You skip all your classes after the incident in the morning, after you ran away from Brittany like the coward you are - with your tail between your legs; after you gave in to the fear that plagues your body, like the weakling you are.
You hate yourself. You hate the way you care about other people's opinion, you hate the way you let the desire to fabricate their image of you dictate your actions. You hate the way you let yourself choose fear of a ruined reputation over happiness with Brittany, over Brittany's happiness.
You barely hear her approach, but you feel her easing the cigarette out of your fingers, extinguishing it with a stomp. You let her. You know how much she hates the smell of smoke; you know how much Brittany hates the smell of smoke.
She sits in the floor beside you, "You missed Physics."
"Little miss perfect skipping class?" You answer dryly, ignoring her sentence, eager to get the attention away from you. You don't need another person telling you how much of a failure you are.
"I think stopped being little miss perfect after I got knocked up." You hear the bitter smile in her tone even without looking at her.
For a moment, you forgot your inner turmoil and let your heart ache for her. "Rachel seems to like you fine, I like you fine," you remind her that her past mistakes do not define her, you remind her that the people that matter are not judging her for the choices she made a few years back.
She takes her time to consider her reply. "Brittany…she likes you fine too."
Your heart clenches painfully. "Does she still?" You say with clenched teeth. You're thinking of how she didn't speak to you in the past week, you're thinking of how she looked past you as though you're a stranger in the hallway today, you're thinking of the pained glance directed to you this morning, before you ran.
She makes a frustrated noise, "Santana."
"Quinn," you quip back.
"Brittany loves you, but she can't love you properly when you won't let her!"
The anger sets in, and before you realise, you're screaming back at her. "I won't let her? I won't let her? She'sthe one that refuses to talk to me. She's the one that looks at me like I'm some- some stranger!"
She's quick to match your tone. "You're the one that refuses to let her hold your hand in class, you're the one that refuses to let her kiss you in the hallways, you're the one that refuses to let yourself snuggle to her during assemblies."
"I-" You stumble, but your pride keeps you going. "Why do we have to publicise our relationship? My relationship with Brittany is private, it's not wrong to want to keep it that way." You turn away, crossing your arms around your chest. You're pulling at straws, trying to justify your choices, your fear.
She scoffs, "It's one thing to want to keep your relationship private, it's another to hide her like she's some dirty- goddamned- secret!" She jabbs her finger into your chest with every emphasis; you feel every word like a shard of glass through your heart.
You don't say anything; you didn't have anything to say. She's right, and you know it.
At your silence, she touches your arm, "You don't have to be scared, San," her tone was gentler, softer.
You give in, you relax, you let go. "I cant, I can't not be scared, I've tried," you dig your nails into your palm, your tears welling from your frustration.
You let her pull you into a hug.
"Sometimes, being brave isn't about not being scared. It's about not letting your fear define you, not being confined by fear."
You grip her tighter, sobbing into her shoulder.