In the third week of November, a light coat of snow begins to dust the earth.
It's been an uncharacteristically cold month for autumn, and you find yourself just standing there in awe as white flakes continually accrue, sticking to your driver's-side window while bitter cold wind whips around your face. All you can do is swipe away a thin layer with your gloved hands, watching wet streaks glisten in its wake.
It's a sight which proves to be strongly evocative.
You're half asleep when something nudges you from behind, and it's not the soft cushioning of the couch that stirs you, but the graze of a nose from beside your ear. Memory strikes you hard, and you become very aware of the breasts pressed against your back. Soft hands are wrapped around you still, and hot gusts of slightly sour breath wash over the hairs at the nape of your neck. You relish in the feeling of bare legs brushing under your pajama bottoms, lifting the fabric to your knees, soft flesh dragging against your own. You nearly tremble from the hot deliciousness of it all.
She shifts and whispers "San, it's snowing," against your neck.
You blink twice before gaining focus, adjusting to the darkness. Across the room your eyes find the large bay window that's visibly displaying flecks of snow blowing through the night. On the table next to it, a blinking clock reads 4 AM.
You reach for her hand and find it beneath the covers, giving a gentle squeeze. "Pretty," you mumble sleepily.
She smiles into the crook of your neck. "We should make a snowman."
"Britt, it's 4 in the morning."
"So?"
She's still engrained in your periphery as you settle into the driver's seat, rubbing your hands together furiously to create friction. The forced air coming from your dashboard is a sharp and bitterly cold, and you wait. You sit there, watching your breath cloud, letting your mind wander. You know thinking about her is not a new commonality, but the redundant frequency is.
"Britt-Britt, whatever snow we get is gonna melt by tomorrow."
"So?" she asks again, shifting herself deeper into you. Her fingers toy with the drawstring at the hem of your pajamas, making you inhale sharply, letting your mind spin your fantasies into pictures. It all becomes so tangible, and behind your eyes you can practically feel the tips of her fingers dipping below the elastic, roaming lower. Much lower.
You shudder. She smiles, but you're not done glaring accusingly, even if you make certain to leave a considerable amount of softness in your gaze, just because you can.
Because it's her.
"So you can't make a snowman when it's gonna be sixty degrees the next day. It's pretty much pointless."
"Nothing is pointless, San." Her fingers, still so close, yet...
"Yeah? What about Justin Bieber?" Your voice is close to cracking.
She quirks a smile. "Hey, he's kinda cute."
You roll your eyes. "Says the woman who wants to build a snowman in November."
And it's like... you miss her. Or you miss the ease of her. Or the quirkiness that comes with her ingenuity.
You just know she's there, always, lingering in your before and afterthoughts like some kind of mind-fucking aficionado, creating doubt large enough to make you reexamine anything you've formerly deemed important.
As a self-sufficient, vastly intelligent and self-aware woman, you've never needed the presence of another person. You've never even wanted it. And now, when you ask yourself, Could I walk away from this? Does she matter to me that much? Your mind can't catch up with the fear.
It's five in the morning, you're buried in two feet of snow that won't compact, and you're beyond sexually frustrated. And besides losing feeling in your hands nearly ten minutes ago, you can't stop staring at those pink, cold flushed lips.
It's... an issue.
For the second time, she tries to throw snow at you, but it turns to dust the minute it leaves her hands.
"Epic fail," you tease.
Her eyes challenge you as she holds a fist of snow, daring you to move forward. You smile wickedly. She wouldn't; she doesn't have it in her.
Yet, when cold slush hits your face and melted snow is clinging to your neck, you shiver unexpectedly, and maybe a little in disbelief.
She stops and stares, waiting for your reaction, biting her lip. Her hat is half off her head, blonde hair spilling out. Hot cheeks glow beneath her guilty grin, and it reminds you of a little kid who just got a hand caught in the cookie jar.
You honestly can't think of a time you've adored her more.
And you slip. Amid looking at her, your mouth softly admits, "You're really pretty, Britt," and she blushes. Her cheeks flush further while your heart bangs.
Part of you thinks about it often—this fantasy world where you and Brittany are strangers to one another. It's beautiful in a way which exploits its powerlessness. If you were to take away the crux of all its capabilities, strip it down to its frailest form, it would leave everything at face value. There would be no damage. Hearts would go on without the requisite of having to be pieced back together again. Love could be salvaged. And with your pride still intact, you could walk down the hallway unscathed, your lips still able to smile at her softly.
