Since apparently some of you didn't read my A/N last time... PEOPLE, LISTEN. Read this a) beside A LOT OF TISSUES at the ready, and b) IN PRIVATE! This chapter is... pretty bad. For those of you who asked and were confused, yes! This is a St. Berry story. The story is about Rachel dealing with Jesse's death. No other ships/storylines play into this! Thank you all for sticking with me - I know how painful this story can be, seeing as I wrote it and cried my way throughout writing most of it.

The funeral is that Sunday, and Rachel has half the mind not to even show her face, deliberately taking too long to pick out an appropriate black dress of hers that she's always known Jesse loved and Finn hated.

But she makes it.

In the sea of cars in the parking lot at the funeral home, it's too easy to feel lost, alone, hopeless. Her first and only funeral had her dads guiding her, holding her hand and showing the way of what she's supposed to do, what's proper and honorable for the deceased.

But this feels different. Less like custom and more like she's tearing at her heartstrings to even try and fit her grief into this box of a funeral home that it's meant for, as though her heartache is strong enough to flood the whole place and drive everyone else out, leaving only her, broken and alone, with not even the comfort of a routine that begs her doing what's expected of her.

Jesse is so much more than these people, their stupid memories, and a casket. He's so much more, pictures littered all over her bedroom floor, each one making her cry harder than the next.

A slow exhale marks her entrance, and she feels as awkward as ever as she moves to find a seat in the back row, the minister having already begun his speech.

It doesn't feel real, and the realization hits her with a vengeance as she listens to the minister drone on about death and loved ones. It's not genuine, not about Jesse, not really. The people around her that are crying for him didn't know him, not the way that she knew him, a surge of jealousy flooding her chest.

It's not fair.

But even as she thinks it, Rachel knows she has no right to complain. She was the one who pushed him away when she was the only person he'd ever really opened up to. The one who'd turned him down and chosen Finn over him after he'd kissed her, respected her decision not to be distracted during Nationals, and shown up to watch her perform anyway.

Only to have his heart crushed when Finn kissed her on that damn stage.

In the end, she's just another one of the people who let him down. Disappointed him. Made him regret ever opening up to her, falling in love with her.

There are so many should haves floating through her mind as she stares down into her lap, hands clasped in supposed prayer for Jesse despite the fact that he was as devout an atheist as she can remember.

Of course our children would be raised in the Jewish faith, he'd laughed. It's not like I care. But you do. And that's what matters.

The fact that she's tearing up at her own memories more than the words of the minister is too telling, and she wipes at her eyes with the back of her wrist, grateful that she'd decided to forego any makeup today, knowing that she'd be crying either way.

It feels a little bit like it's all she's been doing lately.

Her phone buzzes in her purse, and she flinches, knowing already that it must be her reminder that Finn's finally up now that it's noon.

Andrea Cohen is sitting in the front row, her head bowed, but not crying. Jesse would have never cried at a funeral, always so damn controlled and held back. Had he and Andrea been friends? Had Jesse even had friends at all?

It occurs to her how selfish she's been this whole time, thinking she was the only person that mattered to Jesse, who had made a real impact on his life. A lesson in modesty, apparently, learning how to be more humble and less assuming, presumptuous of her own place.

Everyone rises, Rachel staggering to her feet as she holds her breath, watching them get in line to say a last farewell to Jesse before heading back to the reception at his parents' house.

Her placement at the end of the line is deliberate, waiting patiently as the others pass by his coffin. She couldn't see him from the back, could only see the beautiful chestnut grain of the side of it, the lavish satin lining, everything Jesse grew up with and hated.

She wants to be the last one to say goodbye, a part of her knowing that she could never fit her words to him into the couple of seconds everyone else is offering, and she patiently waits her turn just to have enough time with him before she has to say goodbye.

A part of her knows that it's not the end, not really— there's still the reception, and the three hour drive back home from Akron, but actually getting to see him again...

Her nerves flutter anxiously in her stomach as her turn approaches, Rachel keeping her head bowed until the last second, not wanting to see him too soon, not wanting to burst into tears in the middle of the line.

And she was right. Seeing Jesse makes her lose it completely, a choked sob leading the way as the words spill out nigh incoherently for him.

