Remember us

by gayfordiannaagron

The Vow—Faberry. It's different to the movie, but the premise is the same. Rachel and Quinn are married and a car accident causes Rachel to lose her memories.

14. Chapter 14

You've got me thinking about how you look at four a.m
And how much milk you pour in your coffee
And how my hand fits in yours
You've got me thinking about all the places I want to take you
And the things I want to show you
And the look on your face when you see it all
You've got me thinking about all this thinking
And thinking that I'm thinking too much
And thinking asdfghjlkshgd
Because all I can think about is you

—Anonymous

•••

January 4th, 2017

Suddenly everything started to fall.

The first time it happened Rachel was sitting in the passenger's seat. Her manager Alex in the driver's seat. They were driving around in Boston. She had imagined the car going in rapid acceleration and the possibility of the two front tires rising up as they turned onto the road. She had imagined that the propulsion afforded by the steepness of the road would enable the car to glide down for as long as it carried. She had not imagined the terror of her ignominious end, of becoming airborne as her body continued to blithely fall. She felt—if there was an adequate way of describing it—serenely panicked. The horizontal earth was flying vertically around her, very fast. Her head dropped to the window. She had no control over her motions as in a dream. She thought perhaps the car had fallen into the water. It seemed she was underwater, one only among a species, giant manta rays drifting free through the stately oceans. Her eardrums popped. And then silence.

She remembered her head hurt too much, though the blood in her ears and eyes were comfortably warm. She stood somehow, her back ached tremendously. Then she thought she was walking in a garden, perhaps the Zoological Garden, the New York Zoo on a cool fall day, and she was a giraffe, a giraffe made of air, swaying gently, stretching to eat more sky. Her head felt cool up there. She wondered where Quinn was. Quinn would love this. Then she found herself bending at the knees, and just as suddenly she was flying. Up there, up somewhere, a little dizzy, she heard someone say, Rachel, its okay we're almost there. Hang in there. She tried to follow the source of the voice but to no avail. She missed Quinn. She wanted to hear Quinn's voice. Then she seemed to be leaning against some very solid structure. The feel of a warm arm around her shoulder. She was standing in Downtown Manhattan with Quinn by her side. She looked up at the vast building in front of them, dingy white streaked with rain, water dripping from the connecting drains.

Welcome to our first home. You're not upset are you?

Why would I be?

I just thought you might have expected more.

Rachel studied the name by the buzzers. Benoit/Rosnik, P. Henderson, S. Foreseth. Let's go and find the landlady and get our names printed on here. Berry-Fabray has a good ring to it, don't you think?

We've discussed this, Rachel. I won rock, paper, scissors fair and square. My name goes first.

You cheated.

How is it possible to cheat in that game? I won ten to one.

She felt very peaceful by now; the dizziness had gone. Perhaps it was because everything suddenly felt so familiar. Their friends were there helping them unload the boxes. Her fathers and Judy decorating the apartment together. She bought stripe pink curtains, her favorite item in the entire apartment. Although it was their first apartment, Quinn mainly resided in New Haven in the dorms. This apartment was to establish the commitment of their relationship, to establish a happily ever after with each other. Besides, they couldn't very well have proper sex if Rachel had a roommate. Which was also the reason for this apartment. They tested that theory a few weeks into college. Roommates didn't allow for privacy and they needed all the privacy they could get. It wasn't easy financially, but they worked hard. It was the strength of their independence.

And then everything disappeared and she was a little confused. Everything was dark again and she was very tired and wanted to lie down for a moment.

She took a short nap and when she woke up she had been asleep for fourteen hours, and the light was very bright. She was in the hospital, Alex was beside her bed. There was a doctor by her side and he shone a torch into her eyes and said, Rachel, you are somewhat concussed and have suffered a blackout. Do you remember what happened? She shook her head telling him all she remembered was the feeling of falling. He took her blood pressure, drew some blood from her veins, prescribed her Flunarizine tablets and said that he would call her with the results in a few days.

"Did you call my fathers?" Rachel had asked.

"I did. They were extremely worried. I told them if anything changes I'll let them know."

"Quinn?"

"Um, no. She's not your next of kin anymore."

She didn't know why, but she was relieved Quinn didn't know.

The second time it happened while she was with her friends and Quinn in her apartment. It wasn't as heavy or significant as the first one. The tablets had worked to some extent. She has been trying to catch her breath ever since. She has attempted to remain composed, for the most part, in the face of both glory and catastrophe.

The tablets helped her to get through the long days of interviews and flying across the country. It worked by smoothing her out, and yet after a while they were just so inconsistent. One night in bed she was a little angry to think there were stonemasons nearby sawing through granite—what the hell were they doing up at this time of the night—and at one point she called Quinn to help identify the noise, but Quinn claimed she couldn't hear anything at all. She was quite embarrassed several nights later when she realized it had only been the grinding of her teeth.

At other times she got somewhat exhausted and needed noise to deafen the clatter in her brain, some kind of override device. The days that followed after the second blackout, she would come home late at night not knowing what to do with herself, not knowing how to properly sit on the couch. She would pace around, dread chewing in her stomach. She turned on the television as loud as possible and let the clatter soothe her head. It was when she heard the noise of a machine gun firing from the screen everything began to still. It was horrifying sitting there and listening to nothing but gun shots. It enabled her to confirm to herself that things were not well. But the noise was magnificent, and took her away for a moment from her own sense of exhaustion and into a still silent place, warm and welcoming.

Her doctor couldn't be sure where the headaches were coming from. It all came down to stress and she believed him. She has been stressed, anxious, completely all over the place. She was working non-stop, every day. Then the doctor prescribed her Valium, and it was everything she'd ever dreamt of, the peace of the oasis, the whiteness of the blossom. She had a condition which needed medicating. It was nothing to be ashamed of.

It was so very good to breathe again. The Valium made it easier for her to get up in the mornings, it unhindered all the obstacles. Everything was pleasant and it allowed her to think comfortably.

The phone in her apartment rang and she sat up sharply, listening to her own voice mixed with Quinn's on the answering machine. "So—talk to us!" Quinn said the last line, urbane and confident. She hadn't bothered to change the message since Quinn moved out.

The machine beeped. "Oh. Okay then. Hi there. It's me." Rachel felt the familiar relief at the sound of Quinn's voice, and was about to pick up when she remembered that they were arguing and she is meant to be sulking. "I guess you've already left? Your cell is off so I figured I'll try this phone hoping to catch you. Maybe you're still sleeping? Anyway, just wanted to say big day today so really, really, good luck. Seriously, good luck. You'll be fine, more than fine, you'll be great. Just wear something nice and don't talk in that weird voice. And I know you're annoyed with me for not coming but I'll be watching and cheering at the TV like some idiot—"

Rachel quickly got out of bed, stared at the machine. She contemplated picking up.

"I don't know what time I'll be back tonight, you know how wild these red carpet events can be. This crazy business we call showbiz. I'll call later. Good luck, Rach. And by the way, you've got to change that answering machine message. That was three years ago, I sound like a kid on sugar."

And she's gone. Rachel contemplated calling straight back, but felt that tactically she ought to sulk a little longer. They have argued again. Quinn thinks that she doesn't like her fake boyfriend, and despite Rachel's passionate denials there's no getting over the fact that she doesn't like her fake boyfriend.

She has tried, really she has. The three of them have sat together in cinemas and restaurants and taken photos for the paparazzi portraying this wonderful friendship she and Quinn have embarked on since their divorce and she's smiled for the sake of smiling. Rachel has sat across the tables from Quinn and meeting her eyes and smiling her approval as Mark shuffles at Quinn's neck—the paparazzi flashing their cameras excitedly from outside. She has accompanied Quinn to one of his shows at The Laughter Lab to watch Mark's observational stand-up (he was a part-time comedian), and Quinn grinning nervously at Rachel's side—the paparazzi flashing their cameras excitedly from inside. She has even sat at his tiny kitchen in his apartment and played a game of Trivial Pursuit so savagely and competitively that it was like bare-knuckle boxing—no paparazzi there, so she didn't see the point of being in his apartment in the first place.

Irrationally, unreasonably, she has become—what? Jealous? —no, not jealous, but resentful perhaps. She has always expected Quinn to be there, a resource she can call upon at any time like the emergency services. Since the cataclysm of the accident and their new relationship she has found herself more and more reliant on Quinn at exactly the point that she has become less available to Rachel. She used to return phone calls immediately, now go hours without a word. She's been "away with Mark" she has said, but where do they go? What do they do? Buy furniture together? Go to bars? Watch his ridiculous show that isn't even funny? Mark has even met Judy. My mom loves him, she has said. Why does her fake boyfriend need to meet her mother? Judy is only supposed to love her.

Most annoyingly, Quinn seemed to be relishing this new-found independence from Rachel. She feels as though she's being taught a lesson, as if she's being slapped round the face with Quinn's new commitment to alter the public's perspective of her reputation. "You said that you were fine with this, Rachel. I can't stop doing this now." Quinn had said, gloatingly, and now they've argued once again, and all because Quinn won't be there in the studio for the live broadcast of Rachel's interview.

"What do you want me to do, cancel the appearance? You know I can't do that."

"Your appearance is tonight, my interview is in the morning."

"I'm in another state."

"Catch a flight—"

"I need time to get ready. I don't want to rush—"

"You'll have plenty of time. It's not going to be that long."

"Rachel, please be reasonable. You have to understand why I'm doing this. It's my job."

And Rachel knew she was being churlish, but it would help to see Quinn in the audience. She's a better performer when Quinn's around, and wasn't that what was required of Quinn to do, to rise up and keep her at her best? Quinn was her talisman, her lucky charm and now she won't be there and her fathers won't be there and she wondered why she was doing this at all.

After a long shower she felt a little better, full of trepidation but exhilaration too. She had breakfast, got dressed and was about to head out the door when the phone rang once again. She let the answering machine pick up.

"Hi Rachel, it's your father here—" Then another voice, "And your other father." Rachel giggled at their nonsense. "We just wanted to wish you good luck for today. It's all very exciting. We will be watching. Give us a call when you've finished, okay?" There was a momentary pause as they both began talking to each other rather than talking to her. Rachel heard the whole conversation, What do you mean I never said good luck? I just said good luck. Tell her we love her, you didn't mention that and how very, very sorry we are for not being there, you know how dramatic she can be. Do you want to talk to her Hiram? It's her answering machine, Leroy, that's not Rachel. Oh great look what you did, now she's going to hear this whole conversation. My fault? This is your— "Rachel," Hiram spoke into the phone. "Good luck, sweetie. We love you."

Rachel did a final check around the apartment to make sure she had everything, and with her hand on the doorknob, she felt it again: the sensation of falling. The first sign was when the images went out of focus, and she hurried to reach for her medication when the second shock cut in, and then everything cascaded and blurred. The floor beneath her shuddered. The walls lurched wildly back and forth. The light fitting flailed like a metronome. The room kept shaking. There was a humming in her ear. All this took place in less than a minute but it was a very long minute indeed and before she could finish dialling 9–1–1 everything went dark for a second and when she opened her eyes she was three-hundred feet in the air.

All around her there were screams and carnival music, children laughing, the sounds of machines and dings and dongs and just plain annoying beeps everywhere. The rollercoaster was slipping into that final stage, the long slide and you feel powerless to stop. She pressed her spine hard into the seat. In near-vertical descent the rollercoaster reached terminal velocity. She turned when someone grabbed onto her hand and Quinn was smiling at her. She was beside herself with pleasure. Crystal patterns broke and reformed in the front of her eyes.

