It's a strange feeling; waking up in your own bed after days spent in someone else's. It should feel familiar and comforting but it mostly just feels disorientating, but that could be due to the fact you've woken up tangled in a mess of sheets, head half hanging off of the bed and body contorted in a position that causes your whole body to ache. You groan and re-arrange your limbs so you're lying like a normal person, and you sigh into the empty room.
It was well after midnight when you staggered in; fumbling at the light switch in your bedroom and shutting the door quietly behind you to lean against it. You don't even particularly remember the sequence of events that led to you making it from the door to your bed, let alone how you managed to change into pyjamas and remove the light traces of make-up you had worn for the day, but you're silently impressed at your own sensibility.
What a hellish journey home it had been. As if 14 hours on a bus wasn't bad enough, you had of course chosen the seat in front of the most hyperactive and irritating child you've ever come across, and your uncharged phone had crapped out only 2 hours into the journey. Attempts at sleep had proved pointless, and music just didn't have the same soothing effect when you were cramped up in a busy coach - unable to let loose your muscles and allow the music to wash over you like you usually might, when you would stretch and spin across a room to work out your tensions.
It had resulted in you being cranky and emotional by the time you arrived back in Lima, and you were kind of glad it was your Dad who came to pick you up from the bus station, knowing all too well he wouldn't ask you questions or make a fuss over the scowl you wore. Next time you're definitely flying.
Next time. They were her words, not yours, and the thought brings a smile to your face. When you told her you were leaving she accepted it with only a hint of a frown and she didn't ask you to stay, because you both knew the time would come where you'd have to leave. Neither of you wanted it to be this way - of that you felt sure - and she had insisted you come back to visit soon.
You can still remember exactly the way she felt when she stood to hug you goodbye, and you can still hear the sniffle that escaped her when you pulled back to see her forced smile and the way her glassy eyes couldn't quite meet yours. You had wanted to kiss her, and so you did, dropping a quick but soft peck to her lips, just the way she had done the last time you'd said goodbye. You could tell it had surprised her, and she had let out an unsteady breath as she gripped you a little tighter, like she was afraid you'd disappear if she let go. But you had to leave, and you both knew it.
You shake your head to banish the memories and roll gracelessly out of bed, trudging over to your duffel bag to retrieve your phone and plug it in, before heading downstairs to grab a glass of water. Your parents are out at work and the house is empty, and you find it unsettling; the loft always felt buzzing and busy in a good way, and you even miss Kurt's nattering and Rachel's morning singing. Maybe you can make plans to hang out with the others later. Maybe a shopping trip with Tina and Marley will distract you.
When you flop back down onto your bed and grab your phone you notice with a hint of surprise that you have 4 texts and 5 missed calls awaiting you, and you scroll through them looking at the names displayed; Dad, Rachel, Sam… It all feels pretty irrelevant when you realize that there are two texts from Santana, and you smile to yourself because she hardlyever texts you these days. You open the first, sent an hour or so after you left New York-
Hey. Hope the journey back is okay, call me when you get in so I know you're home safe x
You frown a little as you read it, not sure of what you were expecting but feeling disappointed nonetheless. You remember with a flutter of hope in your stomach that there was another text, and you tap your fingers quickly to bring it up to the screen. It was sent nearly an hour after the first, and it makes your heart settle somewhere between your chest and your throat.
Im glad you came to visit Britt, i really missed you. so much. x
They're not just words - they mean something, at least to you they do. They mean even more because you can guess how hard it was for her to write them. You can picture her sitting there, lip caught between her teeth, deciding whether or not to hit the send button on her vulnerabilities. Not that you think emotion is a weakness, but Santana has always taken a bit more convincing. You can imagine her tapping out the words before deleting them, then rephrasing them only to delete them again. But she's sent them, and you hope she meant them, because the sentiment is more than a little mutual.
You should call. She asked you to, but you're nervous. What if you have nothing to talk about? What if it's full of awkward silences and you've forgotten how to just be? She'll just worry if you don't though, so you hit the green button and the line rings only twice before it's answered, and you relax at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Just as well I held off on sending out that search party," she teases, and you roll your eyes because you can hear the smile in her tone.
