Rachel.

I wake Thursday morning thick with sleep when the smell of damp wood hits my nose. Blinking heavily, I focus my gaze on the battered leaves adorning the oak outside my window and sigh. A storm swept through the world last night and its passing has rendered the air oddly chilled. It leaves me dreading going to school even more fiercely than before.

Usually invigorated and alert, I barely make it through my elliptical workout. I am not looking forward to discovering how boring classes are going to be without Quinn.

One hot shower and two bags of apple slices later, I begin my walk to the bus. I'm still out of sorts. I know that I'm being dramatic, it's only two weeks, that's barely anything; a mere blip on the radar of my life.

And yet..

When I pull my locker door open, I catch sight of a blonde Cheerio from the corner of my eye and instinctively sigh. Immediately shifting my gaze towards her, I slouch slightly as she passes by.

Because she's not Quinn, she's not even close.

Fluttering my fingers over my books I sigh again, this time with resolve; two weeks. It's only two weeks, and it helps when I remember why Quinn is absent in the first place. When I remember our kiss and my letter and her note and the delicious buzz of possibility that has been following me around since yesterday afternoon. All of these little things help because it is all of these little moments that are sending us on our way.

Dragging my chemistry textbook out, I find that I have to fight the smile that makes its way to my face at the light blue color the pages have turned. It's really not funny, except for that, to me, it kind of is. I walk at a leisurely pace, there is nothing to delay me today so, for once, I have long strands of time at my disposal.

Turning a corner my ears pick up on the lilt of Sam's famous 'impression voice' sounding faintly in the distance which, amongst certain members of the Glee club, is also kind of affectionately known as 'the voice he uses for all of his impressions regardless of who they actually are'. Raising my eyes I smile at the back of Sam's shaggy head and the barely suppressed laughter evident on Mercedes' face.

"The first rule of Fight Club is: you do not talk about fight club!"

Mercedes' laugh is loud and musical she finishes putting her books away and grins "that one is waay too easy.. Brad Pitt!"

"Nope!" I see Sam hang against his locker, bouncing on the soles of his feet with delight.

Shutting her locker Mercedes frowns. "What? Of course it is!"

I've just about reached them when I hear Sam's reply. "Nope! That one was Edward Norton.. Impression ninja Evans uses one character played by two actors for mind bending results!"

A chuckle bubbles in my chest at the indignant expression that has stamped its way across Mercedes' face. I intend on walking by and saying a simple hello but then Sam turns around to face me and I can't suppress my horrified gasp.

"Oh my God! Sam, what happened to your face?!"

Sam's eyes immediately begin shifting around the hall, almost nervously.

"Oh, hey Rachel."

I take a step towards him on automatic, the area under his right eye is dark purple and raised, obviously from a hard, closed-fisted strike.

"Are you okay? What happened to you?"

Sam looks at Mercedes, who is waiting patiently, and scrambles to organize his books and catch up with her.

"It's nothing, I joined the boxing team. Bye Rachel!"

I feel my eyes narrow as Sam begins to walk away from me, he is nervous and rushing and something just.. isn't right.

"Sam, wait! How's Quinn?"

I don't know why that particular question comes out of my mouth. It's a strange thing to say and I have no reason to be asking but something within me just needs to know.

I'm very glad I do ask though because, as soon as Sam hears it, he stops and turns around, mumbling an 'I'll meet you there' to Mercedes who shrugs and walks away. The look on his face is almost incredulous and that confuses me more than the bruise on his face.

"Why do you care?"

Blinking, I try not to let my face show my hurt at the question.

"I'm sorry?"

Sam's eyes are careful and I feel as though I'm being studied, which is unusual, because I've never really seen Sam study anything.

"She got suspended because she slushie bombed your locker remember? Why do you care if she's okay?"

I chew on my lip for a moment while I think this through. I'm being unreasonable, I know this. But my worry overrides any sense of decorum I may have and so I ask again.

"Look, it's complicated and I just.. how did you hurt your eye? Is she okay?"

