Though you thought it would shatter you completely, getting rid of that block inside you just makes you feel like you've taken off a big lead coat you never knew you were wearing. You're drunk with your new lightness of being. Not to say you aren't scared. God, you're scared out of your mind. Especially of losing what scraps of status you're still hanging onto as deposed McKinley royalty. But you know now, and you're not going to let it poison you anymore. Those days are over.

When it comes time to tell Britt—the next day; you can't hold it in any longer—you feel the kind of butterflies you've only heard and read about. You can't even roll your eyes at your own cheesiness: that's how bad you've got it. It must glow from you, from behind that gap where the wall was. It lights up your steps to Brittany's locker, where you feel as nervous as if you were talking to her for the very first time.

I wanted to thank you for performing that song with me in Glee Club, you say. You look right into her eyes, all kindness and simplicity and love, and begin to relax, to talk to the Britt you know as well as yourself. Because it's made me do a lot of thinking. You breathe again; Brittany waits.

What I've realized, you begin, is why I'm such a bitch all the time. I'm a bitch because I'm angry. I'm angry because I have all of these feelings—you look around to make sure no one is lingering or listening—feelings for you, that I'm afraid of dealing with, because I'm afraid of dealing with the consequences.

She gives you a soft, blank look.

Brittany, I can't go to an Indigo Girls concert, you hint. I just… can't.

I understand that.

Do you… understand what I'm trying to say here?

Britt shakes her head. No, not really.

Tears are welling up in your throat. Shit. You can't break down in the hallway. But you're going to have to say it.

I want to be with you. But I'm afraid of the talks, and the looks. I mean, you know what happened to Kurt at this school. You think of all of the times you yourself made snide remarks, trying to convince yourself that you were different.

Britt smiles, and your chest aches. The tears are stinging your eyes now.

But honey, she says, if anyone were to ever make fun of you, you would either kick their ass or slash them with your vicious, vicious words.

Yeah, I know, but—the tears finally break your voice—I'm so afraid of what everyone will say behind my back. Still, I have to accept—can you say it? Yes, you have to, now—that I love you. I love you, and I don't want to be with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys. I just want you.

Britt is silent. Still listening. You thought she would take over by now, tell you she loves you. But she seems to be waiting for something.

Please say you love me back, you whisper. Please.

Of course I love you. I do. Her voice is too bright, too reassuring. And I would totally be with you if it weren't for Artie.

You can hear your heart shatter.

Artie? you repeat, incredulous—that placeholder on wheels, the one she used to make you jealous?

I love him too, she explains. You can't believe you're hearing this. I don't want to hurt him. That's not right. I can't break up with him.

Yes you can, you insist. He's just a stupid boy.

But it wouldn't be right. Santana, you have to know, if Artie and I were to ever break up, and I'm lucky enough that you're still single—she tries to take your hand, but her touch feels like hot knives on your skin; you shake her away—I'm so yours. And proudly so. She's smiling. Her sweet eyes are clean of tears, while yours burn ravines down your cheeks.

Wow. Who ever thought that being fluid meant you could be so stuck?

I'm sorry. Britt tries to hug you, but you can't—you can't smell her hair and her skin, can't feel her body against yours, knowing it belongs to Artie. She rejected you. You can't believe she rejected you. You push her away and retreat before you can humiliate yourself any further.

Your whole body aches. Your eyes, your skin, your chest, your belly. The light that seemed to illuminate a path to Brittany's locker is scorching you now, and you can't hide from it, no matter how fast you run.

What do you do now? You never knew there was pain like this. The pain from the surgery, the bruises and scrapes from Cheerios, the hair-pulling gut-punching fights with other girls in the halls, the deep-inside pain of Puck pushing into you the first time: if you took the pain of all of them and mashed them together and magnified it by ten it wouldn't come close to what you feel now. You feel like you've lost her. Like you never really knew her. You've never felt this far away from Brittany, not even that time you went to New York to visit your cousins for two weeks—the longest you've been apart since you were eleven years old.