That was amazing. Are you okay, Rach?

Yeah, I think so.

What do you want to do now?

I want a teddy bear.

Okay, we'll go buy you one.

I want you to win it for me, Quinn.

What am I? Your toy-winning girlfriend?

You are my girlfriend. It's romantic.

Why can't you win me one?

I'm not skilled enough for these games—

You won Jesse a Care Bear.

I...

Got you there, didn't I, Berry?

I'm going to ignore you said that. If there were, for example, a singing competition, I will no doubt be able to win you whatever you wished.

Even a flying car?

There's no such thing.

It will be in thirty years' time.

You'll get your flying car when I get my mansion.

I'll hold you to that.

I don't doubt it.

She tried to regain her breath. Her temples throbbed. It was funny how she felt to be entirely weightless. Rachel was somehow lost in all the lights of the carnival, the spangled patterns, the stars, the sand, the water, the beautiful lights. In that moment, she felt connected to it, to everything.

She was very aware of Quinn. Quinn's body pressed to hers. She loved nothing more than the feeling of Quinn's hand on her cheeks, trailing down her neck. The utter simplicity of it, the peace she felt. She had the sense that her mind was soaking up the memory and storing it away for future use. That turned out in a way, to be the case, for now Rachel is remembering the day of the carnival. She remembered just in that moment, on that glamorous and distant night, the delicate pressure of Quinn's fingertips on her skin was what it meant to be a couple. It seemed that her future was contained there in the past. Remembering that time made her happy, she was happy in her remembering, too. They spoke so much that day. They walked hand in hand, went on as many rides as possible. After each ride Quinn would hug her close and kiss her. How extraordinary Quinn was. Rachel had never seen a greenness so transparent in those eyes. Quinn is in love with her. She had to remind herself of that fact several times a day. The very idea seems preposterous even now.

Her mind swooped into a slowness, and Quinn was drifting away from her. There were other thoughts, more distant and more panicked. The fast thoughts were very annoying to the slow thoughts. The fast thoughts said, You are about to wake up from this blackout, you're about to go back to reality. Her mind was split entirely in two. She was gripped with the sweet hopeless feeling that within a few minutes she would doze off into sleep. Of course, the fast thoughts refused to let her rest. It was all a thrumming and a throbbing.

This condition, whatever it is. It's a catastrophe in all her glory.

On opening her eyes she felt very flat, and all safety had dissolved. It was difficult to keep her mind straight, everything was moving around in cycles. She carefully took in the room and the world around her. Someone took a hold of her hand. With effort she forced her head to the side. Alex was smiling at her. She knew she was awake because her head was nodding rhythmically. He handed her a glass of water and she drunk it with great gulps. The bed dipped and Alex was sitting on the edge, he looked sad.

"Hi." Despite having drunk the water her mouth was dry and couldn't make the right movements to allow the sound to escape. The word, when it finally reached her ears, sounded like nonsense, one of those words children make up when they're speaking in tongues. But it was a sound.

"Hey, you're in the hospital."

She sat up on the bed in the half-dark room, listening to the universe vibrate. Even in the gloom she could see the troubled expression etched across Alex's face. "What happened?"

"You fainted, Rachel. You don't remember anything?"

"I—I remember heading out the door and then—" The carnival. The rollercoaster rides. Quinn. Happiness. "—then I woke up."

"You've been asleep for ten hours. Your fathers and Quinn have been—"

"The interview! What—"

He held up his hand to stop her from speaking. "I waited outside for you for an hour. I came up a bit worried because you're usually very punctual. I kept calling you and I heard your cell ring so I knew you were in here. I knocked and knocked and then I went to see the landlord and he opened the door. You were lying unconscious on the floor." He rolled his tongue on his cracked bottom lip. "I've rescheduled the show. You don't have to worry about it. There'll be a spot reserved for you when you're feeling better."

"What time is it?"

"Eight p.m." He struggled for words. "The doctor said that you had a blackout. Is the medication not working?"

"It has been. I don't know why—"

"Rachel, I think you need to seek proper help."

"The doctors don't know what's wrong. The medication has been working for the past few weeks."

"They can run further tests if you let them. I know you're scared but if this keeps happening—"

"I'll get it under control. I'll manage it. I've been managing it for weeks now."

Alex was not convinced. "It's happened twice and you're lucky both times I'm here. What happens if it's on stage? You could've easily blacked out while doing the interview."

Rachel was exhausted from the thinking and planning and remembering. But she knew there was nothing to worry about. The medicine would get her through. "Can I have my medication?"

Alex handed her the Valium and he watched as she swallowed it with water. "How often do you take that?"

"As prescribed."

"Nothing more?"

"Of course."

"It's a very addictive medication. You need to be careful."

"I know." She really did.

The thing is, at times she would feel stuck, and it was hard to get out of it. There was a loop. It was like a wolf, always there, always waiting for you to make a mistake. It would take you down and you were gone: the loop began, it fed on itself, it just kept eating and eating. What people don't understand is that the medication helped her keep the loop at bay. Valium allows, somehow, miraculously, the thoughts, the movements and the words to keep on coming out in the right direction. It allowed her to function every day without the clutter of whatever was happening in her head.

"I'll just let the nurse know you're awake and I'm going to get a cup of coffee."

Though her room was quiet, she could hear the faint hum from the machine in the other rooms, droning on and off. It was an unpleasant sound, reminding her of the time she had woken from the accident. During that time she drifted in and out of consciousness, all she heard were sounds that she couldn't recognize. One machine, beeping with her heart rate, was strangely soothing, and she had found herself lulled to never-land time and time again.

When the nurse came in, Rachel could see the concern on her face through squinted eyes as she scanned the chart in her hands. "How are you feeling, Rachel?"

"Better, I guess. When can I go home?"

"We'd like to keep you overnig—"

"No, really. I'm okay. I just want to go home."

"Rachel, this is serious," she said sternly. "Your condition is beyond a headache. Blackouts are extremely severe and if left untreated could lead to death."

"Could this have something to do with the accident? Am I relapsing in some way?"

"Possibly," the nurse's face remained concerned. "We won't know for certain unless we do all the tests. But tonight we'd like to keep you here for observation in case it could happen again."

She closed her eyes for a few minutes while her head alternately pounded and subsided. Her lungs ached with every breath and she was oddly sweating. She was anxious, but felt worse knowing that what came next was going to change everything.

The nurse took her silence as a yes and said, "I'm going to be here all night if you need anything."

Alex came in just as the nurse left and Rachel told him she was staying the night. He was pleased to hear this. As they made light chatter, she felt a new sensation of relief knowing that everything was about to change. She couldn't imagine living day after day constantly battling in a fight you could never win. These headaches exhausted her and she found herself regularly tired after a blackout, or generally more tired than usual even without a blackout.

"Well, I'll go and get some of your things and give it to the nurse in case you're sleeping. You're in safe hands." Alex said. He was a great manager to her. Plump, self-satisfied and still bizarrely blonde in his fifties. "I'll come back tomorrow to take you home. Oh, before I forget," he placed the phone in her hands. "Your fathers and Quinn have been calling. They're worried about you. I didn't tell them anything."

After he left she threw the blanket off and stood in front of the window with the phone pressed to her ear. Her dad picked up in two rings. There was a sigh of relief on their end when she spoke. She left out the part of her being in hospital and explained that she wasn't feeling too well—not a lie—and that the interview had been rescheduled for a later date. As they talked an easy conversation, she looked out into the city, she thought of Quinn. She has all these things she wanted to ask Quinn like what happened on the day of the carnival, did Quinn win her a teddy bear, what did they do afterwards. Why couldn't she be with Quinn tonight? She hated this distance. She didn't want to complain too much because it was part of their careers, and Quinn had to do this. She didn't want Quinn to be angry or annoyed at her selfishness. Only one more month. Or two. Then it'll all be over and she will have Quinn all to herself again. She didn't like sharing. Especially sharing her girlfriend and the thought of Mark with his hands all over her and Quinn smiling her dazzling smiling—a smile reserved for Rachel—she wanted to punch him.

Half an hour later the conversation with her fathers ended and she ran to the bathroom wondering what she can do to stop the sweating. It broke out of nowhere and considering it was winter she should not be sweating this profusely. She changed her hospital gown twice while talking to her fathers. She took a quick cold, soap-less shower, but still the perspiration came bubbling up on her back and forehead, oily and viscous. She glanced at the time. Late already. She changed into another gown and called Quinn.

Please don't pick up. Please don't pick up. Please don't pick up.

"Finally. Rachel—"

"Hi, Quinn—"

"Rachel, where the hell—"

"I'm sorry to call so late—"

"Where have you—"

"I wasn't feeling too well tonight. Alex rescheduled the interview."

"What do you mean you're not feeling well? Why didn't you call me?"

Because I was lying unconscious. "It wasn't anything of importance."

Rachel had been led to believe by television, by movies, that the only up-side of an illness was that it brought people closer, that there would be an opening-up, an effortless understanding between them. From what she remembers and what she feels, she and Quinn have always been close, always been open and their habitual understanding had instead been replaced by bitterness, resentment and a rage on both their parts at what is happening. Talks that should be fond and comforting descend into bickering and recrimination. Just yesterday she was telling complete strangers some of her secrets, and now she can't even talk to the woman she loves most in the world. Something isn't right.

After a moment, Quinn spoke. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Why would you say that?"

"You're hesitating."

"I told you I wasn't feeling well today—"

"But why weren't you feeling well? Is it your headaches? Are the medications not working? Rachel, I want to know."

Rachel had the urge to cry. One day, maybe even quite soon, she will hang up the phone and realize that that was her last conversation with Quinn, and the thought is so hard to conceive that she shoved it away violently, concentrating instead on herself: her headache, how tired she felt, how the pain throbbed in her temples.

"Rachel," Quinn whispered. It was sweet, like the way Quinn used to speak to her. She really wanted to cry now. "What's going on?"

She had always imagined that some sort of emotional mental equipment was meant to arrive, a kind of kit that would enable her to deal with the all the problems in a relationship. For instance, the memory loss is one thing. The heartache of not having someone you love by your side. The divorce. Now this. This horrible distance, the lack of communication. Quinn's fake boyfriend. Quinn faked it so well in public Rachel has trouble distinguishing whether it was fake. If she were only in possession of such an equipment, she would be just fine. She would be noble and selfless, wise and philosophical.

She contemplated in silence for a while and then she eventually said, "It was my headache—" Quinn's quiet. Rachel knows she's listening intently. When she opened her mouth to speak again, there was shuffling on Quinn's end, the opening of a door and she heard Mark say, Hey Quinn, are you coming to bed?

"Mark, get out, I'm talking on the phone." His reply was, Oh okay, well, good night.

Good night. She snapped.

"Rachel?"

Rachel made a noise that sounded like, "My headache's fine."

There was silence again. Her head began to blur. A noise like static. She lay in the bed with a hollow pain in the pit of her stomach. She was going to cry, she could feel the tears.

"Nothing's going on, Rachel. I've told you this," Quinn said. "I don't want to fight about this anymore."

"I'm tired. I'm—"

"Rachel, please—"

"I really want to sleep."

Mark had something feline about him: eyebrows fine, mouth pouty in a self-conscious way, lips a shade too dark and full. Gratifyingly his hair was terrible, short at the back and sides, but with an awful little quiff at the front. Whatever gel he always used made it looked pert and fluffy, like a little hat. Clearly he knew he was good looking judging by the way he always carried himself and he was nice and kind and generous and he wasn't Rachel—something she always thought Quinn might appreciate.

