Chapter 9: sí, estoy triste

Dear Journal,

I can't remember the last time I had sex. I can't remember where I was, whom I was with, or whether it was good or not. All I know is that Skye was nowhere near when it happened.

I remember sweat and panting and grunting and the slight smell of alcohol on the woman's breath, and then, blackness. Followed by the blackness, there was guilt and regret and self-hatred, but that didn't stop me from doing it again.

It happened so many times, it eventually became unhealthy. I'm no sex-addict. I couldn't have been with more than five or six women in total. I have no excuse for my actions. I would just find myself with nothing to do, head over to the nearest gay bar, and pick up whichever woman looked my way first.

No one ever asked for ID or my age, and I didn't ask them. It just sort of happened; a quickie in the bathroom, a one night stand in some woman's apartment, anything, really.

I wasn't searching for release, orgasms, or pleasure. Quite the contrary, actually. I didn't want to feel. I didn't want to feel good either. And I didn't want to remember my transgressions the morning after. All I really wanted was something to fill the empty hole in my chest after Jose went away.

I'm only seventeen, so why was this happening to me?

My therapist, Dr. Rosenthal, a short, stumpy German man with fat fingers, said I wasn't a sex-addict because I didn't enjoy the euphoria of the sexual activity, or seek any pleasure from the sexual experiences.

So, maybe I was a masochist? That was my next thought. This diagnosis, though, was eventually disproven as well.

The sex thing was just one of my many problems. I was originally at therapy to talk about my anger, but somehow I'd started talking about sex with my girlfriend and sex without my girlfriend and the differences and if you ever tell my parents, doctor, I swear to God I'll stop coming to therapy.

I still don't know if he told them, but let's look at the facts; my mom knows what happened with me and Skye, and I am in a different country for trying to steal an At-Home STD test kit, so it's quite possible they sensed-

"Hey, you."

You slam your journal shut. You take a breath. You will your damn heart to stop thumping so fucking hard in your chest. Then, carefully, you look up. "Hi," you say, quite breathlessly from your mini heart attack.

Sometimes, when you write, you forget you're in public. Your brain stops producing logical thoughts, your mind starts wandering. It happens fast and without much warning, making it easy for people with light footsteps and blonde hair to sneak up on you with that brilliant smile of hers.

You glance around and nod to yourself.

(Good, you're still sitting in front of Café de Esperanza.)

"You okay?" Quinn asks, flipping her bangs out of her face with just the shake of her head. "Look quite startled there."

"Not startled, just surprised," you clarify while discreetly tucking your journal into your messenger bag. "What are you doing here anyway? Thought you had volunteer work today."

"I did," she says, shifting her backpack higher on her shoulders. "Puck and I made a deal. I come to the market and buy his favorite cashews, and he picks up my shift for me."

You nod, because it seems like a pretty good deal to you. "So, win-win."

"Kinda," Quinn sighs, shaking the can of cashews in her hand. "Except these nuts are super expensive. I just didn't feel like working today."

Your eyebrow quirks unwillingly. "What did you feel like doing today?"

"Actually," she singsongs coyly, plopping down beside you, so close that you can almost smell the type of shampoo she uses. "I was on my way to see you. Thought maybe we could continue what we started the other day."

It sounds like she's flirting, because Quinn is always flirting. You suppose she just can't help that she's a naturally flirtatious person. Like Puck said, she likes to touch and smile and wink and lick those delectable lips of hers. Most of the time, she's doing it unknowingly, which is quite a bummer indeed.

Quinn's definitely not easy, but she sure is easy to fall for. You don't want to hurt her by falling too deep too soon, so right now, in this moment, you promise to keep your lovestruck self under control.

"Which is?" you prompt, unsure of what she's talking about, because the two of you always seem to get interrupted.

"Oh, c'mon, you remember..." She rotates her wrist in a think harder fashion, so you do, you really do try to think harder, but nothing's coming to you at the moment. "Today is the day?" Quinn continues, raising her eyebrows to her hairline.

"Oh."

It finally comes to you, and now you feel quite stupid, because that was just two days ago, but life and such has been slipping from your mind recently. You still don't know what she means by today is the day, but it seems you're going to have to wait a little bit longer to find out.

You wince sympathetically. "Hate to burst your bubble, but I can't right now," you tell her, reaching into your bag to take out the post-it note your aduelita gave you this morning. "My grandma sent me on mission impossible; a mission I have put off for about three hours now."

Quinn takes the piece of paper out of your hand, smiling crookedly once her eyes have scanned the sloppy script. "Mamá Maravilla," is all she says before handing the paper back.

You look at the paper. You look at Quinn. "What?"

"Mamá Maravilla," she repeats, as if this should mean something to you. "This is her address, which is also the only farm in town. Why are you going there?"

Racking your brain, you struggle to remember what your grandmother told you this morning. "To pick up some...pollos?" Rolling her eyes, Quinn lets out a nasally laugh, and you smile, because you kind of love it when she laughs like that. "What's so funny?"

"Do you have money with you?" she asks skeptically.

"No," you admit, feeling a bit sheepish. "Abuelita didn't give me any. She said they were free."

"Nothing from Mamá Maravilla is free." Quinn chuckles again, and you're not sure whether there are caterpillars or butterflies in your stomach, because they both kind of feel the same.

You don't get it. "Then why did-"

Interrupting, Quinn adds, "She doesn't let people take any of her animals unless she does a read on you first."

"A read?"

"Yeah, she's a gypsy slash fortune teller slash farmer," Quinn explains, and although this is the stupidest thing you've ever heard, you listen anyway.

(Because what reason would Quinn have to lie to you?)