"My phone died," you explain as you move to lie back on your bed with the phone still pressed tight to your ear. "I got in late, I'm really sorry I forgot to call."
"That's okay, I figured as much. Your Dad said you didn't get home till like one in the morning, you must be exhausted."
"You spoke to my Dad?" you ask, eyebrow raised and curiosity piqued.
"Oh. Yeah… I called your house this morning, you know, just to make sure," she mumbles sheepishly and you fight to stifle the grin threatening to emerge on your face. "He was in his element, as usual. He spent so long telling me about the 4-foot model flamingos he bought for your yard that I think he was actually late for work."
You giggle and she joins you, before the pair of you settle into a comfortable light-hearted conversation about the many colorful ornaments that adorn your backyard. She tells you excitedly that she'll take you to see the real flamingos at the zoo when you're next in New York, and she even suggests you sneak one back as a present for your Dad's birthday.
"I meant to ask you before you left, what date is your graduation?" she interjects suddenly. "The sooner I book flights the cheaper it will be, plus I need to get time off work."
"You're coming to my graduation?" you ask, sounding more surprised than you really mean to. Yes - you went to hers - but you were still together then and now you're not and you honestly weren't sure whether to even ask.
"Of course," she replies, but there is a hint of doubt in her voice. "Unless you don't want me to…"
"No! No, I mean, of course I do. I just wasn't sure if you'd want to come," you say hurriedly, and there's a slight pause before she answers you.
"I wouldn't miss it for anything."
The silence that follows is so charged that your brain short-circuits for a quick moment. The spell is only broken when you hear a bang in the background and muffled noises, before your name is screeched down the line at you and you have to pull the phone away from your ear a little.
"Hello Rachel…"
You want to interrupt but she's already launched into an (admittedly amusing) story about the homeless man on the corner who mistook her for Barbara Streisand and who serenaded her with The Way We Were before proposing marriage by offering up his obviously useless Alcoholics Anonymous ring. You can hear Santana protesting in the background and Rachel huffs before handing the phone back over.
"Sorry about that," she says, and you laugh and tell her it's fine, because you actually quite enjoy Rachel's relentless enthusiasm. "Thanks to Berry's useless rambling I actually can't talk now, I need to go and get ready for work," she explains and you push away the slight feeling of disappointment that flares up in your stomach.
You really hope this can become a more regular thing, now that you're on better terms. You miss her so much already and it's only been a day. She must know exactly what you're thinking because she doesn't hesitate before promising to call you at the end of the weekend, and when you hang up you feel a little giddy and excitable, like a kid who just got bought their favorite ice-cream. You check the school website and you text her your graduation date, before settling back in your bed, content in the best possible way.
The feeling doesn't last as long as you'd like though, as you finally make the time to read the other texts sitting in your inbox. It's the one sent from Sam last night, asking when you'll be back, that has a grip on your happy little bubble and is dragging it slowly back to the ground. You text him that you're home and his reply is almost instant when he asks if you'd like to go round to his house. And really, you wouldn't.
You kind of wanted to put this particular conversation off until, say, you'd had time to unpack. But you can't blow him off again, and you can't pretend that everything is okay, so you guess the time to be honest is now. You feel dread swirling in your stomach as you type and tell him to meet you at Breadstix in an hour, and you drag your tired body off towards the shower.
You only stand awkwardly outside the restaurant for 15 minutes before sucking it up and managing to head inside. You're late, but then you usually are, and you spot his mop of blonde hair the second the door swings shut behind you. You move in his direction, but it feels like you're walking through treacle and you move as slow as you possibly can without attracting any strange looks.
"Hey," you say quickly when reach him, and he jumps up from his seat immediately to wrap you in a warm and over-bearing hug. He pulls back and beams at you, and your insides are squirming as he leans in for a kiss and you turn your head instinctively, causing him to catch your cheek instead. He looks at you a little oddly, and you force a smile that feels heavy as it settles on your face, before putting some space between the two of you and sliding into the booth to sit. He takes your cue and comes to sit opposite you, before telling you he's missed you. It's the second time today that someone has said those words, and you feel… nothing.
