Thank you to those who have encouraged me to continue.

You don't know what you've had until you've lost it. 'They' always say that. I don't know who they is, but if I ever meet them I'd kick their asses considering they are life ruiners. The bitches think that they can say all of this deep shit for no reason at all and make people emotional wrecks because all their deep shit is right when I really want them to be wrong. Whoever they are, wherever they are, they better watch it because I'm pretty sure I'm not the only angry angsty bitch who has a need to whip her razors back and forth on their asses.

Watching Brittany now makes me realize that 'they' are always fucking right. Because I now know how much I used to take her for granted. The small touches here and there, the soft kisses just because, they're all missed now when before they could go unnoticed. You miss things when they're gone, and don't realize them when they're there. It sucks. Fucking sucks.

And then there are times where I wonder if she remembers anything too. The hints I've left, do they bring up memories? Do they do anything? Or do they just make me look like some stalker freak?

Does she miss the high we always had while we were together?

I miss the high. I never knew it was there until it was gone. But when I did finally notice it I wanted it. Craved it. Physically needed it every second of every day. She had me high. I'm addicted and I didn't even know.

Now that I'm coming down I'm falling nearing the ground with every moment passing. Free falling into an idea that I refuse to possess or think about; I may never be high again.

I don't want to come down. I don't want to come around to that idea. I waited too long to let her in and now I've lost it all…

"Come on Santana, how'd you get the scar?" she asks poking at my rib cage. Brittany asks the question every day. The skinny mark beneath my left breast always was begging her to get the story out of me.

"Let it go," I reply as always.

She pouts and I roll my eyes. I cannot stand it when she pouts. "You never tell me anything about your past, I'm just curious that's all."

Too long I denied her the right to get into my head when I was already so far into hers. We stopped trying to fight for each other because it hurt too much. She was always crying. I thought I was saving her; all I ever wanted to do was save her. There are moments where I truly believe she is better without me now. I'm no longer in her head as I was before. I'm now only the weird customer who never changes her order and occasionally leaves creepy presents. I cannot help but toy with the idea that she's better now. Happy now.

I've done drugs before. I've done some bad shit. Smoked shit. Popped pills that I didn't even know the names of. But never have I ever gotten the high I had when I was with Brittany.

I want to save her. All I've ever wanted to do was save her. But after all… maybe I'm not meant to be that person.

After a long debate I figure that going to the diner is inevitable because until I go back I'm not going to stop thinking. Thinking is dangerous. Thinking causes rage, and rage is bad. Rage is drinking and crying because you can't hold your emotions in for shit when you're drunk.. or maybe that's just me.

My hands in my pocket and my head bowed to the ground I walk into the diner and lean against the hostess' podium, nervous after the bracelet with how weird that probably came off.

"Santana," I hear in a stern voice. I roll my eyes knowing it wasn't Brittany. It was the other blonde, Quinn.

"Where the hell have you been the past week?" she asks huffing slightly and moving her eyebrows in ways that probably should not be possible.

I narrow my eyes at her, "Working," is my only reply.

"Whatever," she says rolling her eyes at me. "B has been looking for you, you know? Something about how she thinks she knows you from somewhere and it's really messing with her head so it'd be great if you could stop," Quinn tells me.

She remembers.

Brittany remembers… something. She remembers something that is the only explanation. She remembered something and it's freaking her out. That's good, right?

"Are you deaf or just too stupid to form a reply?" Quinn asks since she'd been talking and I hadn't been listening.

"Sorry, what'd you say?"

She puts her hands on her hips, "I said you need to get your head out of your ass and either stop messing with her head or do something to fix it. She's freaking out about napkins and bracelets and it's starting to creep me out."

"Thanks," I say turning to walk out of the diner after getting the hint that I probably shouldn't be there. I shouldn't have come at all.

I remember going to church as a child with my family, my mother greeting everyone in her broken English accent while my father politely nods at those passing with my hand gripping at his slacks. I remember my mother and me sitting at the dinner table just looking at our food for hours.

"We don't eat unless your father is at the table," she would say as we sat in silence watching the door wondering if he was coming home that night.

I remember my father sneaking in at impossible hours of the night. I remember him coming in to kiss me on the forehead while I pretended to be asleep. Only when he did come home did I sleep. I remember those impossible hours getting more impossible as I grew. I remember being sixteen and sneaking out at the same times he would sneak in. I remember being seventeen when he stopped sneaking in.

I don't remember when I lost my will to hope, however. Somewhere in it all I stopped hoping he would come home. I stopped hoping.

