You know when you feel so lonely that all you can do is curl up and cry?

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been

Lives in a dream

And you tell yourself, "It'll get better with time," but you know that's a cruel deception.

Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in the jar by the door

Who is it for?

And you have friends, but even they begin to treat you apprehensively.

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from?

As if you were the carrier of some horribly contagious disease.

All the lonely people

Where do they all belong?

As if you were the bringer of death. The very Grim Reaper, his majesty.

Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name

Nobody came

That's how I felt. I felt like I was in this bubble. And I push and push my nails against it, begging it to pop, to let me out, to let me go back to my miserable life. A miserable but familiar life. One that I knew. One that gave me some sort of comfort. But there was this unyielding bubble in the way that prevented me from escaping this new and horrendous reality. That prevented me from communicating with outsiders. That prevented these same outsiders from reaching out to me, from assuaging my guilt. This obstinate bubble served as my prison, trapping me and my feelings altogether. My feelings, the disorientation, the anxiety, the panic, that wanted so desperately to have their liberty, were forced to linger in me, to drive me off the edge. And no matter how long you turn your damaged back to them, you know that, sooner or later, you will have to hold your head high, take in a deep breath, and face them. A task that seems so acutely impossible in this egomaniacal bubble.

Ah, look at all the lonely people…

These were my dreadful thoughts as I walked through McKinley High's hallway. Terrified glances were sent at me from all directions. Students purposely hurried away from me to avoid being in my vicinity. And who could blame them? There was a killer walking through their hall.

Every blameful glimpse was like a sharp knife in my abdomen. Every reproachful look, like that same knife twisted further into me. I felt impure, contaminated, infected.

I held my head down and walked straight into my AP Calc class. The moment that I entered, Mrs. Burmingham stood alarmingly on her feet. She stared at me, wide-eyed, unblinking, accusing.

I felt myself double over from the horrible sickness that I felt. Even Mrs. Burmingham, the one who was always on my side, the one who understood me, the one who called me a genius, was now tremendously frightened to be in my presence. I turned on my heels and ran to the bathroom, tears freely flowing down my face.

There were three Cheerios in the bathroom. One of them screamed as I burst through the door. My eyes met the coal-black ones of the Cheerio who bullied me, and I saw an incredible look of desperation, of pleading, in her eyes. As if she was saying, "Please. Please don't kill me."

I let out a despaired wail and dashed out through the door. I ran around the corner until I reached the end of the hallway. I placed myself in one of the corners, curled up in a ball, and wept my heart out.

A caring arm situated itself around me, swallowing me into the chest of my one, sole, true love. Brittany kissed my hair and rocked me back and forth, like a mother would her newborn baby.

"Hush, little baby, don't say a word

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird…"

I looked up at her. How did she know that lullabies pacify me?

Her blue eyes shone with adoration. She leaned in and gently kissed me on the lips. I grabbed onto her face, desperate for any form of love. I needed to feel like I was normal. Like I was sane.

She withdrew from the kiss and trailed her tongue across my jaw line, down my neck. I shuddered as her lips made a popping noise on my skin. This wasn't the time, or the place, but my mouth could not form coherent words to tell her to stop.

She sneaked a teasing hand under my shirt, forcing me to lean back on the wall. All of my efforts were put into holding back that one disobedient moan. Her mouth was getting lower now, and she used her right hand to lower my shirt from the top as she continued to trail kisses, getting dangerously close to my breast. Her left hand, meanwhile, had retreated from under my shirt and was making its way towards the button of my jeans.

Someone made an uncomfortable coughing sound a few feet away from us. I jolted upright and stared, wide-eyed, at an embarrassed-looking Sam.

"Hey…" He shifted his weight between his feet. "I just wanted to let you and Brittany know that rehearsal's started."

I nodded at him rigidly. He smiled briefly and walked around the corner.

I looked at Brittany and flushed deeply. She gave me one last encouraging kiss and pulled me up to my feet.

Brittany took my hand and led the quite-still-flustered me to the choir room. The Glee Club immediately hushed as we entered the room.

They each radiated different feelings. Rachel, who was so frequently perceived as completely and utterly self-centered, smiled at me in a loving, motherly way. Sam still had that awkward expression on his face, but an accepting one nonetheless. Quinn gazed at me as if I were the most fascinating creature that she had ever laid her eyes on. Finn stared at me in horrified bewilderment.

"Santana, Brittany, why don't you guys sit down?" Mr. Schue offered kindly.

Brittany led me to one of the chairs. She pulled her chair up really close to mine and put her arm around me, forcing me to lean my head on her shoulder. It was so relieving and comforting to know that someone was on my side.

"Alright…" Mr. Schue looked at us. "Santana, do you still want to be in the play?"

I lifted my head from Brittany's shoulder. Did I still want to be in the play? Did I even still want to be in Glee Club?

I immediately knew the answer to that. Glee Club gave me sanity. I was born to perform and I needed to somehow express it. And anyhow, it would take my mind off of this guilt that was flowing through my veins, boiling up inside me.

I nodded. "Okay," Mr. Schue looked at me reassuringly. "Everyone get out your scripts, we'll be starting from the top…"

I had some difficulty singing "A Boy Like That." It was a song about murder and love, and my fragile feelings couldn't handle it. Stephen Sondheim's lyrics tend to do that to a person.

All in all, rehearsal went well. The Glee students praised my voice. I don't think it was so much my talent as the fact that they wanted to let me know that they still accepted me, terrifying sin or no.

After school, Brittany and I parted ways with a tongue-full kiss. Red-mouthed, I joined Rachel, who was waiting for me on the corner of the sidewalk.

"Hey," she smiled gently. "You ready?"

I nodded, managing a little smirk. I looked sideways at her. "I never got to thank you and your dads for taking me in."

Rachel beamed at me. "Don't worry about it. We're happy to help."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

Her home was a two-story, beige house with a navy blue front door. She unlocked the door and we entered a solidly white living room.

"Dads, we're home!" she called out.

"Alright, honey," one of them replied from the kitchen.

We walked upstairs to her room to put our things down. We had moved most of my belongings in the day before, and the room was incredibly chaotic.

"Come on," Rachel held my hand. "Let's go eat lunch."

We rushed downstairs and burst into the kitchen. Rachel's dads were engrossed in their cooking.

They looked up at me and grinned. The one on the left, who was cutting vegetables for a salad, was a balding man with black-rimmed glasses. The one on the right, busy adding spices to the appetizingly delicious-smelling soup, was African American and had a pleasant smile.

"Right on time," the soup-churning father said. He asked us to sit down at the table and served us each a steaming bowl of comforting vegetable soup.

I brought the spoon to my lips and tasted the broth. It was scrumptious beyond belief. I couldn't remember the last time that I had homemade food.

Rachel's dads served us a challa (possibly the best-tasting bread that had ever come in contact with my tongue) with our soup, and we all slurped happily.

Rachel told her fathers about school and the play, in which she was cast as the lead. They were so loving, so adoring. Nothing like what my father had been.

Once we were done, Rachel's dads removed the plates from the table and disappeared through the kitchen door. Rachel glanced at me, smiled, and said, "I have to go to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

She exited the dining room, leaving me all alone. I glanced around helplessly as the overwhelming feeling of loneliness engulfed me once again.

I picked up my knife and poked at the bubble.

"Nice try," it cackled heartlessly.