter how broken or bent it was, he needed it. Them.

And it was over.

He heard his curtain divider slide open, and he didn't even bother to look up to tell whoever it was to get out, just continued crying into the pillow wrapped in Blaine's t-shirt that had already lost its smell.

The bed dipped behind him and he felt lean but strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him tight until his back was flush against the other body.

"Shh," Santana whispered in his ear, pressing a kiss to his temple. "It's okay novio. It's gonna be okay."

Kurt sobbed again, his hands flying up to grasp at Santana's arms, clinging to her as she continued to whisper quiet, senseless comfort in his ear. He let himself be held, let himself break. They could have lain there for hours for all Kurt knew, staying like that for what felt like forever until his sobs died to muffled crying and then harsh, stuttered breathing. He felt exhaustion creep over him and let his eyes slide closed, still cling to Santana's arm, his hazy, exhaustion-ridden mind letting himself believe for a fleeting moment that he was being held by the boy he loved, that all wasn't lost, that it wasn't over.

He fell asleep, images of hazel eyes flashing in his mind.