One night her hand traces the scar and I let out a sigh.

"My father threw a plate," I say into the empty room the vibrations hitting the walls and then bouncing off to slap me across the face, "Mami was mad when he missed another dinner and they yelled and he threw it. In retrospect I shouldn't have been eavesdropping considering it hit the wall and then hit me."

Her fingers dance on my skin as she moves her head onto my chest to kiss the line there, "Was he sorry?" she asks her lips grazing my skin.

I shake my head. "No," I reply, "He wasn't." Papi was never sorry for the things he did, only sorry for the mistake you must have made to be the one getting hurt.

The next days are full of work. Mostly because I'm closed to being let go with how shitty my hours have been. I have yet to go back to the diner. Quinn's words echo in my head every night and I become more and more conflicted. "Stop messing with her head or do something to fix it."

Hadn't she already done that? Fixed it? Fixed my mistakes? Gotten rid of me?

Is that what I'm meant to do now? Get rid of myself for her? Leave town? Leave her?

And yet as I leave work I take the train and get off a block away from the diner. My feet move on their own bringing me places I shouldn't go.

I find myself in the diner standing with my hands in my jacket pocket awkwardly.

"Santana?" I hear questioned in a voice that my ears know so well. She walks up to me and I offer up a smile. It's all I can offer up because she's looking at me with big concerned eyes and I realize I shouldn't be doing this. I didn't know the chaos that I was spreading on her life; but I did.

"I'm sorry," I mutter and she looks confused. Her eyes almost begging me for something.

"The bracelet," she says pulling mine from her apron, "This is yours." Brittany reaches for my arm and pulls my hand from my pocket making my skin burn all over making my body slowly high even with the smallest contact as she clasps the bracelet against my wrist. "They're kind of like hand cuffs, aren't they?" she says while my heart breaks.

She is still Brittany and we are still bound by the handcuffs around our hearts.

"I'm trying to remember," she tells me looking down nervously, "Whatever you're trying to remind me of, I'm trying to remember."

"I'm sorry," I repeat the phrase beginning to wear thin against my lips.

"I'm not," Brittany tells me as she leads me to my table.

I take a seat and don't remove my jacket. I'm not staying.

"Coffee, to go."

You don't know what you've had until you've lost it. That's what they say.

I remember those nights I spent desperately trying to find a way to make Brittany remember me. I remember staying up to find some kind of loop hole in her mind. I remember making list after list of any possible item, smell, or sound that could possibly trigger a memory of me. I remember the nights at my dinner table empty of food and full of scrapped ideas. I remember sneaking out of my mind and into sleep only when I've exhausted my body to the point of no return. I remember sneaking back into reality reluctantly more tired than before sleep happened.

I remember trying to hate Brittany. I remember trying to hate myself for letting our relationship pass us by.

I remember fighting for her.

I don't remember when I started to believe that it was time to say goodbye. I don't remember when I began to doubt that love could conquer all. I don't remember giving up on the fairy tale. Brittany would be disappointed in me. She would be so disappointed.

The liquor store screams my name as I walk home.

I scream my name once I'm home and locked in the safety of my bathroom.

"Santana!" I scream trying to remember who I am. Who I was. Who I should be.

"God damn you bitch," I yell at my reflection, "It's not okay. You're not okay. Let her go. You're just a bitch, let her go. It's time to say goodbye. She doesn't want you. She erased you. She fucking hates you and you fucking hate her. It's better this way, don't you understand? It's better this way. Run away. You're just a scared little girl, run away."

I spit and slur my words with venom and I'm thankful no one can see me this way yet terrified at seeing myself. I want to know who I am but I'm scared of who I am.

I'm Santana Lopez drunk and alone in a dimly lit bathroom yelling at herself in a mirror. Makeup runs down my face while my hair is matted to my cheeks with tears. I am not me. I can't look myself in the eyes because I'm scared.

"She's not yours anymore," I scream shocked at the words coming out of that girl's mouth. Who the fuck does she think she is?

"I don't believe you!" I swing hard at my face and only hear the sound of shattering glass. I leave the bathroom and somehow find my bed. I cry looking at my nightstand. The picture of Brittany that sits there is disappointed in me. I know it. I know it because even if I don't know who I am, she does. Brittany knows who I am. Her pale blue eyes linger on me and I can't help but reach for the picture and chuck it across the room as I pray for sleep.

I do remember when my fight became a flight, however. It all ended with coffee. Black coffee. To go.