Quinn's voice was steady, "I don't know how many times we have to fight about this."

"We're not fighting about this."

"You know I love you."

It was the first time Quinn has said it to her in months. She knew it wasn't planned judging by the silence that followed. Silence. That's what their relationship has become. She should say it back, it was on the tip of her tongue. She didn't want to fight but it was hard to back down. The Valium altered her moods, often times it heightened it. It was not designed to go hand in hand with stress. She was aware of a pattern and it was completely unreasonable on her part—

"Sometimes I find it hard to believe that." There's that silence again, just long enough for her to visibly wither.

"If I didn't love you I wouldn't have spoken to you about this. I would've just let you find out from the news and paparazzi. This isn't even real."

"You look so happy with him and when you're with me—"

"That's the worst assumption you've ever come up with and you've come up with a lot of stupid ones."

Rachel was offended now. "I want this to end, Quinn." It was the last refuge her brain could come up with.

"What?"

"You and Mark. I want it to end."

"You can't ask me to do that."

"Why not? We're dating aren't we? You're supposed to be here with me, not him."

"This isn't real, Rachel!" Quinn laughed, an unpleasant snigger. "Get it through your head. It's not real, okay? This will all be over in a month. Thirty days. We've lasted this long we can do it for another thirty days."

"I want you here with me."

"If you're going to continue to be selfish I don't want to talk to you—"

"Oh, so when you don't want to talk we shouldn't talk. But when I want to sleep—"

"Fine. Go to sleep."

Rachel gulped. For the first time in a while she felt the fear that was rooted in her stomach, that was always there but rarely noticed, that was beginning to rise into her throat. You sensed it first at edginess, then the vague onset of panic not yet concrete. If she hung up now, would this be her last conversation with Quinn?

"Rachel?" Quinn said very quietly, almost afraid that she had hung up.

"I'm here."

"I don't want to go to sleep angry."

They listened to each other's breathing. Rachel was thinking about the memory at the carnival and she cried. Not loud enough for Quinn to hear but Quinn could probably still hear her sniffing. And then two strangled sobs emerged, unexpectedly, from deep in her throat. She cried a little more for maybe thirty seconds. She couldn't feel her body. She wanted to melt into liquid, flow down to the floor and disappear into the earth.

Mostly though, she hoped that it was just a bad patch. Maybe a break was what they needed. But she couldn't sense the scale of catastrophe that had loomed in their tiny lives. Her measuring devices were blunt. Was this issue bigger than the memory loss? Bigger than the divorce? Living through each day seemed such an enormous effort; it was all she could do merely to keep her own balance.

Finally, not being able to handle the silence any longer she said, "I miss you."

Quinn sucked in a breath. Rachel heard it whistle between her teeth. "I miss you, too."

"I'm sorry—"

"Rach, don't."

"I hate this situation—"

"I know. I do, too."

She faltered for a moment, caught her breath. She wanted to tell Quinn everything, but she was having difficulty conjuring the words and putting it into a coherent sentence. A part of her reasoned that she shouldn't bother Quinn with this. It was just a headache—and three blackouts—the medication was stabilizing her health. It really wasn't that bad.

"I need you, Quinn."

"Baby—"

Her face crumpled inwards and her breath became broken and jagged, and as she started to cry again she told Quinn, "I love you so much."

•••

January 18th, 2017

As Rachel sat in the cab on her way to the Good Morning America studio for her live interview, her thoughts kept returning to the previous days. The day after she was hospitalized a medic team took her blood pressure and blood tests. The doctor called a physician, who called a specialist and within days she had undergone a battery of further tests. She had to show up with her body to whatever test it was that the doctor thought might contribute a puzzle piece to his diagnosis. Blood tests, x-rays, CT-scans, MRIs, Glasgow Coma Scales. Her body was no longer under her control. One doctor turned into four, and so there always seemed to be someone to answer to. They had her cornered. She couldn't escape them even if she wanted to.

The cab seemed to stop at every possible traffic light. Her palms were sweaty. She was feeling nervous and anxious and yet she couldn't attribute these feelings to impatiently waiting for a doctor to call her with the test results—he had specifically told her it would take a couple of days. She realized that she felt anxious because she hadn't spoken to Quinn in a week, besides the occasional text messages and the missed calls Rachel gives her. Quinn never replied to any of them. She had no idea what Quinn was up to—well, that's a lie. Rachel has been keeping tabs on her, Googling her name every day and reading new online articles detailing Quinn's whereabouts with Mark. They stopped for gas on Crescent Heights Boulevard; Quinn has been seen leaving Mark's apartment; they were seen holding hands outside the cinemas; they sat cozily next to one another at a meet-and-greet in the mall. Everything was Quinn and Mark and she wanted to explode. She felt pinned to the tight strap, everything seemed to be closing in on her; the faux-suede roof was barely tall enough for the loose knot of thick hair that was held on top of her head by a chopstick. She turned her head to the right to see the cab coming to a stop outside of Times Square studios, she quickly paid the driver and was relieved with excitement to get away from the anxious feeling of being trapped.

While she was walking into the studio she was aware that George Clooney had passed her. She was sure he said hello, but it was too late to reply. She mentally cursed herself for being so distracted. One of the crew escorted her into her dressing room and she walked around the desk to look into the mirror.

There was a sharp knock on her dressing room door. "Good morning, Rachel. Make-up is ready for you."

"Be right there."

She walked out of her dressing room and another crew member showed her the way leading to the make-up trailer. The make-up artist gave her a hug with a guttural laugh. "Rachel Berry, I'm Anne Ross. I'm a big fan of yours."

"Thank you so much."

"Your show is amazing. I've seen it four times."

"Is that why it's been sold out lately? You've been buying all the tickets."

Anne laughed and began removing Rachel's previous make-up before she began her work re-concealing her face—she made Rachel's skin color more even, her eyes bigger, lips fuller. Another artist began working on her hair. She couldn't stop staring at her reflected image. Until now, it had never occurred to her that make-up was like the mask of a character. It showcased this young and exciting woman who had no fear of what she was going through in her personal life. But there was a glint in her eyes underneath the thick eyeliner that reminded her that she was scared.

In the mirror she saw Alex walking up to her and she turned to face him. "You'll be on next. Good luck out there. I know this is a huge step on the pedestal, just relax. You're going to be great," he smiled reassuringly. "There'll be no questions regarding Quinn. And if you want you can talk about your memory lost. I've specifically told them to not harass you."

"Well, hello there. I'm a big fan of yours. What a delight to finally meet you." The door swung open and Robin Roberts, one of the anchors, greeted her, practically singing those words. She was genuinely excited to meet Rachel and her happy demeanor was contagious.

Rachel shook her hand and smiled an involuntary smile and realized that she hadn't really smiled in a while, that Robin's sparkly nature was in stark contrast to her dullness. "I've been a huge fan of yours since I was a toddler."

"Oh, now you're making me feel old." As she finished, she pulled Rachel to her feet and hugged her. "I've been very excited about this, by the way. I have so many questions I want to ask you."

She felt strange all of a sudden: exposed. She has been recognized by fans, paparazzi have taken photos of her whenever possible, but being praised by a highly respected personnel from an internationally recognized television show was something extremely daunting and thrilling. She really didn't know what to say and in the silence that followed, Robin must have noticed her startled expression.

"Rachel, we're extremely excited to meet you. You're going to be great."

Robin led her to the immense set, taking her hand and squeezing it. She could hear the claps and cheers from outside in Times Square when Robin resumed her position in front of the camera, the crew were running around frantically getting everything in order, some were patting her shoulder hastily as they passed. She heard George Stephanopoulos doing the warm-up and getting a few laughs from the audience, until suddenly he's introducing her: A big hand please for our next guest, Rachel Berry.

A clip of her in the play showed on the screen, her voice thumping through the speakers. Her big break on live national television and she was dizzy with excitement and the onset of actual dizziness. The gantry seemed impossibly high, far higher than the last time she was on set, and she wanted to lie down but in doing this twenty million people will finally recognize her and she wanted more than anything for Quinn to be here with her, to make her feel loved and that she deserved this new form of recognition. Instead she felt vacuous and frivolous, a girl from a small town who didn't belong. A girl who's girlfriend hadn't cared enough to wish her good luck.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Alex pushing her to step onto the set. She plastered a wide grin, waved at the audience, greeted Robin and George delightfully before taking her seat.

"Rachel," George began. "It's such a pleasure to meet you. Anne Frank has been a huge success, I've seen it twice—"

"Thank you so much," she intervened. "It's an honor to hear you say that."

"Did you have any idea how successful it was going to become?" He asked.

She took a deep breath, not letting her excitement be overshadowed by her fear. She mentally selected the appropriate pitch to her voice. "I had no idea. I remember opening night when Gary Nutkin told us every seat was filled. I was nervous just hearing it. I'm still unable to comprehend the success."

"How did you get this role?" Robin said.

"Gary called me one day and we had dinner. He told me about the role for Anne and I auditioned four times before being cast. I was sent the script and rehearsals started the very next day."

"You met Gary through Avenue Q, isn't that right?"

"Yes. It didn't guarantee me any complimentary passes, even though I had hopes that it would." She joked and everyone laughed.

Rachel had always had a fear of public scrutiny, a gut wrenching feeling that she was going to embarrass herself. Would she be smart enough? Would she have the perfect comeback to an interviewer's subtle jab? Would she be able to convey intelligence and yet be fun and flirty? And how was she going to answer anybody's questions if her answer couldn't be truthful? Truthful answers to those questions that would kill both hers and Quinn's careers in an instant. I'm in love with Quinn. She is my girlfriend. I hate the fact that her publicist is suggesting she absorb herself into this fake relationship with Mark Morley.

"Are there any similarities between yourself and Anne?" Robin asked with a slightly incredulous tone.

"She's a little girl at heart, she has a lot of spirit and hope. She saw the best in humanity even when humanity was at its worst. I believe I'm a lot more realistic. Maybe when I was in high school I would classify myself in that role. I'm very talkative and curious just as she is, but over the years and following my accident, I've become more realistic towards life."

Both anchors nodded their heads repeatedly, but the movements were so small it was almost imperceptible. If she hadn't been looking directly at them, she wouldn't have seen it. She found herself breathlessly waiting for the next question.

"I wanted to ask you some questions involving the accident," George said. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"I know that it's a very personal topic—"

"I honestly don't mind talking about," she assured. "I think it'll inspire people who've been through something similar and feel as though all hope is lost."

"It's an extremely courageous story," Robin added, smiling sweetly. "You must have been frightened waking up and not having any memories of the last five years?"

The mood in the room was suddenly quiet and not jovial, so she took out her pleasant, easy-going attitude to lighten the mood. "It was quite a shock, yeah. I think anyone would be shocked to go from sixteen to twenty-two in a day. But I had a lot of great support from my friends and family, and Quinn. Quinn's been amazing through all this, I wouldn't have been able to do it without her."

Rachel recognized the uneasy, quick glances the two hosts gave each other at the mention of Quinn's name. At that moment, she would've done anything to run from the audience, out of the studio with its square buildings and its one-way windows. She would go home and pack her suitcase and catch a cab to the airport, get on a plane and go back to Lima. She'd start this whole thing over; start her whole life over. She'd graduate from McKinley and go to Brown or Yale to study teaching, something to do with music, maybe a songwriter. She'd marry Quinn and they'd reside in the suburbs, she would live in this blissful ignorance with Quinn, because maybe for some reason the accident wouldn't have happened if she'd chosen a different career. There'd be no paparazzi following them, they could eat in a local diner without being snapped with food in their mouths. They wouldn't have to hide their relationship or their love for one another.