I am filled with shock at the look that flashes across Sam's face. It seems almost.. guilty. My eyes narrow again, because there's no way that what I'm thinking happened could have actually happened; Sam is a great guy. But he's in front of me with a bruised eye and looking guilty when I ask about Quinn's well-being. Panic starts to build within me, slow but sure, like a single piano key that crescendos into full orchestraic cacophony.

I step closer again, training my eyes on his.

"Sam. Have you.. did you guys.. did you have a fight?"

I try to keep the accusation out of my tone but the thought of anyone actually hurting Quinn makes something within me grow very, very dark.

"What?!"

Sam must pick up on where I'm going because at once he pushes closer to me as well. For a moment we are very silent, standing almost at a show down. Eventually something in him seems to give and he shakes his head. He almost looks sad.

"She didn't do this Rachel."

Nodding, I experience an odd kind of faith in the truth of Sam's statement and so I try to stave off the embarrassment I feel at my previous assumption.

"Okay, I'm sorry.. so?"

Suddenly, Sam steps back and rushes out an aggrieved sigh.

"God Rachel, would you please just let it go?"

I don't understand the weary tone he uses and I'm even further confused by the way both of his eyes seem brighten a moment later.

"Or, if you're really that curious, just go see her yourself. She lives on Winchester Court, the big white house on the corner. You can't miss it."

His out of place suggestion has me flummoxed, I feel the warm creep of bashfulness smooth up my neck

"Oh! Visit Quinn? I, I don't think.. I don't know if that's such a good idea."

I watch Sam, his shrug is carefully casual, as are his eyes, it's almost as if he's purposefully baiting me to do.. something.

"Whatever, it's a free country, you can do what you want."

What I want? Is he serious?! Of course I want to see Quinn, I want nothing more. I am instantly quite fiercely incensed by his turn of phrase; as if it could ever be that simple.

My musing causes me to stand silent for a while but, to his credit, Sam doesn't seem to mind. Our moment is broken however when, after watching me for a moment longer, he eventually takes a step back, and this time, I do not follow.

"I'll see you in Spanish okay?"

Biting my lip I make my decision, I will plan a very gentle push, no, not even a push; a breezing by, a breathless whisper.

"Okay.. goodbye Sam."

Yes, a breathless whisper. I will make sure Quinn's okay, and then I will leave.

After making it through a decidedly mundane and Quinnless school day, it takes me twenty minutes to reach Winchester Court by bus.

I am pleasantly surprised that I don't get lost as I trace my steps along the damp concrete that borders the pavement; the world is still dewy with the remnants of last night's storm. I try not to look at how lovely the rain has made the houses look, I try not to rake my eyes over the perfect lawns and the shiny fences.

Knowing Quinn, I know what these things can be; chains, locks, diversions, cages or, most often I'd wager, just meaningless.

Scanning my eyes over the street, I am easily able to spot Quinn's house. Sam was right; you really can't miss it. The lawn is immaculately clipped, there is a freshly buffed BMW and a bright red Volkswagen sitting in the drive and the house itself is painted in what is, undoubtedly, some obnoxious variant of white like 'porous eggshell'.

If it weren't for the small pile of cardboard boxes littering the side of the property, it would be perfect.

Slowing my strides just before my feet reach the curb, I find I need to give myself a moment to just.. take it in. To acknowledge where I am. Because, whether I like it or not, this is Quinn's genesis.

This structure has been the stage on which her life has played out. This street, this house, and the people inside of it.. they have been and continue to be her molding; her cutout cast.

I picture Quinn walking down the halls of McKinley, I picture her in flight; mid toss on the Cheerios. She is the top of her pyramid. Always. I picture her driving home alone in the shiny red Volkswagen in front of me.

This place is where she would go to nurse her wounds or hide from her stressors. This place is what she would come home to, but even using that term feels wrong in my mind. Because this is not a home, this is like nothing I have seen before and suddenly I find that I am very, very nervous.