"I-I never thought it was real. I think a part of me still didn't even wh-while I was sitting there and the coffin was right there in front of me. I saw just... a glimpse of you coming in, but—" Rachel sucks in a sharp breath as she holds her hand in front of her mouth, trying hard not to sob, her left hand starting to hurt from the strain of clutching onto the side of the coffin, letting the edge dig into her fingers as she fights to hold back tears and fails.

"You're— oh god, Jesse, I don't know what to say. I-I— I don't know. I know I always pretended to have all the answers, but I don't. Not— not really. You were always there to... help me, and support me, and now you're gone, and it feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me. I can't— I can't believe that you're really... gone." The word alone makes fresh tears bubble forth from her, and she shakes her head, tempted to blink, to look anywhere else, but terrified that he might just disappear the next second if she isn't fast enough.

"It looks j-just like you're sleeping. Peaceful. Like that time when you promised me we'd practice our duet for glee, but then you were so tired that you fell asleep in my bed instead. I was only gone for five minutes, but..." She can't do this. It's too much, and she wonders, briefly, if it's possible to die of heartbreak. "I didn't... have the heart to wake you up. So I... climbed in on the other side and pulled my arms around you. You were always the big spoon, but that one time it was me. You looked so... innocent, and vulnerable, and I just wanted to protect you. A-and now look what happened. I... I failed. I let you down, Jesse, and I'm— I'm so sorry, it— it should have been you. I should have run out of that stupid auditorium and told you that that stupid kiss was Finn's fault, and that it had always been you, that I couldn't... even think about choosing anyone else, not after everything you'd done for me."

She misses the entrance of the minister, crying too hard, only wrenched out of her grief by his hand on her shoulder as he looks at her. "... everyone else is ready."

Rachel nods numbly, knuckles gripping onto the edge of the coffin ashen by now. "Just— f-five more minutes, Father. P-please."

She can't believe she's lucky enough to have them granted to her, looking at Jesse as she shakes her head. "I never deserved the time I had with you. I don't know why I'd suddenly deserve five more minutes. Jesse, I— I'm so sorry."

She almost can't stop herself as she leans down to rest her forehead against the edge, crying hard enough to lose herself as her hand reaches out to grasp his. She's not supposed to touch, but she doesn't care, interlacing their fingers as she grips onto him, wishing he could just squeeze back.

"I never deserved you at all, you know. And... now I know that. You... you were perfect, Jesse, and I... I was so blind. I can't believe I let you get away. I can't believe I let this happen."

Swallowing down a hiccup, she stares down at their entwined hands for just a moment before slowly leaning down, not even thinking twice before letting her lips softly touch on his, kissing him.

By the time she pulls away, she's only crying harder. "I'd... do anything just for the chance to kiss you goodbye, Jesse. B-but I'm... I'm afraid this is the best I can do. I'm so... so sorry. I love you so much, a-and—" Her tears are spilling onto her chest and running down her front as she squeezes her eyes shut, desperately shaking her head. "And I fucked it up. I loved you more than anything... I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out, but you deserved so much better than me. But... but we'll be together again. Someday. I promise. I'll make you so proud, Jesse, you have my word."

Finally pulling back, Rachel lets go of Jesse's hand, already missing him, his touch, the feel of her hand in his, knowing that this is the last time she will ever see him again.

If the minister hadn't come in to remind her of the time, she wouldn't have been able to pull away, stuck by his side forever, not ready yet to let him go.

The St. James home feels as oppressive as Jesse had always described it, Rachel tugging nervously at the hem of her dress to even out any folds as she looks around. It's like a museum; cold, uninviting, seemingly uninhabited. The thought of children living here is unbelievable, and she swallows hard as she remembers that Jesse didn't have a childhood, not really, just growing up with performance at the tip of his tongue and a desperate urge to be noticed, wanted, loved.

The pictures lining the walls are the only real indication that people actually live here, guests slowly milling about the house as they sample the catered hors d'oeuvres and pretend to care about the boy showcased on the display table in the living room.

It's littered with trophies and pictures that mean absolutely nothing, cards from people who know how to write we're sorry for your loss and not mean a word of it.

"... Rachel, right?"

She only jumps slightly as she turns to face Andrea, her breath catching in her throat as she nods stiffly.

"It's good to meet you. Jesse... told me about you. Before..."

She doesn't have to finish the sentence to make the knot in Rachel's throat return with a vengeance.