"Have you remembered anything from the past five years?" George said.

"I've remembered bits and pieces. But it's come to the point I've accepted that all my memories aren't going to return and I—"

And then it happened again—except it started in her hand, a tingle, something that it had never done before. She started to lift it but she was forced to stop when her head pounded again, harder, almost as if she had been hit in the head with a hammer. She closed her eyes, then squeezed her eyelids shut.

"Rachel?" Robin's voice was lace with worry.

Her hand stopped tingling and it began to go numb, a sensation as though her nerves were suddenly severed somewhere on her lower arm. Her wrist locked as a shooting pain rocked her head and flowed down her neck and into every cell of her body, like a tidal wave, crushing and wasting everything in its path.

"Are you okay?"

Rachel kept her eyes closed, wanting to finally let go. She heard George say nervously, We'll be right back after these advertisements, and there was a hand on her arm shaking her back to consciousness. She blinked rapidly, her head continued to feel fluttery.

"Rachel?" It was clear by the look on Robin's face that what she was seeing wasn't normal. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Alex helped her to her dressing room, handed her a bottle of water which she gulped down instantly. She didn't know why, but watching Alex speak to Robin, George and the producer in the far end of the room made her think of living in another world, an unrealistic world where actors, actresses, presenters and anyone in the industry were happy with their careers and had never had to deal with any type of illness, that God made their fame simple and nourished them with million dollar contracts, mansions and sports cars, their houses were raining with money, and they taught their children that they could grow up to pursue a career knowing that the amount of money they made was of far more importance than their accomplishments. It made her sick and she scrambled for her tablets.

Quinn's name was blinking at her on the phone and she answered without thought. Quinn was the first to speak. "Rachel, I saw you on TV. What happened? You were so pale and I thought you were going to faint."

Quinn's voice tingled up her spine, and despite her anger, even in the mere anticipation she felt she'd been descended upon by the doves of absolute peace. "I'm okay."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because I am." She snapped without meaning to and the four other participants in the room turned to look at her wearily. Sorry, she mouthed.

"Rach, what's wrong?"

Rachel could think of a million things that are wrong. You didn't call to wish me good luck. You haven't called in the past week. When you reply to my text it's usually five words or less. I have a constant present headache I can't seem to manage. I'm extremely agitated everyday waiting for the test results. I can't tell you anything anymore. You're always so distant. I hate what this is doing to us. I hate that you're always with him. I need you. I miss you. I love you. I feel like you don't care.

Quinn's denseness and inability to take into account her feelings over the past week didn't hurt her; rather it clarified her own feelings towards Quinn. This has been the closest she's ever come to feeling actual hate for her girlfriend. "Nothing's wrong. I have to get back—"

"Rach, I'm sorry I haven't been as attentive and I've missed your calls. It's been so busy—"

"And you're tired. You're always tired. You're always with Mark. Why are you always at his apartment?"

"It doesn't mean anything—"

"Of course it doesn't! Now it doesn't but maybe in a week when you've developed a deeper connection—"

"You're being absolutely ridiculous. I love you."

Seven hundred miles of wireless signals separating them and yet Quinn's voice is right there in her ear, as if she could merely close her eyes and Quinn would lean towards her and kiss her. During that moment there was no more sound, and there was nothing but infinite space around her. She was aware of her heart, as frantic as any voodoo drum.

Alex's voice cut into her infinite space. "Rachel, we need to talk."

"Quinn, I have to go."

"I'll call you. I promise."

"Good bye." She didn't have the heart to say it, good bye was the best she could manage in her current state.

She stood as Robin and George hugged and waved good bye to her. The producer thanked her for being a part of their show and wished to see her back again. She turned back to Alex when the door closed and he said,

"I told them you haven't been feeling quite well, and they understood—"

"So I'm not going to finish the rest of my interview?"

"You almost fainted, Rachel. Have you heard from the doctors?" She shook her head. He continued, "Maybe you should call them."

"Are they upset with me?"

"The doctors?"

"No, Robin and George."

"Of course not," he said sympathetically. "Illnesses are common and it's unpredictable."

"Not my type of illness."

"Rach, maybe it's best you rest for the next few weeks until you're certain of what's happening with your health. Take a couple of weeks off work. I'll talk to Gary and explain it to him myself. What's important is that you really need to rest. If this is all due to stress, its best you take a mini holiday."

•••

January 25th, 2017

Rachel looked at her watch and with time to kill flicked on the television. On a nationwide quest to find America's Most Talented Pet, Mark Morley was standing on an ocean sea-front, introducing the viewers to a dog who could play the drums, and then the camera panned to Quinn laughing on the side, the caption read: Quinn Fabray, Mark Morley's girlfriend. Mark was laughing, bubbling and fizzing away and Rachel didn't find his image justly disturbing as she normally would. For a moment Rachel contemplated calling Quinn, making up an excuse to cancel their dinner and going back to bed. Because, really, what was the point?

It wasn't just the effervescing fake boyfriend. The fact was Rachel didn't get along well with Quinn these days. More often than not Quinn would cancel their meetings at the last minute, citing "work complications" and an added, "I promise I'll make it up to you". When they did speak on the phone, Quinn seemed distracted, uncomfortable. They spoke to each other in strange, strangulated voices, and had lost the knack of making each other laugh, jeering at each other instead in a spiteful, mocking tone. Their relationship was like a wilted bunch of flowers that she insisted on topping up with water. Why not let it die instead? It was unrealistic to expect a relationship as complicated as theirs to last forever, their careers were keeping them apart.

But from the moment she saw Quinn waiting for her across the road, she sensed a love so large she could travel vast distances and never once step outside it. When she was with Quinn everything slowed down. She became suffused with an awareness of her, she became fascinated with every curve of muscle on Quinn's body, engrossed by her smile and the way her eyes light up, hypnotized by the pounding of Quinn's heart against her hand.

She knew nothing but the buildings and the paparazzi: two dimensional things. Then Quinn brought her in for a hug and she began to drown in a three-dimensional world.

Quinn kissed her cheek, a short kiss, maybe three seconds. They pulled away and she heard a faint murmur leave Quinn's lips; even so close the sound was almost lost in the distance from Quinn's mouth to her ears. But it was there, distinct and clear, as if the whole world for that instant was that soft moan, that murmur of desire and melting—the murmur of all possibilities. She felt it in her spine, where it continued to echo and buzz.

She watched Quinn's face brighten and felt a swell of hope and affection for the evening. "You look great." Quinn said, eyeing her outfit, no doubt mentally praising Rachel's new wardrobe choice.

Rachel opened her mouth only to be interrupted by Quinn's cell phone. She fished it out of her bag and Rachel grunted seeing Mark's name. Quinn must have noticed because she switched it off and slipped it into her coat pocket. "So, what was I saying?" Quinn said casually. "Oh yeah, you look beautiful."

"So do you." Rachel smiled and embraced her, pressing her cheek close to Quinn's.

Quinn's hands were on her back. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

"Is this a new wardrobe?" Quinn took her hands and held them out to the side, examining her new dress. "You went shopping without me?"

"You know how much I despise shopping with you. You have an opinion on everything."

"That's the whole point of shopping. To get opinions and what looks best on you."

"Not when your opinions are always ridiculing my choices."

They began to walk through the crowds towards the restaurant, Rachel taking Quinn's arm then holding the material of her coat between finger and thumb, rubbing at the strange nap of the fabric. "What is this, by the way? Velvet? Velour?"

"Moleskin."

"If I recall correctly, Sue Sylvester had track suits in that material."

"Don't remind me of those days."

"You must have nightmares—"

"All the time."

Rachel laughed and took her hand and soon they were in the restaurant. Entrance was by way of a vast, theatrical staircase that seemed miraculously suspended above the main room and formed a permanent distraction to the diners below, who spent much of the evening assessing the beauty or fame of the new arrivals. A sleek handsome man in absurd naval epaulettes told them their table would be ten minutes so they pushed their way to the cocktail lounge where another faux naval man was busy juggling bottles.

"What do you want, Rach?"

"Um, water?"

Quinn tutted. "You're not at home. Have a proper drink. Two martinis, very dry with a twist." Rachel made to speak, but Quinn held up an autocratic finger. "Trust me. They taste amazing."

Obediently, Rachel ummed and awwed at the bartender's performance, Quinn commentating throughout. "The trick is to get everything really, really cold before you start. Iced water in the glass, gin in the freezer."

"How do you know all this?"

She hesitated for a second. "Mark taught me." They touched glasses, silently toasting, Rachel feeling a vague sense that the evening was slipping away and hope would be lost any minute now.

Rachel raised the martini to her lips. "I've never had one of these before." The first taste was delicious, icy and immediately intoxicating, and she tried not to spill it as she shuddered. She was about to thank her when Quinn placed her glass in Rachel's hand, a good half of it already gone.

"I need to use the bathroom."

"Okay." She said, but Quinn was already gone, and Rachel stood alone with two drinks in her hand, attempting to exude an aura of confidence and glamour so as not to look like a waitress. This was part of Quinn's world now—drinks, after parties, martinis. She was living the life of the glitz and glamour of Hollywood.

The lights in the room blurred, her head felt light and a wave of panic passed through her body—a hot, rolling rush of panic beginning in her stomach and ending with her head. Oh no, not now, please not now. She tried to trick her brain into thinking that she was asleep so that she could make it end differently and take away the nervous sick feeling.

She asked the bartender for a glass of water and downed it with two Valium tablets. Her heart dropped knowing she only had two left to last her for the next few days. It was entirely different what's been happening lately. She would be on the couch watching television, something beautiful and interesting, and then she'd feel it—bang! just like that—the serene embrace of her headache, the feathered state of mindlessness. She would be staring at the television and the images blurred to abstract pattern, leaving room for memory to enter. If she has enough Valium, the world gives her comfort. If there's not enough it makes her sad. Comfort is beauty muted by Valium. Sadness is beauty drained by lack of it.

Suddenly a tall woman stood over her in a leopard-skin corset, stocking and suspenders, her appearance so sudden and startling that Rachel gave a little yelp as her martini sloshed over her wrist.

The woman was extraordinarily beautiful, voluptuous and barely dressed. "Would you like anything?" She asked, smiling through powdery foundation and adjusting with one finger the black velvet choker around her neck.

"Oh no, I'm good, thanks." She said, but the woman had already redirected her smile over Rachel's shoulder, fluttering the sticky black lace of her eyelashes.

"Would you like anything?" She gave Quinn an extra wide aphrodisiac smile.

Rachel noticed Quinn's flicker of self-satisfactory smile. "No, thanks. I'm good."

"You have drool on your moleskin."

"What?"

"You looked like you wanted to kiss her or something."

"Rachel, don't be so ridiculous." Quinn said that word a lot recently. Ridiculous. Rachel thought Quinn might as well call her by that name. It was all Quinn thought of her.

"Why's she dress like a prostitute?"

"I don't know, Rach, maybe her wholly black tights are in the wash." She took her martini and drained it. "Post-feminism, isn't it?"

Rachel looked skeptical. "Oh, is that what we're calling it now?"

Quinn's eyes lingered towards the Voluptuous Prostitute Girl and Rachel tried to see which body part her eyes were laid on. "You could look like that if you wanted."

"No one misses quite a point like you, Quinn."

"What I mean is, it's about choice. It's empowering."

"What is that supposed to—"

"If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit."

"But if she refused she would be fired."