Fixing my jacket and running a hand through my windswept hair I pull myself straight and purposefully make the step onto Quinn's property. The walk to her door is over far too quickly and I have to take another moment to control my breathing before I hesitantly depress the ivory doorbell.

As soon as I hear the metallic ding echo through the other side of the door I am overcome with anxiety. Have I just made a very big mistake? Things are finally starting to change between us, something different is finally beginning to weave its way into our interactions. Am I pushing too much? Am I taking a leap forward or a gigantic step back? Will Quinn be happy to see me? Her car is in the drive so she must be home, maybe she won't want to speak to me. Maybe I should just go.

I take a small step back as indecision rages within me but then make a purposeful stop. No. I wanted to visit Quinn to make sure she was okay and to see if she could shed any light on Sam's strange behavior. This isn't about pushing, this is about me needing to speak to her and, not having her number, a home visit being my only option. That's all.

It is with that thought in mind that the thick door in front of me is pulled open; heavy on its hinges. It is not Quinn that greets me, but a woman who, all at once, looks so much and nothing like her.

I know who this woman is. She is Judy Fabray. I have heard of her community work and I have seen her picture in the Lima Times, standing next to a smiling husband; eyes wide and bright with intent. But the woman in the photograph and the woman standing in front of me now look very different.

Her smile is pleasant and polite, if a little forced. This is not a surprise, what is surprising is that her face is ever so slightly drawn, her eyes are ever so slightly red. At first look they appear to be blank but I find they are so similar to Quinn's that I can immediately see- there is a torrent of emotion churning beneath them. An uncertain kind of fear pricks at my skin. Something has happened here, something is wrong.

Still, Judy's outfit is flawless, her makeup is flawless, the fingernails that have curled around the door are flawless, except, I notice, for a tiny chip on the edge of her ring finger, it is almost invisible but I have seen it. I know it's there.

Moving my eyes from the imperfection I scan them back up to meet Judy's again, she has aimed a graceful greeting my way and is waiting for my response. Straightening my back I try to forget how much this woman hates everything I stand for, how much this woman could hurt me, I try to forget and, after a heartbeat, I am ready. Showtime.

Putting on my best smile, I take a small step forward.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Fabray. My name is Rachel Berry, I'm here to see Quinn."

I am learning that, in life, it only takes a moment for everything to change. In reflection of this, a strange transformation occurs before me.

I see Judy's eyes start to glow with heat and blaze violently for a hissing, steaming moment and then.. there is only ice. I am not prepared for this and mostly miss what is being shown to me. Pain, anger, I'm really not sure, but either way it eventually seems to settle down into a quiet kind of detachment.

Tightening her grip on the door, I am equally unprepared for the bland tone that Judy throws at me when she speaks.

"Get off of my property."

Blinking in alarm, I'm not sure what to do with the abruptness of her threat. I haven't been this confused since I spoke to Sam this morning, do I have a doppelganger? Am I just missing conversations?

Fumbling with myself I try and regain my bearings and cut straight to the chase.

"Uh, Mrs. Fabray, I just want to know.. is Quinn okay?"

Green eyes stare at me for a moment in silence and I find myself taking a step back without really knowing why. Finally, Mrs. Fabray speaks again though, when the words come out of her mouth, I almost wish they wouldn't.

"I have no idea who you're talking about. Now leave, please, and don't ever come back."

There's a moment then, a tiny sliver of time, where I think I can see a tremor snake its way into the jaw of the woman in front of me. It passes before I can do anything with it, hidden by the stain of treated pine. The door is slammed in my face before I can even begin to voice a protest, before I can gather myself enough to object, to question, to do anything other than gape in wide eyed silence.

Entirely too late and without purpose at all I bring my hand to rest on the door, pushing into the wood. It is cold and hard and definitely not open. What the hell is going on? My eyes flash over to Quinn's car in desperation, it's still sitting steady in the driveway so yes, this is definitely Quinn's house and yes, that was definitely Quinn's mother. Those two things are fact, but everything else? My mind races in anxious fear. She's.. she must be inside. What is happening? Have I done something? Has Quinn done something?

