A/N: thank you for the reviews, and welcome to the present day of this fic.

Chapter 1

Rachel Berry

"We all walk in the dark and each of us must learn to turn on his or her own light." – Earl Nightingale

6:59 AM.

Rachel Berry's alarm clock shrilly rang, the vibrating bell bouncing off the walls of her dim bedroom. On instinct, she sat up, pushed her star-decorated sheets off of her, and turned her alarm clock upside down.

Rachel's mundane bedroom greeted her as the sound of the alarm faded away in her ears. The square bedroom was tiny and better described as a glorified walk-in closet. The long side of her single bed sat against the west wall, and not two feet separated the other parallel side from the dresser. That was parked against the bed's opposite wall, where a small, sunlight-limiting window resided. The end of her bed touched the north wall that showed two doors along it. The left one led to her living room, and the right, her bathroom.

Some things never change, and Rachel's morning routine has been consistent to the tee for several years. Slipping into her slippers, she slithered through the tiny gap between her bed and the dresser, and marched through the right door into the bathroom, sized a third of her bedroom, barely containing the toilet, sink and shower inside.

As she turned on the taps and splashed cold water over her face, she thought idly about the man she kissed at the bar the evening before, still feeling a semblance of taste from his lips on hers. He had been at her show, and found her sipping a light drink at the nearby bar after it.

Rachel had welcomed the company without much thought; rarely did she seek out guys herself because her busy schedule didn't allow it. It was a lonely life Rachel had been living, but one she deemed necessary to achieve her life goals, goals she would never, ever give up on. An old friend had advised her once that she shouldn't let any man hinder her pursuits.

Her toothbrush touched her mouth and all remains of her evening kissing partner left her lips, unlikely to be felt again. He hadn't gotten past her apartment threshold, a decision guided more by her early wake-up time than her inner desires. She told him to see her again in her next show, the one scheduled tonight. It was something she told many guys, but they never reappeared.

She didn't even remember the man's name.

Finished with her morning routine, complete with her uniform, she glanced at a note pinned to her closed living room door, one that said that her show was to start an hour late today, as her director had informed her. Normally it began at 7 PM, running two hours, and began again at 10 PM in the second run of the evening. Tonight, there was only to be one show. Rachel, honestly, was happy about this. Performing twice a night was grueling.

Opening the door and exiting her apartment without breakfast, with her handbag around her shoulder, she put on her smile for the people of New York. The sun smiled back.

"The Queen's Oracle" was a respectful, popular middle-to-high-class restaurant, mainly serving for the flocks of New York business people and aspiring artists that could afford extended lunch breaks. Daylighting there as a waitress was never a job Rachel expected to do, but coming out of NYADA without money necessitated taking the waitressing job. Rachel was outgoing and conversed with her patrons, memorizing their usual orders, happy for the generous tips and opportunity to connect. She knew talent agents and other theatre stars roamed at Queen's, and she wanted to make sure she was liked by any dining New Yorker.

"Morning, Rachel!"

Her manager, a middle-aged woman named Frederica squeezed between two other waitresses and greeted her with a tray and a cup of coffee. "How was your show last night?"

"It was fine, thank you." Rachel sipped her coffee, grabbing a pad of blank paper. "The crowds were ever so drunk and rowdy and I believe they were only coming to see me in those revealing costumes. Thank goodness we cannot afford good lighting."

"Don't let it trouble you, dear. You're a very good performer."

"I would never, Freddie. In fact, a very proper man came up to me at the bar afterwards and offered to buy me a drink. A tasteful man offering a tasteful drink."

"Rachel! Did you…?"

Rachel was immediately sorry for bringing it up; she knew Freddie was supportive and wanted for Rachel to be happy in her life.

"No, no." Rachel looked down with a little regret in her sad smile, putting down the cup, feeling the lively conversations of the breakfasting New Yorkers die down with her. "I think he may have been married."

"You know men." Freddie returned a sympathetic smile. "Table 5 needs you."

Freddie's customary greetings were polite every day, even though Rachel's responses started at "great", and descended to "good" and now "fine". Nevertheless, Freddie asked, providing friendship and encouragement.

Life was tough in New York for Rachel. Being an Off-Off-Broadway star meant living in a small apartment that wasn't even nearby her regular performance theatre. It was unspectacular, and nothing like the glamorous spotlight Rachel imagined as a transcendent teenage performer. But over the years, Rachel had learned to practice patience.

She followed a fellow waitress out of the staff door and made her way briskly to Table 5, a table that was located outside the restaurant. Rachel saw three elderly women she didn't recognize, musing about the bright, smiling morning sun.

"Good morning, I am your waitress, my name is Rachel. May I take your order – excuse me – orders?"

The customers of Queen's that day made their way in and out just like any other day.

6:58 PM.

Rachel's taxi ride to the theatre featured, well, Rachel Berry and a silent driver in a yellow car.

She still loved performing. She loved to sing and dance, and express her truest feelings in beautiful music numbers that would resonate as soft, melodic echoes in her audience's ears, and have those echoes be sung back as praises of Rachel Berry to others in the many corners of New York theatre. Those others who would listen, and come see her show and hear those same sparkling numbers. Critics would then write about her talent and she would be famous: the shiniest star in New York.

