Author's Note: ...brace yourselves? This has been coming for awhile so...yeah. Read and review?

Don't Feel Like

I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like doing anything. I just want to lay in bed forever, listening to emo music and eating ice cream…I'm not really sure I even want the ice cream.

I'm going to write anyway because…I don't even know. Maybe it'll make me stop crying for awhile.

The day started out as good and that should've been my first sign that it was going to end miserably.

Rachel made the best French Toast I have ever had, serving it with fresh, sliced strawberries.

Artie sort of dipped me into a kiss goodbye.

Kendra was not at work and I found out on she's on vacation for the next week.

My boss, Mr. Evans, told me he was giving me a raise.

Santana and I went bridesmaid dress shopping after work and agreed on the most beautiful strapless, knee length dress, that we would order in yellow.

Then we arrived home.

Inside, we found my father sitting on the couch, facing Artie, who looked really white. He also looked like he was about ready to puke.

"Artie," I whispered, already knowing what that man had said.

He lifted his eyes but they didn't quite meet mine. Without a word, he spun his chair and left the room.

"Quinny," that man started, rising to his feet.

"No. NO! You are not allowed to…exist! You don't exist to me!" I yelled, moving past him, following Artie.

One of his hands shot out, as if he was going to try to prevent me, but Santana jumped across the room, positioning herself between him and I. Though she had no idea what was going on, she took my side, telling that man, her voice a low growl, "I think it'd be best if you left."

It's the rare person who doesn't listen to Santana, especially when she takes that tone, and that man was no exception. With a sad glance in my direction, he took his leave.

Feeling like I was about to fall apart, I looked to Santana for strength. Softly, she encouraged me to, "Go," indicating mine and Artie's partially closed bedroom door.

Pushing the door open, I found Artie hunched over in his chair, eyes on the bed.

"Art-"

"You should've told me."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that but Artie didn't give me the chance, spinning his chair around so fast, to face me, I'm surprised he didn't get whiplash.

"But you didn't. Didn't tell me that your dad thinks that you could do better. Could find someone more suited to take care of you. And why didn't you tell me, Quinn? Because you think it's true?"

Of all the things Artie could've said, that hurt the most. He had to have known it was an extremely stupid comment to make and, by the flash of guilt that passed behind his eyes right after he said it, I assumed he did. "No! I didn't tell you because it didn't matter."

Grinding his teeth, Artie glared but I felt like he was less glaring at me than at the entire situation itself. "It obviously does!"

"FINE!" I shouted, not sure why I was raising my voice. "It did matter! Because I wanted a relationship with my dad and when he said that, about you, in all of his ignorance, it was like I finally got it. We will never have that relationship that I wanted! How can we? If he feels that way about...you...us..."

His face, like a stone (I finally get that expression), he only replied, "You still should've told me."

"I'm sorry," I said softly, at a loss of how to fix things or make him feel better.

Grabbing his briefcase, which I hadn't at first seen sitting on the bed, he rolled toward the door. "I need to just…go. Think about things."

"What is there to think about?" I cried.

But he didn't answer. He just kept going, while I stood there, immobilized. Once I heard the front door shut, I threw myself on the bed.

Santana came in and sat on the bed for awhile, not speaking. But it was her way of letting me know that she was there, ready to talk, if that's what I needed.

I'm not sure what I need though.

Especially since…I know the reason Artie left.

Not because he thinks I might believe what my dad said but because…

He does.