Pushing off from the front door I move to her car but nothing looks out of place. It's then that I notice the packing boxes again, and only because my eyes happen to catch sight of a small glimmer of gold awkwardly poking out from the top of one of them.

Zeroing in, I slowly begin my approach. It's.. it looks like it's metal but I just can't seem to place what it could be. Risking a glance back over to the door, I figure that if Quinn's mother is upset enough over me snooping to come speak to me about it, it'll provide us with an opportunity to finish our conversation.

I run a hand over the haphazardly closed box and it pops open without much effort. My eyes squint in confusion by what I'm met with. They're.. trophies..?

Picking one up I scan to the inscribed acknowledgment 'For excellence in spelling Lucy Q. Fabray' I blink and pick up another, a medal this time, bright and proud 'Lima Junction's Excellence in Creative Writing – Junior Division Lucy Q. Fabray'.

Fighting down a panicked swallow, I frantically rifle through more. I find a Lima Orchestral Society's Fresh Talent trophy, a McKinley Cheerio's MVP award and a National Cheerleading Championships honor medal before my shaking hands drop everything back into the box.

These are Quinn, these are all Quinn, and they're sitting in a soggy box at the side of the house. Discarded.

Not even bothering to look back at the house this time, I quickly move the box off the top of the pile and place it on the ground so I can pop the one underneath. More trophies. I open another, and another, and then another. I find clothes, accessories and shoes. I find bedroom nicnacs and bathroom products.

Everything has been soaked by the recent rain. Some things are broken, some things are damp. Everything looks.. ruined. I am close to tears when finally, finally, under all the other boxes, I find books.

Two boxes full, they've obviously been thrown in without regard for their well-being and, although they've been somewhat sheltered from the weather by the other boxes, rain has still crept through the cardboard, filling the pages with damp. My face crumbles at this because I know the sight would break Quinn's heart.

Quinn.

Taking in the heaped boxes in front of me I am at a loss, all the evidence points to the assumption that she has been ejected from the house. Every possession she has is sprawled out right here at my feet. Ruined. I think back to Sam's black eye, I think about his carefulness and his nerves and Mrs. Fabray's bland, distant eyes.

Wrapping my arms around my waist it is hard not to be overwhelmed by the hurt. They've kicked her out, they've actually..

I sigh, my skin is brimming with tight confusion and uncertainty. I have no idea what is going on but, sparing a glance to the darkening sky, I do know that it is definitely going to rain again tonight.

With that in mind, I push my hands through the side holes of Quinn's book boxes and give a hard heave, trying my best to drag them home with me.

I don't wake thick with sleep on Friday morning. On Friday morning, I wake with aching shoulders and surrounded by books. I spent the majority of last night trying not to panic over what I had seen at Quinn's house and, oddly enough, I found Quinn's books to have a most calming effect on my anxious, overheated hands. So I took my hair dryer out of the bathroom and spent the last few hours before I fell asleep sifting through each tome, one by one, blowing away the wet with warm, steady puffs of air.

They're still not perfect, far from; there is creasing, and some stains. But from what I saw of Quinn's Lewis Carroll novel, she kind of likes that in a book. She likes the history. The mess.

As soon as I arrive at school I make it my mission to track Sam down. He is the missing link in this equation; the only one who can tell me what has actually happened.

I find him alone by his locker holding his gym bag. I wince, he's not going to want to be late, I'll have to make this fast.

"Sam.."

I try not to let my voice betray all the emotions that are buzzing around inside of me, but honestly I'm not sure of my level of success when I see Sam's eyes widen as they take me in.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Just like that, my bottom lip is trembling and I'm squaring my shoulders to get this out. I am so, not, okay.

"I went by Quinn's house yesterday, her mother was.. not very accommodating."

Sam's wince echoes mine and he folds his hands over his chest.

"What did she say?"