Yet, deep down, you know.
You can't let go of her. Not willingly.
Call it selfish. Call it cruel. A definition will only brush the surface of your feelings. You just can't stay away, even if you're painfully aware of everything you're not giving her.
Even if you're entirely aware she deserves more.
Residual snow glides off her gloved fingers, and you love the way the flaps of her hat just barely cover her ears. You actually love her ridiculous snow boots more, and the way she trudges through the thickness, but that's not important. Because at this juncture, she's slowly closing the distance between the two of you, and you think there might be a good possibility that in about thirty seconds, she's going to kiss you. And there's a good possibility you're going to kiss her back. Especially right now, with her eyes so seemingly... full.
So when she pauses before you, you expect it. You're compliant when smooth fingers hesitantly find the curvature of your jaw, and you say nothing when they trace downward. Rather, you will yourself not to lean further into her touch, disregarding how your heart pounds against its cage. You knew this was inevitable. Your actions can't be trusted. You're terrified of your own impulses, your raging desires, your pliancy beneath her gaze.
And so you wait, and when the pad of her thumb presses against your cheek and drags slowly across your bottom lip, your knees tremble. Faster your blood goes, hot as liquid running rampant between your legs.
She's so warm and close, and never have her eyes looked this shade of blue.
"Sometimes, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, and then you'd know how special you are."
A familiar warmth in your chest swells and expands until your heart can't take anymore, and you—no longer caring if it's freezing fucking cold outside—grab her face. You cradle her jaw and you bring your lips to her hard, letting the snow touch your cheeks.
You think it's possible—that the gratification of touch has clouded your better judgment, ruining all devised plans to avert unnecessary hurt and suffering. See, in the back of your mind, the expectations you built for yourself and Brittany had always revolved around abundant physical space-a negation of intimacy, the creation of ample distance from sexually intensified moments. You wanted to keep that part of yourself from her. You wanted bold lines of understanding, but since you allowed for your current predicament to transpire, there's nowhere for the consequences to sink.
When you think about it though, it seems really simple. You don't need to see passing flashes of her throughout the day or feel her presence from across the room to know you've changed things as much as she's changed you. And despite your contravening nature, you know the truth.
Space no longer exists; she lives inside your negative spaces.
Perhaps it's her all-encompassing presence that manages it—this unprecedented ability to create and establish newfound voids within you; ones of vast emptiness which are half-filled with filaments that measure your wants and needs.
Wants like closeness.
Needs that correlate with simple gravity.
Out of breath, still clutching you closely, she whispers "So, Emma called me last night."
"Oh?"
"She has a recital here on the twenty-second," you can feel her smile against your skin."She's one of the leads. Over a hundred people in the company and they picked her." There's something about the way her eyes light up, the way her voice carries pride every time she talks about her little sister.
It's beautiful. She's beautiful.
"Yeah? What's the theme?"
"Grease."
You offer a smile that rivals hers. "Good for her."
"It's at the Embassy Suites on a Friday night. Will you go with me?"
And there it is.
"I, uh..." You stammer, again, noticing that hopeful look, understanding the silent plea her eyes make with you.
It tells of her wants, her needs, what she's asking of you.
An implicit desire for all the things you're not built to give.
Her nose slowly grazes your cheek. You can tell she's nervous. "She's going to be in town this weekend, and I haven't seen her in so long. I really, really want you to come. Em will love you."
"Like a date?" you ask carefully.
"Would that be okay with you? If that's what it was?"
You open your mouth to answer, and everything about her seems so incredibly wistful.
"I—I, I'm not sure. But I can try, Britt."
And somehow, someway, this revelation, this need has turned on something dark and beautiful inside of you, waging the most ambivalent of personal wars.
You're fucking terrified, because for the very first time in your life, someone is at the forefront of your mind, and it's everything else that sits idly on the back burner.
That is, until you find a new rotation schedule taped to the front of your locker.
You read it over and over again, trying to make sure the sheet in front of you isn't some gross misrepresentation of reality.
Pediatrics.