Quinn rolled her eyes and gave a patronizing laugh. Rachel was reminded just how annoying and preachy Quinn could be. "And so would the waiters. Maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it's fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn't it?"

"Well, it's not the dictionary definition..." Rachel had to remind herself that she's in love with Quinn, and that this evening should not be ruined just because they were having issues in their relationship. They stood on the edge of the long pointless argument that she felt she could win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face behind her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying, "Let's change the subject."

But Quinn wasn't listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as a waiter beckoned them over. "Come on, I got us a table."

They settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinized the menus in silent. Rachel had been expecting something fancy and French, but this was basically expensive cafeteria food: fishcakes, pies, burgers, and she recognized this restaurant as the kind that would serve ketchup on a silver salver. "It's Modern American." Quinn explained patiently, as if paying all that money for sausage and mash potatoes was very Modern, very American.

"I'm going to have oysters," Quinn said. "The natives, I think. And the steak for the main course."

"Are they friendly?" Rachel said weakly.

"What?"

"The natives—are they friendly?" She persevered and thought, What the hell am I saying?

Uncomprehending, Quinn frowned and returned to the menu. "No, they're just sweeter, pearly and sweet, finer than rock oysters, more delicate."

"You're very knowledgeable all of a sudden."

"I eat out most days now. As a matter of fact, one of Mark's friend's in the journalism industry asked if I wanted to review for one of the Sunday newspapers—"

"Restaurants?"

"Cocktail bars. Weekly column."

"And you'd write it yourself?"

"Yeah, of course."

"What is there to say about cocktails? Wouldn't you want to be a well-known journalist and not be known for writing a cocktail column?"

"You'd be surprised. Cocktails are sort of a retro glamour thing now. In fact—" She put her mouth to the empty martini glass. "—I'm something of a mixologist myself."

"Misogynist?"

"Mixologist."

"I'm sorry, I thought you said 'misogynist'."

"Ask me how to make a cocktail, any cocktail you like."

She pressed her chin with her finger. "Okay, um... lager top!"

"I'm serious, Rach. It's a real skill."

"Did Mark teach you that? How is the King of Comedy?"

Quinn merely shrugged. "He's doing alright. You need to stop being so jealous. Nothing's going on."

Her tone was so belligerent and sour that Rachel visibly winced, and Quinn seemed a little taken aback too, hiding her face in the wine list. "What do you want, red or white wine? I'm going to have another martini." Quinn ordered and then was off to the bathroom again.

The minutes stretched. She read the wine label then read it again and stared into space and wondered at what point had Quinn become such a, such a... mixologist? Is that even a real word? And she wondered why she herself was sounding so spiky, mean and joyless? She didn't care about Mark, not really, not that much, so why did she sound so priggish and judgmental They hadn't seen each other in weeks. Usually in this circumstance they fell into each other's arms and everything was right again. Tonight had the complete opposite effect. Perhaps it was opposite day? She resolved to relax and enjoy herself. This was Quinn after all, her best friend whom she loved.

Quinn's oysters arrived along with Rachel's tofu fish. The oysters lay glossy and alien on their bed of melting ice. Rachel passed the time by drinking heavily, with the fixed smile of someone who's been left alone and really doesn't mind at all. She shouldn't have been drinking, but it was like alcohol boiled the Valium and it lubricated her head and seeped into her bloodstream leaving her floating into the clouds. Finally, she saw Quinn walking across the restaurant a little unsteadily.

"I thought you'd fallen in!"

"Sorry," she said, nothing more. She began eating her oysters. "So how's the play going?"

"I've taken a few weeks off."

"Why?"

"I—" This was her chance. She has had quite a lot to drink, the alcohol would help get her through this. "Alex suggested it. I just need some time off."

"Are you not feeling well?"

"Not at all. Never been better." It was a lie which should've been the truth. It would've been the truth if not for her debilitating fear, and she was certain that fear would fade in time once the doctors have finally reached a conclusion regarding her health and consulted her.

It was hard to express her doubts, her panics, to Quinn. They were trying to be nice to each other even though there was a lot of damage on her behalf. She figured it was her duty to stay positive about the changes in their lives. She felt talking about how she felt and what she was going through would be unfair to Quinn. She had already put her through enough at the time of the accident, losing her memories devastated Quinn to breaking point, she was afraid of what this would do to their relationship. And Quinn's career had skyrocketed to the stars, literally. There was always something about her in the entertainment sections of newspapers and on television, whether it be in her personal life, her fashion sense, or simply out in public. Quinn was the new it girl. She has received notable critical praise for her performance in Mistress of Rome, with several magazines calling her, 'the most talented young actress in America'.

"What are your plans for the next few weeks?" Rachel asked while she examined her thick paled fries. It had been machine cut into perfect oblongs and were stacked up like building blocks.

"I have a photo-shoot with L'Oréal tomorrow and Mark and I have a photo-shoot for Abercrombie & Fitch on Wednesday." Quinn necked another oyster. "I really can't wait until all this is over."

"You're not enjoying it?"

"Of course, but—I mean, I miss you and..." She trailed off, having a hard time finishing the sentence.

Rachel decided to let it pass. "You should keep doing it."

"I will. I just—this distance, it's—it's weird right?"

"I don't know what you mean by that."

Quinn saw right through her and raised her brow. "You know what I mean, Rach. You're mad a lot of the time and jealous—"

"I'm not—" She quickly said, a little too loud and softened her tone. "I'm not."

"I'm tired of fighting about this all the time."

Rachel's only thought consisted off: Why don't you quit now and be with me. She said, "If you enjoy being with him then I suggest you be with him. You shouldn't stop seeing him for me. Besides, he seems very keen on you."

Quinn eyed her cautiously. She immediately knew she had said the wrong thing, it was snippy and unnecessary. At this point in their relationship, she knew Quinn well enough to read her sigh as frustration, her hitched breath as annoyance and the flicker in her eyes as irritation. Her breathing stopped for a minute, then started again, this time shallower. Rachel knew Quinn too well. Sometimes she wished she didn't and she could ignore all these signs and feign nonchalance.

"Maybe I will." Quinn said mostly to herself. "Continue this with Mark."

This was Quinn's defensive stance. Quinn was trying to hurt her with the most heart breaking words of all. Rachel's mouth went dry, and her heart was pounding. She felt weak, her legs ached, there's a strange pain on her side. She could feel Quinn staring at her, ten, twenty, thirty seconds, and all this time she doesn't look back.

Instead, she swallowed raw potato and said, "Whatever makes you happy."

And so the pleasure wore on without another word. Rachel felt traitorous, Quinn probably felt the same way. This evening was supposed to be her chance to confide in Quinn about the mess that it their relationship, her fear that is her health and her confusion about what to do next. But they couldn't talk to one another. Not now.

"How's your steak?" Rachel asked, eventually. Quinn seemed to have lost her appetite, dissecting the blood red meat without actually eating it.

"Sensational. How's the tofu fish?"

"Cold."

"Is it?" Quinn peered at her plate then shook her head sagely. "It's opaque, Rach. That's how it should be cooked, so it just turns opaque."

"Quinn—" Her voice was hard and sharp. "—it's opaque because it's deep-frozen. The tofu hasn't been defrosted."

"Is it?" She prodded the fake fish angrily with her fork. "Well, we'll send it back."

"It's fine. I'll just eat the fries."

"No, fuck it. Send it back! I'm not paying for fucking frozen food. We'll get you something else." Her tone was provoking. Once again, Quinn's anger was directed at someone who didn't deserve it. She waved a waiter over and Rachel watched as Quinn asserted herself, insisting that it wasn't good enough, it said fresh on the menu, she wanted it taken off the bill and a replacement main course provided free of charge. Rachel tried to insist she wasn't hungry anymore while Quinn insisted that she had to have a proper main course. There was no choice but to stare at the menu all over again, while the waiter and Quinn glared at her and all the time Quinn's own steak sat there, mauled but uneaten, until finally she settled, she got her free green salad, and they were alone again.

They sat in silence in the wreckage of the evening in front of two plates of unwanted food and she thought she might cry.

"Well, this is going great." Quinn said and tossed down her napkin. "Are you still getting headaches?"

Rachel wanted to go home. She would skip dessert, go home to her empty apartment and cuddle up in bed with the television on. "No. I'm fine." She scowled.

"What? What have I done?" Quinn replied indignantly, eyes snapping back to her.

She spoke levelly. "If you're not interested, don't ask."

"I am interested! I wouldn't ask if I wasn't. It's just..." She poured herself more wine. "I thought you were taking Flunaza—whatever tablets or something."

"I'm taking Valium now."

"What? Since when? Valium. That's addictive."

"Not if taken cautiously."

"Why haven't you told me?"

Rachel's mouth fell open. Stay calm. "You're never around, Quinn."

"This isn't fair and you know it. I'm working, I have a job. This isn't a holiday for me, I can't just take time off whenever I want to like you can—"

"Why? Your job is more recognized than mine? You're more acclaimed than I am? You have your face on magazines such as Us Weekly praising this fake life that you're living?"

Quinn sighed, the glass of wine in her hand, then spoke flatly. "I'm not doing this with you again. I'm literally sick of it. How many times do I have to clarify that nothing is going on? Do you want me to wear a shirt that says exactly that, or something? Get over yourself, Rachel. Not everything I do has to revolve around you."

Rachel spat out the words. "Go fuck yourself, Quinn."

And now the glass of wine was spilled on Quinn's lap as Rachel shoved the table away and jumped to her feet, grabbing her bag, knocking over bottles, clattering plates as she clambered out of the booth, storming through that hateful, hateful place. All around her people were staring now but she didn't care, she just wanted to be out. Do not cry, you will not cry, she commanded herself, and glancing behind her she saw Quinn mopping furiously at her lap, broke into a run, and here was that Voluptuous Prostitute Girl striding down the stairs towards her on long legs and high heels, a grin splitting her scarlet mouth. Despite her vow, Rachel felt hot tears of humiliation prick her eyes, and suddenly she was falling onto the stairs, stumbling on those stupid, stupid high heels, and there was an audible gasp from the audience of diners behind her as she fell to her knees.

The Voluptuous Prostitute Girl was beside her, holding onto her elbow, with a look of maddening, genuine concern. "Are you alright there?"

"Yes, thank you, I'm fine—"

But Quinn had caught up with her, was helping her up. Finally she shook herself free from Quinn's grip. "Don't touch me, Quinn."

"Don't shout, calm down—"

"I will not calm down—"

"Alright, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Whatever it is you're angry about, I'm sorry!"

Rachel turned to her on the stairs, eyes blazing. "What, you don't know?"

"No! Come back to the table, and you can tell me!" But Rachel was walking away, through the swing doors, pushing them closed behind her so that the metal edge cracked Quinn sharply on the knee. Quinn limped after her. "This is stupid, Rachel. We're both a bit drunk, that's all—"

"No, you're drunk! You're always drunk! You're always at some party. You never call even when you promise that you will. You didn't even care enough to wish me luck for my interview. Did you know I literally haven't seen you in forty-four days and you've been to New York in those forty-four days and you don't even come to see me! You talk about Mark in front of me like I'm supposed to accept the fact that he's got his hands all over you in every single photo, and maybe I would be okay with it, Quinn, this would've been so much easier if you had kept in touch with me and not the one-off text messages. Even when you talk to me you're always looking over your shoulder in case there's some better option—"

"That's not true!"

"It is true, Quinn! You're an actress, all this is done for publicity, you're not in demand as though you've invented Penicillin, so you cannot be that busy. We were apart for months and you managed to keep in touch with me through emails and letters. I knew more about your life in those months than I do now and you're my girlfriend!"