"Well, first she told me to get off her property and then she tried to convince me that Quinn didn't really exist so-"

The muscles in Sam's arm flex but the force that he puts into hitting his locker is heavily restrained, as though his body has run out of energy before he even makes the hit.

"Man, I hate those assholes."

Letting go of a sigh, I close my eyes for a moment. Sam is not surprised; he is resigned. I haven't misinterpreted anything. They've actually kicked her out. But why, why would they do that? Looking back up to Sam's face I run my gaze over the purple swell of his cheek.

"Is that what happened? To your eye? Sam, what happened? They.. they've boxed up all of her things and just left them on the curb. They just left them, like they were nothing! Everything was in pretty bad shape but.." I blink back the tears that have made their way to my eyes and sigh "I took her books."

Sam nods but doesn't answer. Instead, we stand in silence for a moment before he derails the conversation by picking up everything I know about the world and tossing it in the air.

"I know about you two."

I freeze as flashes of everything flitter down around me, pieces of confetti dancing in the wind.

"W-what?"

He gives me a nod, it is simple, affirming, and matter of fact. I cannot read anything into it.

"I guess we kind of broke up.. she told me, about you guys."

I want to fall to my knees and find joy in this moment because, objectively, I know that it is a huge, huge deal. But, at this point in time, all I can think of is the crucifix around Quinn's neck and the flames in her eyes. Something in my stomach churns in heavy motion.

"Oh my-her parents, did they?"

Sam looks down and the corner of his bruised eye crinkles.

"Her dad..."

I have never met Russell Fabray but I have seen his picture, smiling next to Judy's face and I remember the chip on her nail and the fear in Quinn's eyes when her lips tore away from mine.

I remember all of these things and I forget that we are standing in an almost empty hallway. I choke out a sob as frightened tears begin to pool in my eyes.

"Sam.."

"She's okay, I took her somewhere safe."

My entire life I have prided myself on my ability to perform a number of difficult actions in seamless symmetry with one another. Singing, dancing, talking, listening, but everything leaves me because I find that I am actually not able to process any of the information that Sam is hurling my way.

Sam knows. Quinn told him. Quinn's parents.. Quinn's safe?

"She..." My chest is heaving, the boxes, Sam's face, Judy's eyes, it.. this would not have gone well at all. "Sam..." Suddenly, I am gripping his arm hard, nails digging into the material of his jacket in sharp hits, I feel like I'm tipping over so I start to hold tighter to steady myself.

"Where is she? Please, tell me where she is!"

Sam's hand is warm on mine but I can't tell if he's doing it to comfort, calm, or restrain me.

"Rachel, she's safe."

"Sam, I demand that you disclose her location to me this instant!"

"I can't do that Rachel."

There's a stubborn and all together infuriating shake of his head and my fingers are clenching again.

"Why not?!"

"Because she's not ready okay?"

I know my eyes are wild but I cannot help it. Quinn has just had her worst nightmare come true and is somewhere in Lima and.. and I just.. my mind swims. I can't believe this is happening. Sam squeezes my shoulder and it's just enough to get my eyes to focus back on him.

He looks around for a moment, ensuring that we aren't being overheard, before he focuses back on me.

"Look, the night it happened I asked her if she wanted to see you, she looked at me like I'd just bought her a puppy and stomped on it alright? She's just not ready yet."

The moment I register what Sam is saying my eyes blink in crestfallen alarm. The ache in my heart is acute and sharp. She doesn't want me? I.. I don't know what to do with this..

I think Sam must pick up on the sudden change because he is shaking his head before I can even finish drawing breath.

"Listen to me Rachel, Quinn's entire world has just been turned upside down. You mean so much to her and I don't think she wants to hurt you."

I am silent for a moment before I force myself to take another breath. I purposefully lock away my insecurities and try to listen to what Sam is saying. He's right. This isn't about me, this is about Quinn. This is about perfect lawns and golden trophies and boxes wet with rain. She has lost a family and I know she must be struck with grief.

