He broke up with her on a Saturday night. It was towards the end of Spring and that particular day had been one of those days where nothing seemed to go right. She had woken up late, missed an audition for a walk in role for some crime show she couldn't remember the name of (TV shows tend to run into one another after the hundredth audition), and Al had once again abandoned her for his new man whom she had yet to be introduced to. Predictably, the day had ended with the beginnings of her time of the month. Rachel Berry was in a foul mood. She had spent the night alone, curled up in a fetal position on her bed, a hot water bottle pressed firmly against her stomach and groaning in pain every ten minutes. She was hungry, she was in a lot of pain and she was miserable. So, when he finally called her at eleven thirty, she had brightened up considerably, hoping that his voice would be able to help her out of her current state of despondency.
She should have known form the way he said hello that everything was going to end in disaster. But he had been in a funk all week as a result of his failing grade and she had assumed it was just a continuation of that. Her greeting hadn't been too felicitous either as she gritted her teeth to hold back another groan. He didn't seem to notice the distress in her voice however and had gone right for the jugular. She couldn't comprehend his words for the longest time. "What do you mean, over?" she had asked stupidly. He couldn't mean over, over. Could he? They were in love and they had been in love forever. And they were going to be in love for the rest of their lives. She knew that as surely as she knew that she was going to be the next big thing on Broadway. "Finn?" she persisted when he said nothing. He had sighed and whispered an I'm sorry and suddenly, Rachel was left with the dial tone ringing loudly in her ear, her pain forgotten.
At first she thought maybe it was just a stupid joke. They've been together for years and things that have been together for years don't end just like that. In fact, they just don't end. Ever. She had called him a total of twenty times and left three voicemails telling him in no uncertain terms that it was not funny and that he better call her back quick. When it was three in the morning and he was still ignoring her, Rachel thought maybe it was something she had done. She wrecked her brain, trying to find a possible explanation for his baffling phone call and found nothing. But she hadn't been that worried about it because they've done this before. And it never lasted for more than a week. As the unholy pain attacked her senses once again, she pushed the nagging worry to the back of her mind and dragged her body up to look for something to kill the pain.
She had texted him good morning the next day, pretending that nothing had happened. The monthly Night of Torture had finally ended and she woke up in better spirits. There was no reply. Throwing her phone down on the bed in a huff, Rachel had angrily stormed into the bathroom to get ready for her day. He was being ridiculous and immature. The least he could do was tell her what he was so mad about that he felt the need to put them in this 'Temporary Purgatory' again (She had dubbed the term after the second time they made up. Her daddy's penchant for dubbing things had somehow been passed on to her unwittingly.). She had complained incessantly to Al until he told her to shut up and just enjoy the day. She tried. Really.
Three days later, she realized this state of denial she had placed herself in was doing her no good. Things were different this time because all contacts seemed to have ceased. She knew she needed to do something, but what could she do when she was still unclear on why he was so upset in the first place ? Hence, after a whole day of contemplation, she finally sent a text apologising for her mistake, whatever it may have been, but could he please answer her calls so that they could discuss this like the rational, mature adults they have become? She smiled in relief when her next attempt wasn't in vain. He answered the phone half-heartedly, like he was tired. Well if he was so tired then he could just listen. She had prepared a speech. A long and sensible speech, listing down all the reasons why they should just make up already and not let this break go on any longer because it was pointless when they were only going to get back together anyway. She didn't go very far. Five minutes into her tirade, he had cut in with a simple phrase that seemed to stop her heart. "I can't do this anymore.".
Once again, she was the idiot one, unable to comprehend just what he meant by those words. He began saying things that didn't make any sense whatsoever in her mind. He wasn't right for her. She deserved better. They were different. He was bringing her down. It was like he was speaking in a different language. What was he talking about? What did he mean they were never going to make it? Haven't they already made it? Every word he said was like a blow to her heart and she could taste the tears that were running rapidly down her face. He had never said anything like this before, never told her any of it. Had he really felt this way all this time? Her silent tears soon gave way to broken sobs when she heard the break in his voice as he told her that it was for the best, that it was the best thing he could ever do for her. And once again, she was left with that dial tone echoing loudly in her brain. Dumbly, she realized he never heard the rest of her speech. It was a good one.
She woke up the next day with a pounding in her head and realized that she had fallen asleep crying. Her phone was still in her hand. She had stared at it obtusely, wondering if the conversation last night had actually happened or if it was just one long, horrible nightmare. In a daze, she had walked towards her vanity, wincing at the angry swell around her eyes and her pale complexion. It was definitely not a nightmare. During their customary Friday brunch, Al had exclaimed despairingly over her state of duress and asked her what was wrong. She assured him that she was fine, that it was just her stomach cramps keeping her up the night before. She had cut their meeting short, saying that her hormones were acting up. Rachel spent the rest of the day holed up on her couch in her sweats, his words playing over and over in her mind.
Two days later, she was thoroughly infuriated. He was being an idiot. The biggest idiot in the world. What did he mean it was for the best? How could it be the best when every day felt like the worst day of her life? How could it be for the best when just the thought of living without him leaves her in such a grave state of hyperventilation that she felt like she couldn't breathe and that she could die at any second? She told him so explicitly, imploring him to think this over, to end this torture on them both because she knew, knew with absolute conviction that he was sufferring too. His stubborn insistence to ignore her leaves her frustrated and had left her with a hole in the television and a broken picture frame for proof.
She left him fifteen voice messages, all with her hysterical sobs ranging from begging him to pick up the phone to cursing his very existence. She knew she was steadily losing it. Or unsteadily, as it were. She just needed to make him see this wasn't going to work. She wasn't going to work without him. One night, in a fit of anger and desperation she had yelled into her phone angrily, throwing his words back at him. Didn't he tell her once that he didn't give up easy? Didn't he say that he was going to be better? That he was going to spend his whole life trying to be better for her? He told her he was going to love her forever. He promised her he was going to love her forever. Forever meant until the end of time, not until he 'couldn't do it anymore'. After the fifth time she was cut off, Rachel dialed his number angrily, waiting for the voicemail and taking a deep breath, ready for another torrential outburst. His soft "Rachel" stopped her short.
He was crying. She knew he was crying by the hoarse way he was speaking to her. And he was stubborn. And he was adamant to break her heart. He was determined to reach into her chest, and grab her source of existence, and squeeze the life out of it. He was crushing it beneath his heel. "I'm tired," he told her, "of trying to keep up with you. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not enough for you, like I'm never going to be good enough for you." She began to protest but he pushed on obstinately, ignoring her defensive cries for him to listen to her. This was the best, he said stubbornly. It was the best for them both. It was the best for him. Her heart was a pile of dust under his feet. It wasn't broken. It was just gone, shattered into billions of minute pieces of dust.
"You're a coward," she told him quietly, her voice cold and crisp. He said nothing, and she could hear the sharp intake of breath that turned shorter and quicker as his breathing seemed to turn frantic.
"I know," he finally whispered, his voice broken. She was the one who hung up this time, letting the deafening tone of the dead line fill his ears. It took five minutes before her face crumbled and for her body to fall to the floor in a heap, the overwhelming sobs wreaking through her whole as she cried her wretched and broken tears.
Finn Hudson was apart of her definition. They were one halves of a whole. Their names were synonimous in her mind. And now he was gone. And she was alone.
She needed to find who she was without him.