They were amongst the crowd in the street in the fading winter light. "Let's go somewhere and talk about this." Quinn said. She flickered her eyes around and Rachel knew she was hoping the paparazzi hadn't caught them.

"I don't want to talk about it. I've had enough. I want to go home—"

"Rachel, please?"

"Quinn, just leave me alone, will you?"

"You're being hysterical. Come here." Quinn took her arm once again, idiotically, tried to hug her. Rachel pushed her away but Quinn held on. People were staring at them now, and she finally relented, allowing Quinn to pull her into a side street.

They were silent now, Quinn stepped away from her as Rachel wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Finally, she spoke in a quiet voice. "Why are you being like this, Quinn?"

"Like what?" Quinn blinked as tiny droplets of tears spilled from her eyes.

"You know what."

"I have no idea what you mean."

"You're being completely disrespectful of my feelings."

Quinn snorted. She had the nerve to snort. "Now you're just being childish—"

"I'm not! You're always repeating that as though all I'm thinking about is myself—"

"Rachel, you have to understand—"

"Shut up, Quinn! You know what I'm tired of? I'm tired of you constantly implying I'm jealous and childish when I all I want to do it talk to you. You're the one who's being distant, and I try not to call or text you too much because I don't want to cramp your personal space, as you've so neatly put it! I need you and you can't even see that!"

Quinn sniffed once, and looked down at her through smudged black eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being distant. There's a time difference from New York and wherever I am, and most of the time I don't want to wake you up. I know how much you appreciate your beauty sleep. But Rachel, I never stop thinking about you. Not for a second. I'd give it all up to be with you—"

"Then why don't you?"

"It's—I..."

"You don't want to, Quinn. You enjoy the parties, the free drinks, the attention—"

"Don't you think this is hard for me to pretend to be in love with someone else? I'm wrapped with guilt every single night. I'm always concerned what you're going to see in the magazines or hear on the news."

Rachel waited for Quinn to further elaborate, she counted sixty seconds in her head. When it was clear that had been the end of Quinn's speech, Rachel took two of Quinn's fingers and squeezed them in her palm. "Maybe... maybe this is it, then. Maybe it's just over."

"Over? What's over?"

"Us. You and me. There are things I needed to talk to you about, Quinn. About my health. If you're my girlfriend I should be able to talk to you but I can't, and if I can't talk to you, well, what's the point? Of us?"

"What's the point? The fucking point is to work at it, that's the fucking point. You can't just break up because it's hard."

You left me when it was hard. It was on the tip of her tongue and she bit into it to stop the words from tumbling out. "I'm going to go home."

"Rachel, come on. You're not serious, right?"

She shrugged. "Maybe we've grown out of each other."

Quinn wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then spoke. "You've grown out of me or I've grown out of you?"

"I think that you think I'm dreary. I think that you've lost interest in me."

"Rachel, I have not lost interest in you."

"You always want to be somewhere else. Even when we're on the phone, you're just never interested anymore."

Rachel wondered whether there was something she could say to save the situation, a joke perhaps, but nothing occurred and she let go of Quinn's hand. They stared at each other for a long time, concern etched on Quinn's face. "I never meant to make you feel that way. You know that—I know things have been difficult. Just one more month—"

"You said that a month ago, Quinn. And it's not even that," she admitted. "It's you. You're different now."

"Just because I don't call you—"

"It's not that! I know what you're like and this isn't you. You're horrible like this, you're obnoxious and arrogant, Quinn. You were funny and kind, and interested in people. Now you're telling me to dress like a prostitute—"

Quinn sniggered angrily. "That was a joke. That's what we do. We joke."

"And it wasn't funny. It's rude and insulting like you'll find me more desirable if I dressed like—"

"Rachel, that's not—"

"You would never have spoken to a waiter as though you walked on water, as though you're better than him because he's paid minimum wage. You're just out of control, Quinn, with the parties and the alcohol—"

"Rach, I'm just having fun."

"And I don't do any of that which is why I think you've lost interest—"

"You know that's not true—"

"I honestly approved of this whole arrangement until you began to distant yourself. Do you know how much it hurts when our friends ask me where you are and I have no idea? They don't say it, but I can see it in their eyes. 'Rachel is Quinn's girlfriend, how can she not know where Quinn is or what she's doing right now?'"

Quinn sighed, she leaned against the wall, her hand running through her hair. For a moment, Rachel had a fleeting but perfectly clear memory of herself and Quinn engaging in a pillow fight and then eased Quinn's insecurities about their relationship. Quinn curled into her arms afterward and they fell asleep after Rachel asked her to Prom. Rachel quickly walked up to her and pulled Quinn's face to hers, their cheeks warm and wet against one another. Rachel spoke quickly and quietly in her ear. "Quinn, I love you so much. So, so much, and I know I always will." Her lips touched Quinn's cheek. "But for now I really don't like you. I'm sorry. I think we should stay away for a while."

She turned and, a little unsteadily, began to walk off down the pathway, occasionally glancing around for a cab. Quinn followed a little way behind her. "Rachel, you don't mean that. This is just another fight and after we've had time to cool down we're going to be okay, right?"

She successfully hailed a cab, and said, "I'll see you around, Quinn," before opening the door. She looked back to see Quinn standing alone and watching the cab weaving through the streets. She looked until she could no longer see Quinn.

Surprisingly, the tears didn't fall until she reached her apartment. She wiped at her eyes furiously, the tears didn't want to stop. She cried out in pain and then she just quietly cried as a means to console herself. Her gentle sobs screamed to say, It hurts, and a silent tear falling replied, I know, I know. Everything hurt. She wept and wept until she became aware that the excruciating pain began to escalate from her heart to her head and attacked her muscles and organs in its path. She reached for the Valium only to decide against it as there were only two tablets left. It was night time, and she had no plans for the next few days.

The lights around the room began to blur into one another. In the mirror located in the far end of her room, she saw two black dots that were her pupils until she couldn't see them anymore either. She felt herself floating away, fading into black. She knew was she was going to have another blackout, but she tried to hold on to her consciousness. She heard what sounded like a train roaring inches from her forehead. The pain coursed through her body like a lightning bolt, and in her last remaining moments of consciousness, she saw Quinn, so gratified to see her standing there. She knew she was hallucinating. But in less than a second a new world opened up to her and she is somewhere richer than any dream.

Quinn, is this your speech?

Yeah.

You're really going to say all these things?

What's wrong with it?

My Bride's speech

After a whirlwind romance etc etc

How we met. At school but didn't like her at first. Thought she was annoying, selfish, talked too much, always hogging the limelight. Always angry about something. Terrible hair. Signed up for tumblr one day. Say something about not knowing it was her. Finally got to know her. Blah blah blah

Me being an idiot. Sometimes don't see what's right in front of my face (corny).

How to describe Rach. Her many qualities. Funny. Intelligence. Good dancer but a terrible cook. Taste in music is good, except show tunes. Always has something to talk about. Makes me laugh too much. Beautiful but doesn't always know it etc etc. Great with my mom, even gets along with my sister. Everyone loves her.

College was hard. Talk about the distance.

Getting married makes sense. Everyone told you so. Happier than ever been before.

*Pause while guests cry about corniness. Santana will probably vomit somewhere. Remember to check around.*

Acknowledge this is the happiest day of my life. Thank caterers. Thank Hiram and Leroy for making me feel welcome. Thank everyone for being here. Thank mom and Frannie.

Toast to my beautiful wife blah-di blah-di blah blah blah blah blah blah all that stuff.

Yeah, I'm going to say all that.

You're serious? No, I love you? We're meant for each other? I can't wait to start my future with such an amazing woman?

This basically says all that. I mean look, happier than ever been before. That basically sums up everything you just said. Obviously I'm not going to say, blah blah and etc etc.

I really hope you're being sarcastic, Quinn.

I'm really not, baby. Read between the lines.

The last thing she remembered was the sound of her front door opening and closing, Quinn's voice called out to her from the living room and footsteps descend into the bedroom. And as she closed her eyes no longer able to hold on, the sound of Quinn's voice vibrated through her ears. Rachel, are you asleep?

•••

January 26th, 2017

The problem is, waking is insufferable.

Rachel woke up to a strange silence and shafts of light stabbing into the room from the corners of the blinds. The light carried millions of tiny dust particles, which she guessed were always there yet only now visible because of the soupy, thick air with its beams of light illuminating them. She was eerily calm when she awoke. She was aware that, coupled with the blackout, she had cried herself to sleep. Her eye sockets felt misshapen and water-logged, as though they could barely keep her sore, dry eyes in her head. The heaviness in her head, with its headache and sinus pressure remained. Usually when she awoke there would be a lightness to her body like everything inside of her was weightless—quiet, floating. Today, the hideous pain continued without abatement.

Quinn was beside her, crumpled as far away as she could on her side of the bed. She was starting to breathe shallowly and Rachel knew that soon she'd wake and the day's misery would begin. Quinn, for the first time in a long time, appeared mysterious, a stranger. She wanted Quinn to return to her, she didn't want her to be this despairing and vulnerable person she had revealed herself to be. She loved Quinn's straightforwardness, her self-confidence and poise. Her ambition, which is ferocious and unapologetic, her lack of sentimentality; she is as hard, bright and desirable as a diamond.

She missed the electricity between them, and how alive they made each other feel. She missed the way—as she would drift off to sleep—Quinn would trace her fingers all over her body, the lightest of grazes, in gentle repetitive motions, a kind of hypnosis of the skin. It occurred to her that her body was empty like a black and white page in a coloring book, and Quinn's fingers were brushstrokes, or the flaking of crayons, and that each time Quinn continued her tracing she became complete.

The mattress began to stiff. Rachel continued to lie on her side facing the window. She felt Quinn shuffling behind her and soon their feet were touching. "Rach?"

Rachel turned to look at her. Quinn lay on her back, facing the ceiling. The sheet was pulled to her chest. "I'm going to take a shower."

Quinn raised up on one elbow. "Rach, we need to talk."

"Why are you here?"

"I cancelled all my appearances and meetings. I want to be with you."

"You cancelled because we're having problems not because you want to be with me." Rachel said, almost losing her resolve.

She watched Quinn's thoughts pass across her face. An expression rose that Rachel had recognized many times, it was always her that inspired it, after all: rage. Quinn was sitting up now. "Rachel, I'm trying."

This was love, her brain reasoned; this was how it went between two people: silences, sulks, mysteries. It could not always be love in the afternoon and passion at night, gifts given, notes written, meals fed to each other, comfortable silences, lingering kisses. There had to be the pulling of ugly faces and sudden mutual waves of distaste, annoyance passed back and forth. She hoped, painfully, that this tension might be the normal run of a long-lasting love.

Her own guilt threatened to overwhelm her if she dwelt for too long on what had happened yesterday. Her head knew all this wasn't entirely Quinn's fault, but in her heart beat a sickening anger that wanted to blame Quinn for it all. What made it even worse was that she didn't know why. Her nerves were so tense that only Valium could soothe them.

They watched each other. No longer allies, but not yet sure what else they might become. "Fine," Rachel mumbled. "We'll talk."

She went to brush her teeth and came out to find Quinn dressed in new clothes and making coffee. The last remaining Valium tablets did nothing to soothe her but rather made her feel completely dizzy. Guilt, hurt, jealousy filled her stomach with a bitter bile that threatened to rise. Distracted by her sudden nausea, she hadn't realized that Quinn had been crying. When she saw Rachel, she pulled her face together. Streaked but still elegant. She had never seen Quinn's cheeks as tear-stained, or those green eyes reddened by salt as she has at this moment. It put Rachel over the edge along which she had been nervously wavering.

