School begins again—too soon. Thanks to the boob job, that bitch Sylvester puts you on the bottom of the pyramid. And Quinn back on top. That's it. No more frenemies. This is war.

Hard to believe that Glee is the best thing in your life at the moment. Well—Glee, and Brittany. She's a constant. No trouble. No drama. No pain.

At least, you thought she was.

And then, while you're kissing, she has to ruin it by asking you to sing a lesbian song with her for a duet assignment. You're already in a terrible mood from being bruised by the knobby knees of that anorexic freshman Cheerio during practice.

I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies, you sneer, rolling off her. You mutter some stupid excuse about Puck that neither of you believes. You haven't really slept with Puck since the end of the summer. You've hardly slept with anyone else. You force yourself not to look back at Brittany on her bed, at her face that you know from the tone of her voice will look heartbroken. But she has to remember: what you have can't be like that. You thought she understood.

So you sing a duet with Mercedes. As a political maneuver it's pathetic, but at least it's safe.

Brittany isn't answering your texts. She won't even look at you in Glee. Then you see her wheeling Artie around the hallways, and signing to you that there will be no more sweet lady kisses.

Maybe you went too far. You'd never been so mean to Britt before, not even that time you bit her and pinned her down and made her beg for it.

But the truth is, ever since the new school year started, you've thrown your rules out the window. You want her all the time, and you have her twice or three times a week. You're sick of being kicked to the bottom of the pyramid every time you've just pulled yourself to the pinnacle. Britt is the only thing that can always make you feel good.

You tell Artie that she's just using him. Serves him right, the runt, thinking someone like him could ever have someone like Brittany for himself. It works. The thing falls apart, easy as stale cake.

No one's taking Britt away from you.

She comes back, slowly. You won't apologize—that's not what you do—but you do drive to her house one Saturday morning and surprise her with a trip to the zoo. You've packed a picnic with cheese and jelly sandwiches: her favorite kind. Sweet lady kisses recommence shortly thereafter.

But when Puck and Artie ask you out on a double date in front of all the girls in Glee Club, you can't really say no. You can't be seen turning down boys. Especially for free food at the Stix. Naturally, you fake interest in Puck's stupid stories through dinner, like you always do. Britt's faking along too—at least, it seems like she is—and you share a deep grin.

Then, when you're alone together later in your house, painting your nails—you made some excuse to Puck when he wanted to take you both home about being on your periods; you have truthfully been synced up for years—she looks at you with a childish smile.

I think I actually like Artie, she says. Your blood turns cold. Your ears ring.

Hey, San? You're dripping nail polish. You look down. There's a fresh blood-colored drop on your carpet. You replace the brush in the bottle and stare at it. Rubbing will only make it worse. You're still reeling a little from Brittany's announcement—and still wondering why you're reeling.

Santana? Are you okay?

Yeah. Was just thinking I should re-carpet this room.

Okay, says Britt, choosing to take your flippant response at face value. Anyway, I think I might date him. What do you think?

I think you can do so much better.

Like who? Britt raises her eyebrow.

You don't answer. You busy yourself with painting a nail.

She starts dating him after all, and seeing them together makes your blood boil. You know it's only because he takes so much of her time, time she usually spends with you. But you miss her. You won't admit it, the way it hurts when she starts sitting by him in Glee, starts sharing the little things you used to share, the things you used to link pinkies over.

To cure the ennui, you start sleeping with Puck again. That gets boring fast. Sex with Puck is only good in two positions. It's like watching someone else's two desert island movies over and over. You miss the way Britt kisses, the way she touches you, the way you can do it a million ways and it still feels brand new.

But that's over for now.

So you go after Finn again. He was awful in bed, but maybe he's trainable. Well—to be honest, you don't even want him; you're just sick of seeing him and the dwarf together in Glee Club without Britt to distract you. Every time you hear them kiss, those soft little smacking noises make you want to punch them both in the face. You tell Berry you fucked him. It sends her for a tailspin, and the satisfaction their messy breakup gives you feels better than a good orgasm.

You start touching yourself more often than you ever have before. When your mind wanders to Britt, you force it back to Puck, or Taylor Lautner or Zac Efron, or even that new kid, Sam. Still, it always takes thinking of Britt's hand in place of your own to nudge you over the edge. You emerge from the fog sweaty and guilty.

Quitting the Cheerios is going to cost you serious juice, but you're sick of being so unhappy, and something's got to give. Your grades are dropping and your parents are starting to ask questions.

Still, it's Valentine's Day that kills you. Being blindsided by Rachel Berry and breaking down in front of everyone. Watching Britt sit in Stubbles's lap after he serenades her. Trying to cut off that new chick, Lady Babar the wrestler, in her attempt to move in on Puck, and failing. Failing to nail Puck. There's a new low.

You see a chink in Quinn's armor—cheating with Finn—and you go for it. You kiss some boy with mono just for the chance to infect the two of them, just to be a bitch. Not only to reveal their sneaking around to the whole club, but because you like seeing them sweat and suffer.

You're turning into a monster. You're not even sorry.

What's going on with Britt, you don't know. It's not like you're fighting. She still comes over, though less often. She's warm and kind and sweet as always. You guess it's because, despite all of the sex, she's never been in a real relationship before. It must be normal for a girl to get jealous of her best friend's first boyfriend.

You shred the last clinging bits of Sam's relationship with Quinn and scoop him up. He's boring in bed and has the most absurdly gargantuan mouth you've ever seen on anything anthropomorphic that wasn't a puppet. But if you can't have Puck, Sam's the next best thing. No need to have anyone thinking you can't have what you want.

Now that you both have boyfriends, you convince Britt it's okay to start back up with sweet lady kisses.

Isn't that cheating? Her brow furrows.

Nope. Plumbing's different. That means it doesn't count.

She nods, not quite sure whether to believe you, but obviously wanting to.

Haven't we always agreed we're just best friends? That nothing else had to change?

I guess so.

You'd forgotten how good it feels to kiss her. The way she has learned your kiss. It's like singing an old song: you both fall naturally back into the well-worn groove, the notes, the rhythm.

You shove her down onto your bed and top her. As you slide inside her and begin to rock against her hips, she smiles into your mouth, and you know it's just what she's craving after Artie, where every time is the same old thing.

You know the feeling.

You thought going back to sweet lady kisses would make you feel better, but it's making it worse. Sam complains that you never open your eyes during sex. You counter that you never come either. He shuts up.

Meanwhile, seeing Britt and Artie is getting harder. You drape yourself shamelessly over Sam and she never even seems to see it. It's getting harder and harder to convince yourself that it's about the boys—and harder and harder to be best friends. At least she's stopped talking about Artie; she can tell how much you hate it.

You get way too drunk at Rachel's party and do body shots off Brittany. You can smell her—she's wet too—and it takes effort to remember that you're in front of others. In front of your boyfriends.

Later, you watch Britt and Professor X all over each other and try your best to distract yourself with Sam. You bury yourself in his warmth and boy smell.

Getting that drunk feels good. But the hangover is brutal. You can't stop thinking about them. About her.

You're starting to think there's something seriously wrong.