It comes as a shock to you since you've only been on transplant for six weeks. Your residency is in surgery. Your aspirations are to work in transplant. Why you would be moved to peds?
Everything in the room around you pretty much makes zero sense.
You try to calm yourself down, and the longer you sit, the more your blood runs hot. You're ready for confrontation. You have no issues with stomping up to your chief resident and killing the nearest bitch that slows you along the way. You're actually about two-seconds from acting on said fantasies when Dr. Kellman enters your vision.
"Dr. Lopez, just who I was looking for," he smiles slyly, stopping in front of you like some sort of awkward conversation is in order.
You squint and return an even more awkward fake smile, your mood foul and your mind entirely disconcerted.
"I just wanted to make sure you saw the new rotation. Your chief resident came by yesterday and talked to the attending staff. Some of us think you would benefit from working in specialized, non-surgical areas, maybe sharpen your skills. Since we're short-handed on pediatrics, Sue recommended placing you there for a while. Personally, I think this is a great opportunity for you."
You bite back a scoff, and ignore how the edge of your eyes sting. Somewhere in your stomach, a ship sinks, and you feel a pounding, deep pang of hurt. You didn't realize something could be so surprising yet so impossibly predictable at the same time.
You knew he would play this push and pull game with you. You just fucking knew it.
Kellman waits on you, but the overwhelming stench of bullshit seems to have disrupted your ability to speak.
You gulp, and with considerable effort, manage to ask, "Define a while."
"However long your chief resident wants you to be there."
You want to ask how Dr. Yuik feels about this, if he knows that this barrage of ridiculousness is taking place. Then you want to dig the sharp edge of a high heel into Dr. Kellman's throat, just to see how much he can bleed. It probably still wouldn't make it go away—this sense of embarrassment that's both overwhelming and underwhelming, or the heavy weight of disappointment that keeps you feeling small; but it'll still give you a brief moment of reprieve.
Technically you're not being demoted, but it's a blow to you regardless. Your skills are beyond this. You're beyond this.
He knows how little control you have over the situation, though; it's not like you get a choice in the matter.
"Well, I guess that's that," you state through gritted teeth, lacking emotion, lacking anything. You don't know how to not take this personal when every part of you is so insulted.
"Don't look so sad, Lopez. It's not like anyone's calling for your head. In the long run, it's going to make you better."
You don't say anything. You just watch, carefully, feeling the bitterness on the tip of your tongue; words like, I'm sure this has nothing to do with my intelligence intimidating you, or I'm so sorry for your unfortunately-sized dick situation, but your insecurities aren't my problem.
Yet you don't. You bite your lip until it's red and raw, and challenge his eyes until they can no longer stay with you.
"Good luck, Lopez. Say hi to the kiddies for me."
In the past, distancing yourself has never been difficult; you've never been amid circumstance where personal expectations have been established. But now you have a relentless Kurt breathing down your neck, a buzzing Blackberry, and a conscious dominated by two very different blondes who have very different calculations of you.
You just want space that equates with time.
Minutes of peaceful silence to yourself. Moments that lack embarrassment.
You don't want to talk about it. You don't feel like analyzing statements and pinpointing the obvious. You're well aware of just how fallacious the situation is, and with the wounds still new, the last thing you need is trying justification and attempted ego boosting from those partial to you.
And you don't need distractions, especially those that only enhance confusion.
So much confusion.
So you keep yourself beyond busy. You lose yourself in the mundane of work, and you take on tasks that aren't yours to take. It's easy.
You find emptiness from nothing.
The first day, you spend your late night lunch strolling through the hospital, hating yourself for ignoring texts from Brittany that ask, Where are you? You fight down that sinking gut feeling, at first roaming aimlessly throughout the hospital with no real destination in mind, but then allowing your feet to lead you up several flights of stairs. It's a path that seemingly paints you promises of a quiet mind, and not long into your journey you find yourself standing in front of a familiar place, reveling in a quiet chaos.
Steady heart monitors beep all through the ICU, and when you get to his door, you notice how the glow from the television dims the room in hues of blue and grey. Among the cast of light you see the contours of his jaw, his drooped eyelids, his sunken cheeks. Tired eyes look over at you with a wary expression, the shadows beneath them a show of concern. He looks over, surprised, and his voice shakes, "Dr. Lopez?"
"Hey, Blaine," you smile tiredly.