Quinn slid a mug of coffee towards her and they sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. Quinn's stony reticence, combined with her dark features and raw nerves, and the fact that Rachel has no idea what she was thinking, filled her with anxiety.

Finally, to break the long silence, she said, "I'm sorry."

Quinn didn't respond. She sipped her coffee, and Rachel wondered whether Quinn even recognized her. She wanted to hear Quinn's calm voice, feel her reassuring touch—but they had enough problems to deal with, and Quinn telling her that everything was hunky-dory was not an option.

"Quinn, I'm really sorry." She added firmly.

Quinn's mouth thinned. "You're not."

Taken by surprise, she hesitated, then said, "I'm trying to apologize."

They continued to stare at one another. Rachel took in the uncompromising lines of Quinn's face, shadowed by darkness, and the powerful gripping of her hand on the coffee mug. "Your apology means nothing when you don't mean it."

Right; because Quinn knows me so well to know when an apology means nothing. She now felt indignation warred with a sharp, unexpected jab of exasperation. Rachel studied her tense face a moment longer, then said abruptly, "You don't know what I've been through."

Shaken by her animosity and unable to control her feelings any longer, Quinn practically yelled, "You won't tell me anything!" She curled her fingers tighter around the mug. Rachel saw nothing but blackness in Quinn's eyes, her mouth pulled in a tight line. "You think I don't know what's going on, Rachel? I know that you're sick, I know you've got some issues with your health. But how the hell am I supposed to be there for you when you're constantly insisting that you're fine? I'm not a fucking mind reader."

Rachel flinched from the anger in her voice, hurt and offended by her crudity. It was all she could do not to snap back at her—and she would've had she not sensed Quinn's anger, her need to hurt, was directed at herself rather than Rachel.

Quinn stared at her looking as if she might say something more. She opened her mouth but clamped her lips closed. Rachel didn't back down from her chilly glare, she knew her tricks by now, the way Quinn worked her whole intimidation business.

The distance between them was immeasurable. There was little else for her to say; protesting the statement would mean she was determined to punish herself for being human rather than omnipotent.

After a lengthy silence, Rachel said, "I didn't want to bother—"

"Don't you dare give me that excuse," Quinn pushed the mug out of reach so as to not be tempted to throw it. "You think that all this distance is my fault. You pulled away first. From the very first moment you were in the fucking hospital—"

"How did you—"

"What, am I illiterate? Do I not know how to turn on the TV or flip through a newspaper?"

Even hearing Quinn say the words left her cold with fear and dread. Quinn had known all along? How did the paparazzi get a hold of it? She reached over for Quinn's arm but she snatched it away. That one act sent a spurt of absolute pain to her heart and an unwelcome discomfort.

A twinge of what looked like guilt crossed Quinn's face. "Somehow, someone uncovered your secret and I had to read it like an idiot that my girlfriend was suffering and didn't even have the sense to tell me. And you know what, Rachel? Your first blackout happened when we weren't having any problems! You have no excuses to not have told me!"

Rachel remembered vaguely mentioning to Quinn about the big bang theory. First there was nothing, and then the anger started, and it expanded outwards in all directions, and then it was everything. At this point, it was everything. For weeks there had been no soft conversations, no intimate words exchanged. It seemed like all they did was fight. What was worse was the fact they were never able to finish their fights, and when that happens everything escalates and it's rapid and viscous.

To her it seemed so easy: the doctor gives you Valium, you take it, the headache goes away, get on with your life. Yeah right. She hadn't known about responsibility. She thought she deserved a medal for keeping this secret from Quinn, for managing her illness so well.

Rachel's tone was wry. "Why didn't you say anything?"

She shrugged. She looked hurt. What a weak euphemism. "What could I have said? I've been stalking you because you've refused to tell me anything?"

Rachel almost laughed. It shocked her that even during their worse times, they were still in sync. She regarded Quinn, still amazed by her quick-wit even in a time like this. "What about last night? You could've said something then."

"You were so angry with me. You wanted to break up. I was wracked by panic and trying to salvage our relationship."

"I've tried to tell you. You're always with Mark—" She stopped seeing the hard, bleak expression on Quinn's face. "—Okay, I'm sorry. Let me start again." She willed herself to not throw up. "Every time I've got the courage to, you cancel our meetings and I didn't want to say this over the phone. I didn't want to burden you with this. I thought I could handle it myself. Quinn," Rachel watched her, not missing her closed expression. "Believe me I've wanted to tell you so many times. I don't know what else to say—I was frightened and alone. You were never around."

Unexpectedly, a rueful smile curved Quinn's lips, then her expression changed to doubtful in less than a second. A sick feeling settled in the pit of Rachel's stomach, and she blinked back a sudden sting of tears, telling herself not to be too melodramatic.

Quinn tightened her mouth as if to stop herself from screaming. "I've always been here, Rachel."

"You're always with him."

"You never needed me."

"I've always needed you!"

"Not enough to tell me the truth!"

"And I'm trying to tell you the truth now and you're acting like a complete bitch."

Quinn said through clenched teeth, "Yeah, I'm the bitch for caring and you've done nothing wrong, because you're never wrong. Is that what you want me to say, Rachel? God forbid, if Rachel Berry ever does anything wrong the world is going to end."

"You're angry with me for trying to confide in you?"

"You should've confided in me from the beginning—"

"I haven't been happy in weeks, Quinn, and you can't even see that—"

"And you think I'm happy?"

"Living the life of the rich and famous isn't good enough for you?"

They're shouting at each other now and Rachel thought, Oh God, we've become one of those crazy couples you hear through the walls. Somewhere, someone's thinking, should I call the police? How did it come to this?

They fought Quinn's publicity stunt.

"When is it ever going to end?" Rachel said. "What's the point in you even doing it?"

"What's the point? You don't see it, do you?"

"Ah, cryptic. Very scary."

"I'm trying to keep my job!"

"You don't enjoy your job. You're going back to college to major in English."

"I also have to earn a living," Quinn stared at her and her eyes seemed vacant. "And also more to the point, I enjoy it, Rachel, and I'm fucking good at it."

They fought about the unknowable gap between them in the guise of ending the argument.

"I'm going to leave."

Rachel felt concern for the meaning of those words. She suppressed it with anger. "Yeah, leave, that's what you do best."

"We've been fighting for over an hour. You really want to continue this? I have a lot more I want to say to you."

"Then why don't you express yourself, Quinn? You come into my apartment after I specifically told you to leave me alone and you said we should talk. Then you—"

"Talk. Not shout!"

"What's the difference? Words are being exchanged!"

"Nothing's being solved. We're going back and forth. You're being so immature right now I can't—"

"And you're just the perfect example of an adult." Rachel knew it was a pathetic thing to say. Through the pain of coming off of Valium, she was scattered everywhere, and she was beginning to wonder whether she could gather herself together.

They fought about infidelity.

It was infidelity that was the final trigger, which is not as strange as it sounds. There was the publicity stunt, of course, which didn't count. This was a new thing: interest in another, was about desire or lust. It was painful, though in the scheme of things pain is a kind of strange word.

Quinn's movements stilled for a fraction of an instant, then said, "I'm not cheating on you."

"That wasn't my question."

Rachel knew that Quinn was angry she even asked—but disappointment cut deeper. "I don't have feelings for him."

"You enjoy his company—"

"Yes, I enjoy his company. I can talk to him about things, about how messed up this whole situation is. We laugh and we joke, it's completely platonic—"

"And the fact that he's not me."

Her words must have hit hard, like a physical blow. Quinn took several steps back. Stunned, Quinn stared at her. "Fuck, Rachel, how can you even say that to me?"

Heat rushed over her, blood roaring in her ears. Sudden tears welled in her eyes. "Because I can't make you happy anymore."

And then just as suddenly, they're both crying, slumped on the floor on the narrow hallway of the apartment they had bought together with such hope. Rachel's hand was covering her face, and she struggled to speak between great sobs and gulps of air. In the past twenty-four hours all she has done is cry. Her chest was tight with the very fear of it. "I can't stand this. Why is this happening to us? Quinn, I'm sorry. I should've told you about my health, maybe this could've been avoided, maybe—"

"Rachel—" Quinn wrapped her arm around her shoulder and Rachel fell limp into her. Quinn's eyes welled wet and red. "This blew out of proportion. I'm sorry. None of this is important. What's important is that you're stable and that you're going to be okay. Tell me you're okay, please; tell me that you don't have a brain tumor and dying any day now."

Rachel looked at her through grief-bloodied eyes and said the most honest thing she's said all morning, "I don't know."

"Why aren't you in the hospital? You should be—I don't know—Why haven't the doctors gotten back to you? What the fuck is even happening?" Quinn mumbled, panicked through tears.

The pit of her stomach was laden with gloom, and underneath the gloom was a ferocious panic wanting to burst out. "I'm really scared."

Quinn was feeling dreadful, in that all she felt was dread. Without knowing what to say, she stroked Rachel's hair in the silence.

Some time later they lay together on the floor in the same spot, as if they've been washed up there. Rachel's head is on Quinn's shoulder, her arm across her chest, taking in the smell of her, the warm comfortable smell that she's become so used to. The intensity of the previous hours left her momentarily shaken, but she smiled as her fingers grazed lightly over Quinn's skin, taking the pleasure in how Quinn's stomach muscles tightened, how she breathed more rapidly, and never breaking their gazes.

Rachel pressed their bodies closer, she tipped her head back and Quinn responded with a surprising kiss. The kiss deepened, tongues touching, caressing lightly. She sighed deep in her throat, and leaned further into Quinn's warmth.

The kisses turned leisurely and she met Quinn's mouth and tongue, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke.

Only when Quinn's hand slipped underneath her shirt did she become aware they hadn't kissed each other in weeks. After a moment, she broke the kiss so they could both come up for air—and it was then she noticed the raw need in Quinn's eyes, the way her pupils dilated so much that her eyes looked almost black.

In that moment, she realized Quinn had her on her back on the floor, their bodies against one another. Rachel's temper ebbed as her need for Quinn—which had been there all along, even in her anger—swept over her in a hot, liquid rush. In Quinn's eyes, half-lidded by her long lashes, she recognized that same awareness and desire. Her muscles softened and she relaxed back onto the floor.

"We shouldn't do this, Rach," Quinn murmured, and her hips moved against Rachel's, betraying her statement—they were just about as aroused as each other. "We need to talk about you."

"Afterwards."

For a long moment Quinn studied her, her gaze moving across from Rachel's eyes to her mouth and then lower. "What can I say to change your mind?"

"You don't want to."

"And why wouldn't I want to?"

"It's going to be worth it."

Quinn suddenly laughed, a low and wondering sound that made her smile. "Not if you do it wrong."

"Thanks for putting a little performance pressure on me."

Quinn slipped her hands further upward. She rested one against Rachel's cheek, her thumb brushing lightly, and her other hand cupped her breast through her shirt. Rachel sighed at the warmth of her hand, the tingles of pressure. Reluctantly, she drew Quinn's hand away, smiling as she sat up, then kissed her with enough heat to keep Quinn's attention right where she wanted it—on her.

Quinn made a low sound and grasped the front of Rachel's shirt, pulling her onto her lap. The act was all Rachel needed to coax her lips apart and Quinn gave a low growl of satisfaction. Quinn's tongue stroked her own, pressing urgently against one another, and making soft needful sounds. She shifted her hips to ease the ache, placing herself in-between Quinn's thigh and suddenly her hips moved in an insistent rhythm that totally fried clear thinking.

