Dearest Finn,
I got the best surprise today.
Kurt just showed up at my door. He had bagels and Starbucks, and didn't even bother inspecting my pokey little apartment before dragging me off to Tiffany's to recreate our breakfast scene from our first shot at Nationals.
I was almost late for class. He sat in with me the whole day. Everybody loves him and they're mortified that he's not our classmate this year. Especially when I begged Mrs. Leary to let him give them a demonstration, and he blew the doors off the place with his rendition of Mr. Cellophane.
He's definitely getting in next year.
He did say something that worries me, though.
Why are you being more honest in your letters to him than you are to me? Why didn't you tell me about the broken arm? Why didn't you tell me about the guys who burned your dad's photograph? Why didn't you tell me you're struggling? Why didn't you tell me you're hurting?
Everytime I get a letter from you, I go to a specific bench in Central Park to read it. They all have these little plaques on the back, with names of people who donated money to the city, and I spotted this bench my first day in New York. The name on the back is, no kidding, Ryan Finchel.
I go there, with my coffee, and I read your letters over and over, trying to memorise your handwriting and pull myself closer to you through the ink.
But now I know that you're keeping stuff from me.
Please, don't do that. You're already the Knight of my Heart, you don't have to keep protecting me. Let me be there for you. Let me be your strong shoulder, for once.
Please, Finn. I miss you so much already, I don't want to even contemplate the fact that you might be further away than I thought.
Please.
Yours, in blessed love,
Rachel.
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