He sits up straight and narrow. "Is everything okay?"
You sigh. "Yeah, everything's normal. Sorry, I thought you'd be asleep. I was on my lunch and just wanted to check on you."
"Little late for lunch, isn't it?"
You smirk. "Some of us don't keep normal hours."
"I see that."
You laugh. "Humor and cognizance. Both good signs. Glad to see you're doing well."
"Eh," he shrugs. "I'm not horrible."
"Well, that sounds encouraging." Sarcasm has always been your forte. He chuckles.
"I just wish I could sleep."
You take a seat in the chair beside his bed and cross your legs comfortably. "What's keeping you up?"
"Pain."
"Have you talked to Dr. Schuester about it?"
You wait through a short pause, and when he finally speaks, he doesn't say anything other than she knows before his stare stays on the flickering television.
"Stomach pains?"
He shrugs. "Something like that."
You can't make him talk about anything he doesn't want to, so you leave it be. You lean back in your seat and smile when you notice he's watching old reruns of The Golden Girls.
"Are you really watching this right now?" you ask amusedly.
He glares at you. "Don't judge me."
It would probably be bad to judge when you're laughing with equal enthusiasm.
The next day, your phone doesn't stop.
Brittany's texts begin with simple heys and are we having lunch today? Then they become more desperate.
I miss you.
Is everything okay? Should I be worried?
Your fingers lay listless over the keys, and your heart breaks in at least three different ways.
But you can't do it. You can't. Not right now.
Instead, you concentrate on other things, responsible distractions that can take you away from your phone.
You work endlessly. You go in hours before your shift, babysitting Karofsky and ordering lab tests and ultrasounds before your rounds. The second half of your day is spent looking at the results until your vision clouds and your heels rage with blisters.
At midnight you meander. You walk the same route as the night before, and Blaine's insomnia proves to still be prevalent. The television screen lights the darkness, and you find the same seat you did the night before, settling in comfortably. He doesn't say anything. You don't either. The two of you sit and watch four crazy old women dirty dancing in some bad competition, grinding on old ass men in a room with too much wood paneling. You both silently sing along to the Thank You for Being a Friend jingle, but never acknowledge it. Several times Blaine's face turns red with amusement, and your stomach tenses with pain from laughing so much. It's strangely... easy.
It's thirty minutes away from the world.
You keep a close eye on your watch, and when it's time to rise from your seat, ready to head back down to your floor, he says, "I swear, if I was a Golden Girl, I'd be Rose, and you'd be Dorothy."
"I resent that," you answer jokingly, adjusting the drawstring on your scrubs.
"Kurt can be Blanche."
"That bitch would be," you grin.
"But he has good hair."
"Please never tell him that." You offer a wide smile before heading over to the door, and then you pause, waiting.
"Thanks..." It finally comes out. You don't know why you say it, or where it comes from, but it feels right.
"Anytime," he shrugs.
The welcome distraction leaves the minute you do, and immediately, the ache grips tight. As you head back down to transplant, and all you can think about is how much you miss her, how you haven't had the privilege of hearing her voice or catching a glimpse of her eyes in over two days, and...
It's such an endless heavy.
The next day, you don't hear from her at all.
You can't decide if it makes you feel better or worse.
You hate the urge you have to pull out your phone—the constant checking, the way your Blackberry literally burns beneath your fingertips.
And by the time you get to his room at midnight, he's expecting you.
"So, is this your thing now? You're going to keep stalking me in the middle of the night?"
You throw a look in his direction that says I'm not amused, and carry on with your smile.
"Why, you got a better offer?"
He rolls his eyes. "Not that I mind the company, I just figured you'd have better things to do with your life."
You shrug. "Eh. Same could be said for your wardrobe."
"Bitch," he mumbles with a smile.
"Nerd."
Not that you expect grand fanfare and trumpets blowing when you walk into your last day on transplant, but Kurt's brows twisting into one of the nastiest manners you've ever seen is just uncalled for. You almost want to tell him he's too pretty for such ugliness, but he'd just take it as a compliment.
Instead of acknowledging the gesture, you ignore him; but when his gaze quite obviously flits to the high mounted wall clock, then you, then back to the clock. It's an unspoken game you catch on to quickly. And so you stand there with blatant impatience, waiting for his mouth to open, already bored of the tired conversation that's inevitably coming.