She had never seen Quinn bolt up and discard her clothes so quickly in her life. She watched Rachel as she did it, her gaze so hot and scorching. Her blood flowed through her veins in a rush of need and eagerness. She bit her bottom lip to keep from panting, the moisture pooling between her legs. She wanted Quinn all over her, inside her, everywhere. The next thing she knew, Quinn was naked and so was she, and Quinn was on top of her, between her thighs. Without a word, Quinn's fingers were exactly where Rachel wanted it most and she began stroking her slowly.

The intensity took her by surprise, and she kissed Quinn as hungrily and as demanding as ever. Quinn's fingers lingered and teased, making her so achy and shivery all at once. Pleasure rippled through her and she had to close her eyes and take a deep, controlling breath. But her eyes snapped opened when Quinn moved down her stomach and legs. Knowing what was coming, she pushed down on the floor, and the instant Quinn's tongue touched her, stroking gently for a few minutes before pushing it all the way inside, she came in a matter of seconds with tremors that left her feeling weak and hot.

Quinn's smile edged in a wicked grin. "I'm not done with you yet."

Quinn moved her attention upward and licked Rachel's collarbone. She closed her eyes for a moment as she savored the silkiness of Quinn's tongue. Reaching up, she traced her hands along the ropes of muscles that comprised Quinn's neck and back. God, she felt so good. Like velvet over iron.

Quinn bit her earlobe, and she gasped, "What do you want, Rachel?"

"I want—you—"

"To what?"

"Fuck me."

With her hands on Rachel's knees, she pushed them apart, wider and wider, and Quinn pushed her fingers so deep inside her that she felt it everywhere. That was all she needed. Her body screamed for completion. She needed it, would disintegrate without it. Her legs intertwined around Quinn's waist, gripping her tight and forcing her to move faster.

Rachel shattered completely, and a scream of fulfillment burst from her throat. Spasms consumed her body. She clenched tightly around Quinn's fingers, flying beyond the stars. Where would that lead to? The sun? The moon? Another universe?

The sweet aftershocks were still pulsing through her when Quinn resumed tracing with her fingers, making her wet all over again. "God, baby—" Rachel murmured against her mouth and let out a soft "oh" of pleasure.

There was no time for Quinn to respond because Rachel flipped them over and she straddled Quinn's hips. Rachel's fingers stroking Quinn with an unmistakable urgency. Watching the girl beneath her respond aroused her almost to the point of pain, and she meshed their lips together in a brutal kiss of warring tongues. She almost experienced another orgasm right then because Quinn shifted her thigh so as to slip between Rachel's legs, her hips rising against Rachel's hand.

Rachel's only thought was to let Quinn find release, and to give her the same, to show her, better than words, how much she really loved her.

Rachel braced a hand above Quinn's head and slid the other upward over her stomach, cupping the soft roundness of her breast. Her nipple was taut and hard, she rubbed her thumb over the tip, and Quinn arched beneath her.

"Now," Quinn whispered. "Rachel, don't make me wait."

The moment she worked her fingers inside of Quinn, the girl shattered. She arched and writhed and canted Rachel's name, all the while, Rachel listened to her breathing—steady at first, then growing faster, less even. Quinn's nails digging into her back. Their lips met, tongues clashed. Quinn tasted like pure passion. A taste she already craved like an addiction. Quinn's knees squeezed her waist and she picked up her pace, her fingers working deliciously until Quinn's body stiffened and Rachel swallowed her moan of satisfaction.

"Angry sex is so good." Rachel said hoarsely, sitting on her knees. One of her hands moved to Quinn's breast and pinched her nipple.

"Rachel—" It was a lame attempt at a protest.

As her other hand began a rotating dance that increased Quinn's pleasure, she could swear on all the Gods that she had never felt anything so right. Quinn's pleasure was steadily building again, and Rachel prepared her for another mind-shattering orgasm.

Rachel bit down on the sensitive cord of Quinn's neck, her teeth nipped the other girl's lips, and Quinn came right then. During that moment the only sound she could hear was the gasp and moans Quinn elicited, nothing more. Rachel watched all her muscles contract, she pushed her fingers deeper one final time and Quinn rocked herself into an imploding place. Then sound returned and the noise of the echo around them was like whole factories winding down, the whirring and spinning of gigantic wheels losing all momentum and drifting into a profound silence.

They could hardly speak as they laid beside one another, weak in the aftermath, every ounce of their bodies sated, afraid to shatter the lethargic spell. Rachel rolled her eyes upward and stared at absolutely nowhere, nothing, the four corners of the ceiling of the living room. She tried to gain control of her senses. There were no dictionary words to describe what had just happened.

She didn't even realize she was crying until Quinn kissed the tears from her cheeks. Her kisses and touch suddenly gentle. The warm contentment, all that desire, pushed its way out.

"I hope no one heard us." Quinn breathed against ear.

"I highly doubt that." She barely had enough strength to get the words out.

Quinn rolled onto her side, keeping Rachel in the strength and torridity of her arms. "Are you okay?" She asked wiping away her tears.

"Yeah."

Her expression became pensive. "About everything, Rach."

Rachel's next words froze in her throat. She had kept her fear about the headaches from Quinn for so long, telling her now was difficult. "I'm not sure how to begin."

"From the beginning?"

She laughed, although Quinn hadn't meant it to be funny. "Can we get some food, please? Then we'll talk, I promise."

Despite the heaviness of her head, with its headache and sinus pressure, she felt overtaken by a sense of peace. There was a levity to it, a lightness to it, like everything they had felt in the morning was now replaced by this new kind of bonding that would propel them into another realm of possibilities. She felt exhilaration that they had crossed the bridge and made it to the other side. That they wouldn't end and the bond was very much intact. It was a glimmer of pride about a very possible future.

Quinn rolled off of her then stood on her feet. Cool air immediately ghosted over them. A muscle ticked in Quinn's jaw as she began to put on her clothes. Rachel watched her, noticing the bite marks and scratches she had left all over Quinn's body. She liked it. She liked seeing Quinn branded.

"What do you want to eat?" Quinn ran her tongue over her teeth, her eyes glinting like pressurized steel. "Do you want to go out?"

Not even an hour into this love and her muscles were sorely stretched, her body shocked and soaking, though somehow, impossibly wanting more—

Quinn's eyes moved anxiously over her face, and abruptly Rachel felt it again, an awful sensation flashed through her, a hot blade slicing her neatly in half. Quinn helped her to stand and it worked, the pain was gone, the dizziness left her. She leaned up to kiss Quinn, tentatively at first, then deeply. When she pulled back, Quinn's pupils were dilated, shrunken to furious points. Quinn wanted her.

But Quinn was holding back. She straightened and then expelled a breath, "We'll go and get take out. Bring it back here."

"Oh okay, well, why don't you go alone?"

Quinn's eyes flared. "Why do I have to do all the hard work?"

"You're dressed and I'm standing here naked."

"It's not going to take you that long to get dressed."

Rachel shook her head. An edge to her voice layered by casualness. "You're already dressed and it'll be quicker—"

"You do know that we could be out the door right now if you'd just get dressed."

"Ugh, fine." Rachel grunted, grabbing her discarded clothes and stomping into the bedroom to tug on clean, presentable ones.

Twenty minutes later they stepped into the elevator and Quinn reached for her hand and the sweetness of the gesture filled her body with a current of ecstasy. When it reached the bottom floor, Quinn let go and she could almost feel her endorphins screaming for Quinn's touch as they slowly faded back into the blackness of her body. Worse than the feeling that the rush was over was the feeling of the paparazzi flashing the cameras in their faces like a ravenous hunger had ripped through them.

Instinctively, she grabbed onto Quinn's arm and they both smiled and waved brightly. There's a wordless exchange between the celebrity and the paparazzi. They tell you that soon they'll uncover your secrets, and they'll take away your life. Rachel could sense them telling her with one glance they knew she and Quinn were having an affair behind Mark Morley's back, and they'll expose Quinn for a fame-hungry celebrity who would do anything to further her career.

Once they were out of camera flashing distance, Quinn said, "So, start talking."

"Now?"

"We're alone, you can talk."

"I feel more comfortable if we sat down."

"Rachel, why are you delaying—"

Rachel stopped suddenly, and the look on Quinn's face was as though her heart had leapt out of her chest and her body was straining to pump oxygen to her lungs. "What's wrong?" She asked.

"I forgot my purse, and phone."

Quinn sighed in relief and narrowed her eyes. "Are you serious? Don't scare me like that!"

"What did I do?"

"I thought you were going to die or something."

She laughed and was about to lean in to kiss Quinn's pouted lips, but was reminded once again they were being watched. "You need to stop assuming I'm going to die, Quinn. I'll be right back."

"I have money—"

"What if Alex calls, or my dads, anyone?"

Quinn rolled her eyes and chuckled. "Yeah, because you're so in demand."

Rachel was already walking backwards and stuck her tongue out. "Five minutes."

In the quiet space inside the elevator, she started to prepare ways to tell Quinn the truth. She will need to tell Quinn, more than almost anything, about her dependence on Valium. Because that's something that can't be hidden. What she hoped that Quinn will realize is when she takes it, her head is clearer and it's putting herself in the position she needs to be in to make everything function.

When she reached her floor, the oxygen suddenly, inexplicably, cut out. At first she felt no panic. She took in deeper breaths but to no avail. She noted that her breathing was becoming more rapid, but at exactly the same time she was overcome by the very lovely sensation—a kind of flooding—that everything, all of the world and the atmosphere around it, was falling with her. And yet a certain sharpness was gripping her head. You have a headache, the happy part of her was telling the other part. A deep and pleasant sleepiness was descending. She could see nothing at the edges of her vision. The hand rail, the carpeted floor, the clouds, so significant in their whiteness.

Her eyes felt too big for their sockets, and she blinked. Her legs were apparently paralyzed. She stood stock still holding onto the wall. She opened her mouth to call for help but it sounded so distant and foreign. Then she discovered she could not raise her hand. Then she discovered she could not feel her fingers. The glow from the window seemed to mean something, but beyond that was absolute blackness. The roaring of her head seemed unbearably loud, the rest of her senses were now far away.

The sensation was less than falling, more like a hurl and a thud, and when her head came to rest on the ground with her face against the carpet floor, her first instinct was to look around for her keys, which had somehow flew across to the other side. She tried to move her head but was unable to do so. She tried to push herself up because someone was looking at her now, their face craning over her. The person over her seemed fearful and asking her over and over again, Are you alright are you alright. She can hear someone crying and she realized that she's not alright. She blinked to put moisture back into her eyes. She told Quinn five minutes. She was definitely going to be late. Quinn's waiting for her.

Rachel thought of two very distinctive things.

The first is a photograph of herself at nine years old in a red swimsuit on a beach, she can't remember where, maybe in Lima or Colorado, perhaps. She's with her fathers who are swinging her towards the camera, their sun-burnt faces buckled with laughter. Then she thought of Quinn, waiting downstairs for her, looking at her watch, impatient; Quinn will wonder where I am, why I'm taking so long. She'll worry. And I never told her I love her.

She waits for the memories to come, to submerge her into another world. But she's spinning into nothing but blackness. The spinning suddenly stops, and when she closes her eyes, everything she knew and felt vanishes.

---

Sorry for the cliffhanger. Well, not really :) I've started the next chapter already, so shouldn't be too long.

Thanks for reading.