You try to imagine what it would be like if this were someone else. If you could call Britt up and she could come over with drive-through strawberry shakes, your favorite flavor, and stroke your hair as you cried until you fell asleep in her lap—the way she did last year when your cat died. Maybe if you were normal, if it were a boy who broke your heart. That's a story everyone knows.

The truth is, you can't imagine that. You can't imagine a heartache for anyone but Brittany, because you can't imagine loving anyone but Brittany. Loving Britt has become as much a part of you as the color of your eyes.

When you get home and manage to get the door open, you stumble upstairs and lock the door of your room behind you. You can't even get to your bed before you break down; you just crumple in front of the door and clutch your knees and weep so hard it wracks your whole body. You weep until you feel drained and parched, until your abs are sore and it feels like dry heaving.

Santana? Your mother knocks. That means it must be six already. The raps shiver down your back, which is still pressed against the door. Are you in there, mija? I brought home some takeout.

I'm not hungry, you call. Your voice is thick, still broken with weeping.

Your mother tries the doorknob. Locked.

Are you okay, mija?

The kindness in her voice makes you well up with tears all over again. You unlock the door and open it. You're sure your face must be puffy and the color of a brick. Her reaction confirms it.

Oh, baby, she says, and pulls you against her, cradling your head in the space between her neck and shoulder. You collapse into her and let a fresh round of tears overtake you. What's wrong? What's going on?

I can't tell you.

Yes you can. You can tell me anything. It's all right. Come downstairs and I'll make some coffee and we'll talk about this.

You nod helplessly into her shoulder and follow her downstairs. She leads you by the hand, like a child, and sits you in a chair in the kitchen. She places before you a napkin and fork, followed by a Styrofoam box that she pops open to reveal a steaming mix of pasta and cheese.

Baked spaghetti. I know that's your favorite. I know you said you're not hungry, but take a couple of bites; it might help. She busies herself with preparing the coffee, and the smell of cheese and ground coffee and marinara sauce so saturates the kitchen that you forget how bad you feel for just a moment.

Once the coffee is brewing, she pulls up a chair to face you. Now, tell me what's going on.

I don't know how to tell you, Mamita. I don't know if I can tell anyone.

It's about Brittany, right?

Your stomach flutters in surprise.

How did you—

Baby, give me a little credit. Every time you're crying, Brittany's here to comfort you. The fact that she isn't here right now tells me that it's probably about her. What's happening with you two? Are you fighting?

Well—not exactly. You swallow. How are you supposed to tell her this? Isn't coming out to your parents supposed to be a big deal—if that's what this is?

Your mother takes a long, deep breath.

Santana, if you're worried about telling me there's something more than friendship going on between you, I already know.

What?

I see the way you two are together. The way you look at her. All of those sleepovers. Your mother gets up to pour you each a cup of coffee, black, and hands yours to you before settling back down. At first I thought it was one of those crushes we all get around thirteen or fourteen, but it's obvious you two are head over heels for each other. I can't say I was crazy about the idea at first, but I've gotten used to it. So you see? You can tell me whatever it is.

How did you know when I didn't even know? I mean—not until yesterday. The coffee is too hot to drink yet, but it smells strong and feels good in your hands, like something alive. Obvious, you repeat to yourself. It's obvious. Shit.

Sometimes we're the last to know these things.

God. All this time it was right there in front of me. And everyone knew it but me.

I'm not so sure about that. I bet poor Sam doesn't know yet. Anyway, maybe you're just now ready to face this.

I told her how I felt. She rejected me.

Your mother is silent for a moment. She looks into the cup of coffee she's bracing in her lap, then back at you.

I'm so sorry, honey. What did she say?

You recount what happened at the lockers, and your mother listens, looking thoughtful.

I know it must hurt a lot, she begins, after a pause. But—she did tell you she loves you back. I've seen how she acts around you, San, and trust me, she's as much in love with you as you are with her. She's just with someone else right now.

I feel like I can't be around her after this.

I understand that. It's okay. Give yourself some time to heal. No matter what happens, I promise it won't hurt like this forever. Now, drink your coffee, and then let's hop in the car and drive through for a milkshake. She smiles. Strawberry's still your favorite, right?

Sometimes, you're grateful to have a mother.