My dearest Brittany,

If you're reading this, I am long gone. And hopefully, by its end, you'll be grateful that I am. This letter is probably long overdue. But I'll do my best to encompass and express everything that I've been too cowardly to say aloud over the past five months. The answers to every question you've asked. Answers I couldn't bear to witness you discover. A list of explanations, if you will. As if words will ever be enough.

Compiled below are only a fraction of my sorrows. The fears that plague me every time that I see you. Every failure I've committed in regard to you. And hopefully, by the time I've finished admitting each, I won't be so afraid anymore.

Our time together- the course of our lives- is something I reflect on frequently. Regretting the choices I've made. Regretting the ones I haven't. The years we've spent together have been far too short. Anything less than a lifetime by your side will be too short, I fear. But my fears have kept us at arm's length of each other. With every question you asked, or every wrongdoing another inflicted upon you. My greatest fear was always the truth, and how it would shatter the perfect world you've long inhabited.

I always thought that I was doing things the right way. Gently. As painlessly as possible. Unfortunately, Ms. Pillsbury doesn't have a pamphlet on these things.

You were wrong in trying to fix me, Brittany. For the damage I've accrued is irreversible. A jagged stone weathered over time. But you know what? I was wrong, too, Brittany. God, was I wrong. You can't put people back together. But you can't keep them from breaking, either. Much like I tried doing with you. I merely dimmed the lights. Pulled the blanket over your head when evil threatened to storm in. And maybe that's what I regret most.

I'm sorry for that night at Karofsky's. You were in so much pain over that damn cat. Maybe more, but he was the only prevalent worry. It wasn't five miles down the road that a police officer stopped us. You were sick and I was speeding. When you puked and he saw the massive bag of pills, an immense anger welled inside of me. For not recognizing the signs earlier. For not realizing just how much pain you were truly in.

The officer must have noted my shock, because he was constantly giving me ways out throughout the proceedings. "Just say that they're your friend's," he repeated. Even as I held you in the back seat, sobs breaking free by the second. "Tell me that your friend bought them, and you're free to go." The words play in my head from time to time.

Not as much as what you said when I tucked you into bed, though. I tried apologizing then. For allowing you to struggle alone. For being a shitty friend. With each word that I stumbled over, your eyes grew clearer, and they stared right through me. Like I wasn't there. Like I no longer existed. And then you said three words. Three words that stuck with me for fourteen months. You muttered, "I hate you."

It hurt like hell, hearing you sound so vile. For it meant that the innocent unicorn I loved so much was no longer there. I spent weeks running over those words. Trying to figure out what warranted your hatred. Eventually, though, the uncertainty became a sort of solace. I avoided the issue, knowing that should I ever pinpoint your reasoning, some sadistic part of my heart would try to remedy it. In enough time, I became grateful in what I did know. I knew that some part of you could let me go. Whether you were in touch with that part or not- it was there. A heart filled with bitterness and malice has no room for love. And that's what I needed most. I needed you to stop loving me.

But the letters- they came like clockwork. And I refused to read them. I couldn't. Because the women I lived alongside were crushed; torn down and broken by slivers of hope that news from the outside provided. If I was going to survive with my sanity intact, my only hope was the notion that ignoring your letters and being so out of sight would ultimately remove me from both your mind and heart.

Having people forget you is tough. But having them remember is the most heart-breaking of all.

My parents sent mail, too. Much like yours, the envelope came every week. A long document that stipulated everything the officer tried to convince me of. A signature would have recanted my admittance. Said it was all your doing. That you weren't of sound mind. Unaware of your surroundings, actions, and the consequences of each. I couldn't sign them. Because you've always been so smart. Sometimes too smart for your own good. I believed it then, and I believe it now. You're a genius, Brittany.

With every refusal, my parents pulled further away. I wish there was a more elaborate way of putting it. I cared for you so deeply. They didn't.

I'm not only sorry for my parents, but for yours, as well. Your mother- she abandoned you, forced you into the clutches of addiction, and neglected your needs. Another of my biggest fears is that I've become no better than she.

Don't let her take your milk, B. Not now. Not ever.