Those wishes were a far cry from what she did now on Off-Off-Broadway.

The taxi zoomed past a Broadway theatre, intimidating in its size, but inviting with its glittering lights. The name of a popular show was broadcasted on the text display, and a show was about to start. Rachel watched a crowd of fancifully dressed people trickle inside.

Sometimes she thought she intentionally lived her live in isolation because there was an element of failure present in her life, and the thought of facing someone every day who was more accomplished and moving forward in his or her life would push her further down that insecure, career-less hole.

Ever since her teenage beginnings, she had told everyone she saw, regardless of their listening intentions, where she would be, where she would star, how famous she would be. The endless doubt and cloudy future of today were hardly realizations of those teenage spiels. Rachel knew if anything, she still had a lot of pride. And drive for the performance theatre. Performance theatres with shining lights, perfect acoustics and majestic stages, and seated thousands. One day, she would get that big break.

She did seem to have developed quite a large theatre of introspection in her head.

Rachel paid her driver and stepped on the pavement that led to the theatre entrance.

Standing in front of New York theatres used to fill Rachel with nervous anticipation and optimism. That was a long, long time ago. Rachel looked at the small, bleak Off-Off-Broadway theatre in front of her, with the sky dimmer than usual due to the late start hour. If it were any darker, only the exterior windows reflecting the dim streetlights would tell bystanders that this theatre existed.

That image just never reflected optimism for Rachel. It really didn't even deserve the name "theatre".

Straightening her coat, she strode past the theatre's double doors and found the familiar dimly lit lobby in front of her. But that was all she found. There weren't many people bustling around today. Rachel sighed, almost accustomed to not expecting a turnout for her show anymore.

She made her way through a door labeled "C&C", for the few cast and crew members in her production, and found the producer, Brian, putting equipment in a plastic box.

"Why is our theatre ever so empty? And why is our equipment being packed away in these ugly black boxes?"

Brian whipped around to find the questioning Rachel standing a foot from him.

"We got canceled," he said simply.

"Canceled?"

"Uh, yes, Rachel. I'm sorry."

"Canceled? As in, no longer in production? Who? Who canceled us? I demand to speak to this thoughtless person who canceled us– me!"

"We lost our funding, Rachel," Brian replied tiredly. "The show can't go on without money."

The show can't go on without money.

Rachel tried to speak, but instead, her eyes went wide and she stood on her tiptoes, unable to.

"Rachel – oh, Rachel."

Brian put a pair of headset microphones down and led her to a chair, patting her shoulder gently as she blinked tears away.

"Rachel, this happens with small theatres like us. We get shut down."

"Brian?"

"Yeah?"

"But what– where will I go now?"

"Puzzles" was a quiet, low-key bar frequented by pleasant guests searching for the esoteric liquor experience and peaceful, romantic piano music. It was directly across a popular bar where beer was the choice drink, and required waiting in a line for entrance to the party. For Rachel, Puzzles was her destination after a strenuous show, where she could relax in its tranquility. By no means was she the alcohol expert, but the civil company appealed to her, as opposed to the sophistication-lacking patrons of the bar across the street. She wasn't 20 anymore.

Rachel entered, tonight feeling directionless, rather than tired. The circular tables were empty as usual, and she noticed a few couples secluded in the corner booths. She glanced at them, before heading toward the stools at the bar.

"What will you be having tonight, Ms Berry?"

"The usual, Roger, thank you very much," Rachel answered with a sigh.

"Don't thank me," Roger smiled. "Your drink is courtesy of the man down to your right."

Rachel disinterestedly followed Roger's pointing finger to an inconspicuous man dressed in an expensive black leather jacket that blended with the dark wall. He smiled, and held up a hand as Rachel motioned to get up, telling her to stay put.

"Hello again," the man opened with a charming smirk.

"Hello." It suddenly occurred to her that this was her kissing partner the evening before. She blushed a little.

"We meet again," he followed, sitting down beside her.

"Umm… my regretful apologies for asking because I vividly remember making out with you but I do not seem to recall your name."

The nameless man smiled again at the familiar drawn out sentences.

"I didn't give it to you."

Realization flooded to Rachel; did she only kiss this man and not even ask his name?

"I'm John," he supplied, extending a hand.

"Rachel," she nodded back, seeing her incomparably small hand disappear in his.

"Just as beautiful as I remember you," he said, bowing.

Rachel blushed again, feeling warmth spread through her cold hand in the handshake. She held on for just one extra second.

"You came back to see me?"

"I was free tonight. And you seem to be as well."

Rachel smiled this time, brushing some hair aside to sip her drink. The last notes of a soft piano piece finished somewhere in the background, and the weight of her lost show lessened.

"So," John started again, confidently leaning closer, "Will I be getting in your apartment tonight?"

"My apartment? Well, my show has been canceled unfortunately, so now I–"

She stopped short in her mini-monologue, suddenly aware of his proposition and lips closing in, forgetting about her unfortunate news earlier. And then Rachel felt the familiar lips once again, and she kissed back with desperation that wasn't existent during their first evening.