"You... were on Vocal Adrenaline with him. Andrea Cohen."

"Yeah." She nods, slowly, not quite looking at her, watching the others moving about instead as Rachel shifts awkwardly from one foot to the next.

"Were you... close?"

It's an incredibly intrusive question to ask in the context, selfish, wanting to know for all the wrong reasons. Not because she cares, but because she needs to know if Jesse had anything, anyone else, someone other than her. If he'd... loved and touched Andrea the way he'd done with her. Needing to be special.

"I'd like to think that we were friends."

Friends. Friends could mean anything in this context, especially with someone as closed off as Jesse. Rachel holds her breath, lips pursed tightly as she fights back jealousy she doesn't deserve to have, jealousy that doesn't even matter anymore, not now that he's gone.

"Jesse... doesn't get close to people often. He doesn't really let alone in." She hadn't expected Andrea to add anything else, and she blinks at her for a moment, fighting back the urge to ask one too many intrusive questions. "But... you. You were different. Jesse... talked about you more than he probably should have."

The proud, triumphant feeling doesn't last long, Andrea squashing it with guilt right the next moment. More than he should have. It's true, of course, but it doesn't make the sickening sensation in her stomach any easier to bear as she nods, slowly, tempted to confess to Andrea that, had she only learned to love him sooner, he'd still be here today, as though she'd successfully, somehow, managed to kill him with heartbreak.

But she knows that the thought alone is silly, and she wraps her arms around herself, protective, letting her gaze fall to her shoes that seem too real to fit into the memories that she's been swimming in for days now.

She hardly knows where she's going when she excuses herself from the conversation, but ten minutes later finds her in his bedroom, still just as it probably was the day he left for the last time.

It's much larger than her bedroom, not that she was expecting anything else, and she wonders, briefly, if he'd have ever taken her here to share this part of himself if she'd stayed with him. If the kiss that missed had never come to pass.

The whole room screams Jesse, making her chest feel unbelievably tight as she lets her fingers run over the shelves. Even here, everything is trophies and accomplishments, and she can't help but wonder if his room isn't just as fake as the rest of him seemed at first glance.

Until she gets to his nightstand, a framed picture of the two of them sitting there so innocently, as though Jesse didn't fall asleep to heartbreak every single time he spent the night here.

But it's not all. The drawer underneath is filled with nothing but pictures of the two of them, candid Polaroids of Rachel littered amongst a small stack of paper, held together neatly by a thin ribbon.

They're letters.

It feels so much like she's intruding on something she shouldn't, but finding the stack surrounded by pictures of her makes her wonder if this doesn't act as some sort of implicit permission, as though it was always meant for her eyes only to see in the first place, and she lets the ribbon come undone as she holds her breath, taking the first letter out of its unsealed envelope. It all looks so horribly official, and she can't help but hold her breath, fingers trembling viciously as she peels open the paper.

Dear Rachel,

If you're reading this, it means I've likely made the grave mistake of thinking that showing you these letters was a good idea. I implore you to turn back. Nothing written in here is terribly romantic or even well-written enough to deserve your attention, but if you feel that certain that you really want to see what's in here, then I guess I can't stand in your way. I'm just warning you right now that you'll probably get bored very quickly, and if you're planning on reading all of them, then I applaud your dedication.

I suppose this is the part where I should start waxing poetic over how much you mean to me, and how much I missed you while I was in LA. But you know I've never been all that great at giving you the epic romance you deserve, and I'm afraid that the only way I'll find the gall to offer these to you tomorrow would be to give you that disclaimer first. I was never very interesting, not until I met you and I learned to live, so these are nothing but the faltering steps of a precocious little boy who hopes that he can somehow master a craft when he's only just begun to understand it.

I loved you from the moment I met you, even if I was too terrified of admitting to it at the time, and I hope you can forgive me for that. I hope you can forgive me for a lot of things, actually. And in trying to make things right, I decided, on a whim, to write to you. Every day. Until I find the courage in my heart to see you again. I don't deserve you, but if I did, I thought that, perhaps, a proper boyfriend would go to the proper measures to ensure his deserving forgiveness.

More likely is that I will ultimately chicken out, and you will come to find these one day in the distant future, hidden behind the trophy cabinet we'll surely have, and wonder why you married such a complete and utter fool.