Finally, he asks, "Why aren't you still at home, Lopez?" It's more of a jab than anything else, one that's likely meant to criticize you. But your mind is too exhausted to play into it, and you don't need to justify your reasons.
"Well hello to you too, Lady Hummel."
"I know being prompt and all is important to you, but some of us have lives, and I don't know, enough good sense to not come in four hours early every day."
"Shut it. I'm not in the mood."
With a voice treading the line of mockery, "Uh huh..."
"Hummel..." It's a strangely pathetic plea coming from you, and it makes you feel soft. You just need him to back off right now.
"You need a hobby."
"And you need to pass meds."
"I'm sure Bri—"
You stop him right there. "And you need to stay the fuck out of my business."
"Whatever. I'll stay out of your business when you learn how to handle your business." The comment snaps your eyes up to meet his. It was curt and quick and...surprising. You're actually not sure who's more baffled by it—you or him.
You lift your brow and let your voice tilt towards fierce, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
He shakes his head. "You don't get it, Santana."
"Well, by all means, feel free to explain."
"Just forget it." His gaze downturns and his eyes avert your own. The strides he takes in order to step away from you burn a fire in the pit of your stomach, and immediately, you call out.
"No no, you don't get to do that." Your breath almost hitches you're so enraged. "Don't you dare walk away from me. Say what you gotta say." Kurt finally swivels back around and eyes you carefully, still not saying anything.
"Out with it," you order. He bites his lip like he's biding his time, trying to figure out exactly how to phrase his next words.
"Santana, you just... you gotta stop caring so much about things that don't care about you."
You look at him, deadpanned yet unsure. "I have no idea what the hell that even means."
"You know exactly what it means," he argues.
"No, clearly I missed the memo."
"Look. I know you have this whole wounded and unattached thing going on or whatever, and you think no one cares about you. But take a look around, Santana. People stop caring because you won't let them. Every single time someone tries to tell you or show you that they give a shit, you push them away."
And you immediately know he's talking about Brittany.
"I'm so tired of watching you sabotage yourself. Who are you coming in early and staying late for, Santana? Huh? For you? Because the last time I checked, you seemed pretty good at your job. Good enough to not be coming in on your one day off a week." He licks his lips quickly before starting back up again. "If you think that Dr. Kellman really gives a shit that you're slowly killing yourself, then you're wrong."
And that hits you. It hits you hard. The anger bubbles, heat pushes to the surface as blood rushes to your neck.
Now you're listening.
"Is that what you think this is about?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, you're wrong."
"I don't believe you."
Your anger is traveling in ways you didn't know it could go, and your tongue urges for sharpness. "Well, I don't really give a fuck what you think. You're just some gay-ass nurse with a twisted case of hero worship."
His gaze never wavers as he stares at you intently. "A gay-ass nurse who gives a shit about you, and is tired of watching you give up everything that matters just to prove a point."
His face is so stoic and his eyes are so sincere that you really let it register. You feel it far down enough to admit that he might be right. Yet, you're too proud to vocalize it, so you feign illegitimacy. "You don't even know what—"
"I know enough," he interrupts, like he knew what you were going to say before you even did. "I know that you're exhausted. I know you'll work yourself until your arms fucking fall off if they'd ask you. I know you lash out when you feel threatened, and you avoid people when you feel affection."
He bites his lip and laughs a little bit. "And I know that you're really, really gay. And as much as you don't want to admit it, you really, really like Brittany."
You stare down at the floor, admiring the beige swirls that run through white tiles. The welcome distraction buys you valuable seconds, enough that allows you the ability not to deny the accusation.
But why should you? There's nothing wrong with liking someone.
"Of course I like Brittany. She's like, the nicest person I've ever met."
Kurt shakes his head. "No, Santana. You like Brittany."
Your throat tightens, your palms grow sticky. The skin on your cheeks burn.
"You're wrong."
"No, I'm not."
"I already told you once to stay out of my business. I'm not going to tell you again."
He takes a step into you. "Or what? You insult me? Stop talking to me? News flash, Lopez—been there, done that. This isn't our first rodeo."
You don't step back, but you do swallow thick. You avoid the intensity of his eyes and the weight of his revelation, and you struggle for words.