You smile awkwardly, and pick up a menu to look at just so you have something to do other than watch his adoring expression. You had planned exactly what to say before coming over here but now your mind feels frustratingly blank, and you don't even know how to get into what you need to tell him. Maybe you should just do it - rip it off like a band-aid, and explain after.
"How was New York?" he asks, and your eyes flit up at the traces of hesitation you hear in his tone.
"It was good, New York is awesome," you tell him, and the complete lack of enthusiasm in your voice probably gives you away, if he doesn't realize something is wrong by now. You're not your usual bright self, and he's frowning a little.
"Did something happen?" he asks slowly, and you don't even know where you would begin if you wanted to tell him it all. You don't want to though.
Like a band-aid, right?
"I can't do this anymore."
Okay, so it's a little sudden and a lot less tactful than you intended, but it's the truth. You feel pressure lifting from your stomach and chest at hearing the words out loud, but then you're brought back down with a bump when you realize that it's not that simple. He's gaping at you like you've just slapped him across the face, and he obviously realizes you're not talking about lunch.
"What?" he asks, and you take a deep breath and drop your eyes to the table.
"I'm so sorry, I really am. I just… I don't feel the way I think that I'm supposed to, and I don't think it's fair to you to pretend that I do."
"You don't feel the way you're supposed to? What does that even mean?" he asks, voice incredulous and eyes wide. "Where is this coming from?"
"I like you Sam, but it's just not in the right way. I like spending time with you, but I don't get butterflies when I see you, and I don't get that jumpy excited feeling when you call. I don't smile like an idiot every time I think about you, and I don't get goosebumps when you look at me. I want to feel those things Sam, wouldn't you?"
"Well yeah, but it's not all rainbows and fairytales, Brittany. Relationships aren't just like that," he argues, and you might feel sorry for him if his tone wasn't quite so condescending.
"Some are," you say quietly, and he looks struck by realization.
"This is about Santana, isn't it? Something happened while you were away… I knew something would happen." He's muttering to himself and nodding like he's cracked some big mystery; like he knows everything when really he knows nothing at all.
"No, nothing happened Sam. I just had some time to myself to think and realize a few things."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm still completely and totally in love with someone else, and it's not going to go away."
You think you can actually see the hope and all the dogged certainty extinguish in his eyes at your words, and he slouches back into the seat. The silence stretches out uncomfortably between you, and you almost don't expect him to speak up again.
"So, what? You went up to New York to get Santana back, is that it? What about me?" His voice is small, and he's looking at you intently, like he's begging you to take this all back.
"I went to New York to see my best friend, because I hadn't seen her in months, and I missed her. I thought we could try to be friends, I really did. But seeing her again… I'm always going to want more than that. I know I am."
"She broke up with you, Brittany," he says, and he's changed tack from pleading to frustrated in almost an instant. "She broke up with you and left. If she was really your best friend, would she do that? Would she do that if she loved you?"
"She did it because she loved me."
He scoffs and shakes his head at you, because he doesn't get it, and that's okay. But you get it; maybe you didn't at first, but you do now. You can think she was wrong, and you can be upset - you can wish she would have just talked to you instead - but you do get it. You're not going to punish her or yourself because she sees things a little differently to you; because she gets scared. Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward, and you think you're starting to see that. Sam doesn't though, but then why should he.
"Don't do this. You said once that I make you happy," he says desperately, and he looks up at you. "Can't you just give me a chance?"
"I tried to, I really did. It's not enough. You should be with someone who can love you back, properly. But that's not me, and it never will be."
You don't want to be harsh, but you don't want him hanging on to false hope either. It's over, and you're not going to change your mind. He blinks at you a few times, seemingly unable to offer up a response. You're sure there's more he wants to know, or more he wants to say, but you suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to be anywhere but here. You take a moment before standing, and you pause to rest a hand on his shoulder briefly, before you walk off and out of the restaurant without looking back.
Maybe you shouldn't reduce breaking up with Sam to just another item on your to-do list, but when you step out into the fresh evening air, you feel free and liberated and lighter than you have in a long time. You feel one step closer to where you really need to be, and you will get there. You have to believe that.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you find the smile you always find when you see her name displayed across the screen.
i've found a garden ornament section on ebay, how would your dad feel about a 5-piece elephant set..? p.s. booked my flights :) xxx