I love you, Rachel. And I hope that I'll be man enough tomorrow to give these to you. I can't wait to see you again, even if I have to confess that I'm pissing myself in fear as we speak. You taught me how to love, and I just hope that I can bestow upon you something just as wonderful, but I know that I'll be woefully hard-pressed.

I hope you'll forgive me, and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.

Jesse.

It feels like being punched in the gut, over and over again, Rachel staring dejectedly at the paper now littered with tear stains marring his perfect handwriting. A part of her wishes that he'd somehow managed to find it in him to give these to her, but at the same time, she knows that she would have never been able to appreciate them properly at the time, not like she can now.

She wishes the floor could swallow her whole, take her in and never let go, and she realizes with a heavy heart that those couple of moments beside his coffin would never be enough.

Knowing that he'd wanted to spend the rest of her life with her, that he'd been so certain that she was it— Rachel has never felt so completely and utterly heartbroken, and the persistent buzzing in her purse has her tempted to toss her phone out the window along with Finn for daring to interrupt this moment.

"Is someone—" The voice behind her jolts her out of her misery, and Rachel sputters for a moment, moving to sit on her knees to face Jesse's mother. "... oh. I see."

"It's— this isn't— they're my letters." It's a weak defense, and she swallows hard as she shakes her head. "He— he wrote them to me, please, I just..."

The woman nods stiffly, raising her brows at her as she clears her throat. "The reception is over at 4pm. I'd like to request that you be finished by then."

Rachel just nods, feeling empty as she watches the door close behind her. She's tempted to lock it, but moving seems like a downright offense as she returns her attention to the letters, going through the first five or so before realizing that she'll never have enough time to spend in his room if she doesn't manage her time wisely.

So she pockets the letters, keeping them safe in her purse as she looks around the room, lost, unsure of where to look first, if anywhere at all.

The urge to look everywhere at once is overwhelming, and Rachel slowly, carefully picks herself up off the floor to look around.

Her hands run over the spines of his books with a certain reverence, wishing she'd cared enough to know these things about him before losing him. Knowing him well enough that the little ballet figurine on the shelf must have meant something for him to keep it there hurts, and she lets her fingers run over it for a moment before turning away with a heavy heart.

The attached bathroom is kept as meticulously neat as she would have expected from him, and she can't help but wonder if these walls, these rooms, hold any part of him within them still, wishing she had time to run her hands over every last inch to see if she could find Jesse somewhere in the crevices, even just a whisper from him.

Stepping into his closet assaults her with the smell of him, Rachel closing her eyes as she wraps her arms around her waist, staring at the wealth of shirts, jackets, pants, sweaters, shoes, as though they have to feel just as lost as she does. No more purpose behind their existence. Taking a slow step in, Rachel can hardly stop herself when she picks one of his shirts off of the shelf, burying her face in the soft fabric as she takes him in.

Jesse.

It feels as though he's everywhere, all around her, and it only takes her a moment to pluck her favorite sweater of his off the shelf, retreating back to the bed to lie down with it beside her, curling her body close against it as she cries into his pillow.

His bed still smells just like him, too, as though it's downright silly to think he wouldn't be coming back to it tonight, just as always, just as everyone is used to. Routine makes sense, but without Jesse there to fit the last puzzle piece into place, it feels all wrong.

"Jesse," she finally hears herself whisper, her throat feeling as tight as ever, "if you're listening, I want you to know that I miss you."

Rachel is unaware of the fact that she fell asleep curled his sweater, face buried in his pillow, until Mrs. St. James awakens her slightly less stiffly than what Rachel is accustomed to seeing of the woman, and she offers a brief apology before getting her things together.

With Jesse gone, there's no point in pretending that nothing has changed. The organization in the room, so desperate for some kind of reminder of normalcy is laughable, and Rachel doesn't even flinch when she plucks a few things out of their supposed place to pocket them. The little ballet figurine she'll never really know the meaning behind. Her favorite sweater. The letters, obviously. His copy of The Little Prince, a book he'd once confessed to her was his favorite. And his toothbrush. So she could have him spend the night with her for the rest of time.

The only thing she doesn't dare disturb is the pictures. The ones of her, in his drawer, the one of the two of them, on his nightstand.

It's exactly where it needs to be.

If Mrs. St. James notices the change as she excused herself to leave, she doesn't say anything, and Rachel can't help but be grateful.