"Then give it up."
He sighs. "Aren't you tired of making people give up on you?"
"I can't make anyone do anything." It's so smooth you almost believe it yourself.
"Santana, I really wish you would learn how to like yourself a little bit more."
You roll your eyes. "What kind of Oprah shit are you on, Hummel?"
He chuckles softly. "None. Look, I don't want to fight with you, and I'm not going to. This is obviously getting us nowhere. Just... try to do it, okay? I'm only saying this stuff because I care. Just start paying attention more. Look for things. Sometimes you're so damn clueless."
"Whatever." You throw around words like they don't matter. Your stomach hurts from the nervous fluttering, and your forehead persistently pounds. You need quiet, and you definitely need some damn coffee.
"I need to get the fuck out of here."
You hate being wrong.
Even more so, you hate Kurt Fucking Hummel for being right.
Because had you been paying attention, you would've noticed yesterday that your lab coat pockets were devoid of their normal stash of Snickers bars.
You don't see her for the rest of the evening, or the next. The slow passing time seems so unimpressively dull that you can barely stand it, but you need to prove it to yourself. Your existence depends on you looking past the pain. You need to know that you'll be fine with or without her, no matter how much it aches.
Her text message on Friday proves to be difficult, however.
Are you gonna be able to make it tonight?
You know how important this is to her, how much she wants you to be a part of the things that matter. Her sister matters the most.
And yet it's this very idea that scares you beyond measure. When did you reach this point? Couples meet family members. Couples build expectations around one another. And as much as you want to give her everything she wants—no, deserves—you're not in a place that allows acquiescence. The responsibility is too vast. The intimacy is too sincere. You have a self-destructive history of letting people down, and you're well aware it will only carry on as a common theme. The implications of today will only frame the failure of tomorrow, and you don't want that for her. Not when she deserves so much more.
You can't help but think how much easier this would be if you could've kept yourself under control. Your lack of discipline is slowly leading towards your demise.
And that's the logic you use when you leave the reply line blank and slip your phone gracefully back into your pocket.
Thirty seconds on pediatrics, and already, you want to start throwing shit. Legitimate temper tantrum and all, because pparently the schedule over here is a special kind of fucked up; not only do they plan on making you work from six in the morning to six at night, they expect you to work from 6 at night until six in the morning. And back, then forth. It's like a seesaw from hell.
Basically, they want to make sure you never fucking sleep.
You're preemptively mourning over future deprivation when someone comes traipsing through the employee lounge door, immediately heading for the fridge. His hair is atrocious, shaved at the sides and thick in the middle. His white scrubs are overtly stained and wrinkled, his shoes without laces and loose around the edges. In a way, he kinda reminds you of teenage roadkill.
Yet he's got that overconfident look about him, and somehow, it appears to be aimed at you.
Please god, no.
With his whole head stuck in the fridge, "Damn. Someone stole my yogurt."
You don't say anything, even when his eyes turn to you. "Did you take my yogurt?"
Your eyes go wide, and with you laugh thick and scoff simultaneously. "Um, no, I sure didn't."
"Well, hell. Now what am I supposed to do?"
"I'm sure you'll still make it," you reassure him.
"How do you know? That was my breakfast. Ma packs me a yogurt every day."
You snort.
"Well, I'll tell you what—" you look at his name badge and then back up to his face, "Noah. Maybe if you call your mom, she'll be a doll and bring you another one."
"You can call me Puck," he smiles, ignoring your insult, and stretches his hand out before you.
Touching any part of him seems like a bad idea. You refrain from doing so, nodding your head instead. "I'll stick with Noah."
"For now. Eventually everyone calls me Puck."
"Everyone but me," you quirk.
He groans. "Are you always going to be this difficult?"
"Are you always going to be this aggressively flirtatious?"
His baffled expression lights up your smile. You feel powerful, evil and poised, all at the same time.
You throw your stethoscope around the back of your neck and begin making your way to the door. "Have fun transporting, Noah."
Just as the door goes to close behind you, you hear, "Puck!"
You hate babies. You hate kids.
You hate the excessively concerned, high maintenance parents of babies and kids.
You hate feeling things.
Fin.
She won't talk to you.