I'm sorry for being so selfish with you. Sorry for not being selfish enough. I'm sorry for the lies. For allowing dishonesty to become the only ground we walk on. Blindly following the path. Withholding truths, so that each day, we might tread a little farther.

"How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. So far, so much between, you can never go home again." I picked that up in the countless books they made us read in jail. It never made sense until I found you, drunk and stumbling around the complex. I knew that you had changed.

"You can't make homes out of people," I whisper.

And before you say that homes can't be made out of people, I'm here to say that you're wrong. Home is where you're safe. Loved. Where it's okay to hurt and to be hurt. It extends far beyond the confines of a city, state, or zip code. Home is so much more than a location on some map. It's the people you surround yourself with. People like you. You were my home, Brittany. And it terrifies me to know that you always will be.

Do you remember Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz? Of course you do. It's your favorite movie behind The Lion King. God, I hated that movie. But I memorized every line, just because you were so adamant about reenacting rather than watching. There really is no place like home. And I wish it were as easy as clicking gaudy, red heels together, but it's not. Nothing about us is easy. Never has been.

I'm sorry for not giving you the right things. Instead, I gave you every meaningless item I could find. Shelter. Money. Food. My worry, care, and time. Even my body. But I spent so much time shoving your despair and misery into the depths of my own heart, that there was nothing left to give. Nothing that hadn't been tainted by grief. Nothing that you deserved.

And you deserve far more than what I've got. You deserve to be surrounded by people who can give you everything that I couldn't. Or just one person, or can give you the happy parts, too. One person who isn't afraid to show you just how frail and damaged theirs is.

If you ever feel as though you need me around, revert back to this letter as a reminder of why you don't. Think of those three words. Know that I hated myself, too. Still do, in fact. I hate being afraid. I hate knowing that, should it ever be necessary, I would go back to that night at Karofsky's and do it all over again. I hate that if I convinced you the heat would be a nice change of weather, you would probably follow. But most of all, and just as then, I hate myself for loving you so damn much.

There are things that I can protect you from. Moments when I can pull the blanket over your eyes. But there is one painful truth that it's taken me far too long to realize. One that I only discovered tonight. The one thing that I've come to fear most.

I can't protect you from yourself.

With all of my love,

Santana

A half-empty closet. An inexplicable pang of loneliness in my chest. This letter. These are the signs of Santana's disappearance from the apartment.

I wander from bed, clutching the pages in my right hand. Tears drop off of my chin like icicles from the eaves of houses, just as spring creeps in. I plop on the couch next to Mom, the weight of the earth crashing down in one fell swoop. "How about that drink?" she asks, sounding smug. I snatch the bottle from her hand, thinking all the while, "This is my home, now."

A strange pang of nostalgia hits me. When I was little- about six or so- I had a favorite blanket. A blanket that was my best friend until Santana came into my life. A blanket that I ate, bathed, and slept with. A blanket that I also had a knack for losing. And each time it disappeared, I would run to my dad, tears streaming down my face. He always found it. As if fathers have magical, blanket-summoning powers.

Before giving it back, though, he would sit me down and say, "You can only lose something so many times before it's gone for good. Try to be more careful with the important things."

I'm starting to believe that his advice applies to people, too.

StephaniieC: Haha, and thank you for reviewing, as usual.

gilliang3: Those two words literally made me lose my shit with laughter. In the best way possible. I looked and saw, "Well, crap." and it was just perfect. I have no idea why, either.

LoneGambit: I certainly appreciate that. Lol. I vow with everything that I have, things will turn out just peachy. In a literary sense. Thanks for taking the time to read and review.

xoxo (Guest): I can say nothing more than thank you for pinpointing everything I've been trying to get across. It's refreshing to know that people catch on. I appreciate your taking the time to read and review.

ichigo111981: Dude, you're telling me.

luceroadorada: Haha, I like the kid, too. Thanks for reading.

Author's Note: It's easy to see a letter as a cop-out (because I do, too, in many stories.) But I've had this hanging around for a bit, and it seems like enough to tie up some strings while buying myself a bit more time with the next chapter.

P.S. Sorry for the shit storm that has become their lives. Just...sorry.