Finally feeling slightly more steady on my feet I remove my hand from Sam's arm. I need to be able to handle this.

"Do you have my number?"

Sam squints in confusion for a moment before giving me a nod.

"Uh yeah? You gave it to everyone didn't you?"

I nod, once.

"Yes, good. Give it to Quinn and ask her to call me when.. when she can.. okay?"

I prattle off my number anyway, just in case Sam doesn't have it and I don't even think to question my assumption that Quinn had probably already deleted it long ago.

The final bell rings and we are officially late to class. Neither of us move, we stand silent, Sam and I, for a long, long time, both thinking deep within ourselves.

Sam is the first to break the stillness. His face is slightly flushed, and there is a small flame of sadness in his eyes. It, in turn, makes me sad for him, because it is always an awful thing, to have your heart split in two.

"I think.. you mean a lot to Quinn and she's really lucky to have you."

I think Sam must be thinking that we may never have a conversation like this again, and, with graduation approaching and school and life and Glee, he may be right. In any case, I appreciate the honest goodness it brings out of him.

"So, be good to her okay?"

My nod is small, reserved, because right now, with Quinn so very far away, it's difficult for me to picture ever getting the opportunity to.

"And look, I'm not saying this to- don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to like, come to your wedding or anything but.. I'm glad she has you and-"

I am quick to interrupt, I know these lines because I tell them to myself every day, with varying levels of success in their implementation.

"Don't hurt her, believe me, I will try my best."

"Oh well yeah, there's that." Sam's smile is almost sheepish as he continues "But also, don't let her get away with hurting you. We both know how Quinn can be but, I just want you to remember, even if she loves you, that doesn't mean she gets to hurt you. Okay?"

For a moment all I can do is blink, I am still adjusting to the fact that I'm actually having a conversation with Quinn's (ex)boyfriend about the hypothetical possibility of us being together and then he says that.

I focus on remembering the words, on folding them up and keeping them safe in my pocket because I know, I know they are important. I know it like I know Quinn; naturally and frighteningly and wonderfully all at once, and now I know that Sam kind of knows her too. Even if it's in a different way.

I am inexplicably happy with the fact that this doesn't make me feel jealous. No, it makes me feel, grateful. Because Sam does know, and he's right, scared as I am of never getting to love Quinn the way I want to, I have to make sure that she's good to me too.

Words elude me in the moment so I end up nodding, somewhat shakily, before eventually being able to break my silence.

"Okay."

His head is tilted in remembrance, eyes sifting through memory "What's that thing you're always saying? About gold stars?"

"Oh" I find it strange that I'm blushing, because this is a truth that I hold very close to my chest, a truth that I have spent countless nights carving into my mind and under my skin and beneath my eyelids so there is never a possibility of me ever losing sight of it.

"They're a metaphor, for me, because I'm a star."

His nod is deliberate, meaningful.

"Exactly, you are."

It takes a moment, but then my smile is made up of laughter and gratitude and the sunshine of Spring.

"Well, metaphors are important you know."

The rest of the day slips away at its usual pace. Friday night passes too, uneventful.

Saturday, I bake and have family dinner night with my fathers, arguing over acceptable scrabble words and the questionable tactics they employ regarding monopoly trading policies.

Sunday, I go for a long jog and take an even longer bath before dedicating time to practicing my scales and vocal exercises.

Monday, school is predictable and my notes are immaculate and the blue pages of my textbooks stare up at me like wide expanses of sky.

Then, it's Monday night and I am sitting in my room, which is still crammed with Quinn's book collection. I'm listening to music and thinking about how ridiculous it is that a future Broadway star and EGOT laureate should even need to know algebra.

Three minutes pass and then something that has never happened before.. happens.

A short jingle, muffled by the patterned vibration of my phone against wood, drags my attention away from my textbook.

I casually flop over my bed in order to scoop it up when I'm met with an unknown number and three gloriously, mind-numbingly, wondrously beautiful words printed out in front of me.

9:34pm: Hey, it's me.