Well, that's not entirely true. She was on your floor early this morning, passing out juices to kids, obviously surprised by your new change of scenery. You offered a wide smile and threw a good morning her way, knowing she's far too polite not to reciprocate, but the returned sentiment was clearly missing that normal gusto; it's distant. She won't keep your gaze. She won't acknowledge your remorse, your pleading eyes, your will to regress.
When you took a step back, it was meant to be a step. It wasn't meant to be the galaxy.
You just wanted boundaries. You wanted to keep her in a safe place where she couldn't be affected by your actions.
And now, you can't even get eye contact.
The week of Thanksgiving, she dresses up like a turkey, with brown feathers stuck to her everywhere and a giant beak hanging off her face. The kids love it, and you admit it's kind of adorable too, even if you only secretly approve of the outfit because it's not covering her eyes...
Eyes you wish would find yours again.
It hurts. It's destroying you. You feel like you're only existing in fragments, a mere sum of all the parts you should be.
You miss her.
Acclimation changes you, and in this instance, it's made you selfish. You know what it's like to have her undivided attention. You're too privy to all of her habits, her priorities, her understandings. You've grown comfortable with the way she looks at you, like you're worth being looked at; like there's a dreamt and undreamt reality of you that she willingly accepts, that would never consider changing your flawed design. And her gaze—it gives the genuine impression that she innately comprehends your life's ambitions and respects your dreams like they're her own.
You can't want anything less.
Your body pines, it bleeds for her to want to feel you again.
Because all you feel is her.
You've never been to her office, but it's not difficult to find. As you make your way down the long hallway, you're lucky enough to find her throwing a bag over her shoulder and locking her office door from the outside, clearly leaving for the day. You lengthen your strides, wanting to grab her attention, if only to catch the quickest of smiles, and...
You reach out. "Brittany, wait." Her body tenses when your hand briefly touches her shoulder, which is odd, because you think she saw you before you even said anything.
You steadily watch as she does a slow pivot, gracefully bringing herself to face your direction. Her back leans up against the door, as far from you as possible, her gaze following the footsteps echoing from down the hall. And there's something alarming about her eyes—the way she's unnaturally staring too hard and gazing too forward. It's almost like she doesn't want to acknowledge any more or any less of you than she has to.
"Brittany, I..." Two people walk between the two of you, and your throat feels tight. It makes it difficult to have meaningful conversation when her eyes to keep shifting from you to everywhere else.
"Can we...?" You point at the door to her office.
A pause occurs, and you wait, watching her bite her lip in contemplation. Finally she shifts, and her keys jingle. You barely register the door swinging open, awaiting your quiet walk through the office threshold. It takes a moment, but your mind catches up to everything else. Your feet finally move, and your stomach becomes a pit for nervous butterflies with heavy wings.
It's dark, windowless and small, and if you were to sit down, the desk would ruin the feeling of intimacy, so you remain standing. She watches you subtly from three steps away, noticing your hands which are evidently clammy, your jaw uncharacteristically still. Nothing moves but the acceleration in your heart. A heavy beat drums in your ears. The pendulum that pushes and pulls between the two of you oscillates, keeping time, banging against your ribcage.
Her silence haunts you.
Your voice nearly cracks. "How have you been?"
"Okay, I guess. How have you been?"
The disappointment is evident, and you despise yourself for it. You can only watch her shoulders slump and heavy sigh heave from her upper body. When she looks away from you, you know it's an avid attempt to hide the glistening tears that well in her eyes.
It cuts through you like something hopeless, and the remnants make everything you've ever liked about yourself cease to exist.
"I've missed you. A lot, actually..."
She doesn't seem surprised by your admission. Her eyes do flit up quickly and catch yours, but only immediately fall away again. Your stomach feels uneasy from the added weight of unresponsiveness. You hate this sickly sinking sensation.
"It's really not fair for you to say that, San," she admits in a stern voice, yet with a soft face, her eyes full of honesty. You don't think she knows any other way.
"Probably not." You bite your lip and hold your breath as she crosses her arms protectively across her chest.
Even if she won't keep your focus, you're determined to remain attentive. You may not know how to deal with this part of her just yet, but eventually, you can. You see this moment as an educational opportunity—a crash course on anything Brittany—and if you plan to one day exceed all of her expectations by knowing her better than she knows herself, you have to at least try.
