A/N: because i can't write anything fluffy. ever. enjoy some Quick angst. related: the more i write her and get into her head, the more i feel for Quinn. doesn't she deserve a break?
title from Florence + the Machine's gorgeous song
When Quinn's alone, sometimes she feels like she's drowning, like no one cares or could care less about her. Like every lungful is swallowing water that burns as it goes down; like a dream where you can't run but you can hide. It hurts to be unloved, to feel hated all the time, but when you're a Queen Bee you have to get used to being alone everywhere. It's always, "Come on, Q," or, "she's so pretty," or even, "move it, Fabray." She's hardly ever recognized as Quinn, she thinks, and takes in another shaking breath.
When she's comfortable, though, whether it be with the Cheerios or shopping or singing or dancing (or maybe, maybe even when she's with a certain someone who is not on her mind right now), she feels like she can breathe. Great, gulping lung-fuls of air that pass through her veins like liquid.
She should be meeting him now, should be stepping out of her car five minutes late (because she can't get there first, can she?) and shooting him a smile so dazzling it makes his knees weak. It's seven o clock and the sun is low, low, low in the summer sky. She should be wearing a sundress, her favorite one, and a pair of wedge heels that make her legs look a mile long. This night should be perfect, should be everything she ever dreamed it would. They were supposed to fall in love again tonight, for better or for worse, and they were supposed to be happy. (It's all she's ever wanted, to be happy).
Sometimes things just don't work out, she tells herself fervently, this was never supposed to work out. Because this second, she's sitting in her room with the door locked in a pair of ratty gray sweatpants with her hair in a bun, and she's wearing a sweater from some random college she'll never apply to because it's always been Georgetown for her and she's disgusted with herself, disgusted- she takes a deep breath that catches in her throat and tries to calm down. She won't meet him tonight, she won't. She can't just sit and watch while he breaks her heart, even as she does it time and time again to the only guy she's ever really given it to. He's stronger than she is, braver than she is. She hates herself right now, truly and deeply, for doing this to him.
She isn't deluded enough to think it's for the best. It just is.
? U gonna be late? asks the first text, and she has enough sense to shut off her phone and hide it beneath her pillow before she bursts into messy, unpracticed tears. She isn't typically a crier, but she knows she's a pretty one. Tears can be used as an advantage.
Now, though? They're mortifying, frustrating, ripping from her throat until they hurt with no signs of slowing down. Drowning. The house is empty tonight, her mom gone on some real estate tour for the company, and Quinn's never felt so lonely.
She's drowning now, shutting her eyes and it's half past ten; the stars are shining too brightly and it's too warm, shouldn't it be cold? She feels cold.
I'm sorry, she thinks disjointedly, and curls in on herself. She'll come to regret this moment, come to regret sitting on her bed and pitying herself while he lays himself out (again) to be picked apart. She's doing that now, killing him, and she can't avoid it if she's going to stay safe. She'll hurt and she'll cry a little more and then she won't. She'll move on.
And through all of this, there is one simple, undeniable truth: Quinn Fabray just made the best decision of her life.
review?