Leaning back slightly, she mumbled, "Are you married?"

"How about I show you my place? You'll like it," he whispered.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers.

Rachel didn't need any more verbal nor physical convincing. Their abandoned, half-empty drinks stood, watching them leave.

8:57 AM.

Sunlight poured in from a large walk-out bay window, illuminating every inch of the spacious master bedroom. Rachel awoke with a beam of light in her eye. Blinking, she dodged it and found the source. What appeared to be a mirror was reflecting the sunlight right in her face.

Abundant light wasn't supposed to be the source of Rachel's morning waking.

She blinked again, and realized it wasn't a mirror. It appeared to be the pane of a tall trophy case 30 feet in front of her. Now that definitely didn't exist in her room. She smelled a faint, but fresh aroma of eggs and ham.

"Good morning, Rachel."

She looked up, and found John and his omnipresent smile in a black silk bathrobe, standing in the doorway.

Then she looked down.

Then she darted for the sheets, pulling them up to her neck.

"Hey, relax. I made you breakfast. And maybe after we can– "

"No, no, no! Please leave so I can locate my clothes and dress," she frantically directed him, her frazzled hair swinging from side to side as she tried to find her clothes keeping her left hand grasping the sheet.

"You're so adorable when you're flustered," he grinned childishly, unmoving from his standing spot.

"This is NOT funny," her tone quickly changing from frantic to scolding. "You are intruding in my personal space and I do not find it welcoming, despite your pleasant accommodations."

"Oh, did I intrude in your personal space last–"

A gasp was followed by a cell phone making its way through the air, making a beeline for John's head.

"Whoa, okay, bye!" He caught the speeding phone with a swift hand and swished out of the room, the door following shut in his wind.

Rachel exhaled, falling back onto the unusually soft pillow. Not to mention the king-sized bed that she realized she had been sleeping on, her legs comfortably splayed across the entire mattress. Curiosity overtook her fading irritation, and she sat back up, examining the whole room for the first time.

The trophy case she saw earlier had moved on, reflecting the sunlight to an angle to her slight right. Beside the case was an even taller bookcase, and twice the width of the trophy case. The spine of worn-out titles, unreadable to Rachel at her distance, sat neatly on the five levels of the bookcase.

To Rachel's direct left was a four pane picture window, with the outer two slanted to form a semi-circle. The window, strikingly clean, took up all but the lower three feet of the wall. A long, white storage cupboard sat there, perfectly filling up the space from the floor to the base of the window and following the convex pattern of the arranged panes. Fixed cushions sat on the cupboard, with a nested, pillow area in what appeared to be a lie-down reading space directly below the middle two window panes.

To the right of it was the walk-out bay window, stretching to the ceiling and the culprit of admitting the copious sunshine into the room.

On Rachel's right, the room extended with its light purple walls to what appeared a work area, which itself was twice Rachel's apartment bedroom size. A long glass desk, television and two couches sat there. The entire room hosted lots of doors, all of them closed except for one that appeared to lead to a bathroom.

Looking behind her, she found her clothes, neatly placed on a wooden hanger on a dark purple hook. Stiffening a little seeing that John had touched her clothes – her underwear, she snagged the hanger and got dressed in the bed, feeling dirty in the same clothes. Her bag sat on the floor, which contained her waitressing outfit. At least those would be cleaner, but Rachel dismissed them, not feeling that the outfit would be appropriate in her current surroundings.

She slid off the bed, feeling small in the gigantic master bedroom. She frowned, realizing she was unable to perform her morning routine. Stepping into the bathroom, she saw a slew of toiletries laid out on the sink counter and suddenly felt intrusive. She would not use another person's bathroom. And not one what was bigger than her bedroom. She stepped out and grabbed her bag, fishing for her hair brush. Walking to a stand-up mirror, she ran the through brush her hair, observing herself.

It was the first time she, well, had some in months. Many, many months. And somehow, she had landed herself in this rich mansion that she didn't belong in. Well, she did belong, once, you know, she became a Broadway superstar. But that wasn't the present reality, except whenever she spent the night with (apparently) rich, handsome males.

Deeming her hair worthy of public display, she slung her bag over her shoulder, and spun around, inspecting the room again. She glimpsed at the bed, internally debating whether to neatly fold the sheets and put the scattered pillows back to their proper positions. Maybe the pillows, at least.

She left for the door John disappeared through earlier. As she turned the handle, a glint caught her eye.

The trophy case was hinting at her again. She shouldn't be invasive. But John probably wouldn't care, right? He had invited her into his house, after all. Proud as he was, he definitely wouldn't mind Rachel seeing the exhibit of awards for – whatever he won.

She tiptoed on the carpet over to the trophy case, immediately noticing a tall, gold trophy in the center with three levels, building up to a figure at the top that resembled a cheerleader. Rachel peered at the plate.

2012 National Cheerleading Competition

William McKinley High School

1st Place

Captain: Quinn Fabray

chapter 2 is already written and ready to go soon, review this one first? :)