"I just don't understand you. If you miss me so much, then why? Why would you do that?"
Because I'm scared.
Because you matter too much.
Because...
Her questions almost always dig straight into the grey matter.
"I—it just...it seemed like the right thing to do."
She bites her lip. "How was that the right thing to do?"
"I don't know. I can't explain it. I'm sorry, Britt."
While she doesn't disregard your apology, she's not impressed with it, either. "I need more than sorry. I need you to try."
"I do try," your lips whisper.
"You say that, but I would never, ever be mad at you for trying."
You nod and confirm, "Well, you're definitely mad."
"I have every right to be," her eyes are steely, controlled. At least she's looking at you. This you can deal with.
"I know you do. Just...please try to understand. I'm doing the best I can."
She shakes her head in frustration. "Well, if ignoring me for three days and blowing me off is the best you can do, I think you're gonna miss me a lot."
"I...I'll figure it out," you promise, your voice shaky. "Just don't..."
"Don't what?" She asks.
Your throat lodges. Nothing comes out.
She waits, and you know you need to do something. Rather than just stand there, you move boldly, stepping forward, closing gaps, courageously reaching to link your pinky with hers. Your other arm wraps around her waist, and just like that, your actions emerge as the loudest verb in the room.
Don't stop looking at me.
Don't give up on me
She lets the touch linger, but her grip isn't strong in the way it would normally be. Her chest is just merely resting against yours, without pull.
You feel her breath against your skin. "Is this going happen again?"
You lick your lips nervously, your hand on her waist a bit shaky. "I want to say it won't, but I don't want to lie to you, either; 'cause it could happen again. I mean, sometimes, I just..." you stop yourself.
"Sometimes you what?"
You can't answer, so you shrug nonchalantly.
As though its purpose is to further destroy you, you perceive her next actions through the realm of sensory reception: visualization by the slightest downturn of lips; a loss of touch from a pinky leaving yours; the audio of a breath letting out the shakiest of sighs.
You measure the frustrated steps. You approximate how far she just moved away from you, and you feel the devoid hollowness in your stomach as she has a hard time maintaining your gaze.
"You can't just shrug things off and shut people out. That's not the way this works. The things you do matter, Santana. When you ignore people, it hurts."
And her pain becomes your pain. This is why you hate feeling, this uncontrolled slow spin of emotion you're ensconced in. Your unspoken words lead to her look of loss, and it makes you ache.
"I know. And I'm so sorry," you offer. "I care about you, and that doesn't happen. Like ever. The last thing I want to do is hurt you."
Maybe the sincerity in your voice changes her, but it's then that her eyes soften, and she moves forward, slowly. Chuck Taylors line up against your white tennis shoes, and she brings her hand over to yours, letting your fingers tangle. You exhale at the touch.
"Then don't."
You sigh. "I probably will, though."
Her body presses closer. "Not necessarily. I know you think people are scary," she whispers against your cheek. "But they don't have to be. When you trust someone, you let them be there for you, and you make the world less scary together. Nobody has to get hurt."
Your knees feel weak.
"I trust you. I believe in you, Santana. Do you trust me?"
You don't even have to contemplate your response. "Of course."
"Well then, anything is possible."
Like God's recording, perfect words play repeatedly in your mind.
I trust you.
I believe in you.
Anything is possible.
She's telling you she wants to give you a future of possibilities.
And you see it. Behind your eyes flashes a lifetime of what she could give you. Images are provided by your memories deepest desires—a paint chipped wooden swing; your head in her lap; her fingers threading through your hair; the faint smell of floral shaving cream emanating from long, silky legs.
Aimless snow fights.
Fuzzy slippers.
A perfect little forever of lazy Sundays.
And just...
An internal pull grips your chest tightly. Your arms maneuver around her waist, pulling her in closer to you, hugging your fronts together. You bury your face in her neck, inhaling, holding on with entitled desperation.
And when she pulls back and touches your face, you stand there, merely watching her exist, because there is an innate part of you that can't do anything but. You understand how the world works—that we only have a finite set of moments where we get to witness perfection, and in this moment, it's presented itself in the most kind, fragile way possible. Without the need to rush, you let your mind settle. You lose yourself in her existence, acutely aware of just how precious this current state is.
Of just how perfect she is.
Or how you want to stay in moments of her, forever.