"And she only speaks Spanish," she continues, a wry smirk stretching across her cheeks, and you know what this smirk entails. She's up to something. You can feel it in your bones.

"Quinn," you begin, pinching your lips together in thought. "Since you obviously have nothing better to do, would you mind accompanying me to this mysterious address?"

"Hmm..." she contemplates, tapping the side of her beautifully defined jawline. "What's in it for me?"

Somehow, you saw this coming. "Can't you just help a poor soul out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I do that everyday."

"Fine," you concede, shifting on the bench so that you're now face to face. Her eyes are unwavering, set firmly on your own, but you're not that brave. Swallowing thickly, you glance to your right before refocusing your eyes on her bright hazels. "What do you want?"

"A secret," she says, without even a second of thought.

"A secret," you repeat, eyes still focused forward, and you're kind of proud of yourself for not backing down yet.

Quinn's gaze is intense, especially when she blinks all slow-like. "Tell me one of your deepest, darkest secrets," she whispers, and you would take a moment to wonder why she's whispering, but- "And I'll not only translate for you, but I'll lead the way to her house."

"Seriously? A secret?" Your gaze drops slightly, from her fiery eyes, to her cute little nose, to her glossy pink lips. You try to think of a secret of yours, but too many come rushing to your brain all at once. "Well, you already know that I'm gay."

Quinn harrumphs and leans an elbow over the bench. "That's no secret. I could tell you were gay after our second conversation," she says matter-of-factly, then adds, "Played you like a fiddle."

Your eyes snap up from a smirking pair of pink lips back to those eyes. You can't think straight, being this close to her and all. "Wait..." you trail off, inhaling one more whiff of Quinn's body mist before backing off some. "That's why you flirted with me?" You're not angry, just curious, but Quinn seems a little taken aback.

(Maybe it was your tone?)

"Don't tell me you're mad I flirted with you," she murmurs disbelievingly, but you're not really listening, more concentrated on replaying that day over in your mind when Quinn saved you from the toothless lady at the food stand. "Because, well, I just wanted to see what you'd-"

"I knew I wasn't imagining it," you whisper, mostly to yourself. "You were flirting with me then."

"Yes, I was flirting," Quinn interjects, and you smile, because you know she hates being left out, even when it's just the two of you and your thoughts. "You can't really blame me, though. You're kinda adorable."

"Adorable?"

"Yes," she says, nodding firmly, as if this is fact. "Now, back to the subject at hand."

It takes you a moment to remember what the subject at hand is. "I have no secrets," you easily fib.

(Lie?)

Crossing her legs, Quinn fills in the space you created a few minutes ago by scooting over. "I find that very hard to believe," she admits, pursing her lips enticingly, because somehow she knows you love her lips. "C'mon, don't you trust me?"

This feels like a test. You've never been very good at those. You probably would have failed most tests and quizzes in middle school if it wasn't for your brother. "I, um..." You bite your bottom lip, hard. Sweat gathers on your temple; you're not sure whether it's from the heat or your jangled nerves. "I tried...to rob a drug store."

(Whoa, it feels good to get that out.)

Cocking her head to the side in confusion, Quinn crinkles her nose and says, "That's...not the confession I was expecting."

You're sweating; the back of your neck is soaked, and you're pretty sure your collarbone is glistening under the hot sun. You'll start boiling like a fried egg soon if you don't get your nerves under control.

"I knew it was a bad idea, I knew I shouldn't have, but I had to, in a way. I was embarrassed, and no one could know about it, so I just acted," you ramble all in one breath, your face flushed a deep shade of red. "And I almost got away with it too, but this little kid saw me and started yelling that I was shoplifting, then the police showed up, and everything totally got blown out of proportion."

Silence follows your blurted confession. Your eyes are wide, cheeks burning hot, but Quinn just stares at you, blinks a few times and asks, "What did you steal?" Her voice is so soft and understanding, as if she's some kleptomaniac who's been through a similar ordeal.

Completely floored, all you can really do is shrug a shoulder and say, "I didn't...steal it." There's another pause as you just silently look at each other. "Exactly..."

"Okay," Quinn responds, sliding her arm over the back of the bench until she's lightly touching your arm. "What did you try to steal?"

(Admitting you have a problem is the first step, you hear Dr. Rosenthal recite in the back of your head.)

"I-I don't really want to talk about it," you tell her, because even after months of therapy and isolation, it's still a touchy subject. Standing abruptly and quite possibly startling Quinn in the process, you drape your messenger bag over your shoulder and jut your chin down the pathway. "So, I told you my secret. Can we go now?"

Quinn stands too, albeit less frantically, and nods. "Lead the way."

"I thought you were leading."

"Oh." She smiles weakly. "Right."

"Qué?"

(Sometimes, you really wish you paid attention in Spanish class.)

"Chick-en," you say again, slower this time.

Resting a hand on your shoulder, Quinn steps up with that charming smile of hers and whispers, "Pollo," into your ear.

"Right," you nod, shuffling your feet on the welcome mat. "I mean pollo. Sí."

Quinn chuckles, and you would take a moment to blush in embarrassment if you weren't so annoyed with the woman standing in front of you, blocking the doorway like some kind of strict bouncer.

"Let me handle this," she whispers into your ear again.

Nodding silently, you back away from the porch and take a deep breath to relieve your frustration. With your arms folded stubbornly, you watch and listen as Quinn and the elderly woman who looks a lot like a Mexican Whoopi Goldberg (in a gold turban) chat back and forth and back and forth.

By the time Quinn turns back to you, it's been about five whole minutes of speedy conversation, and just, you're totally lost now, unsure of what anything means anymore. "What did she say?" you ask, glancing over Quinn's shoulder.

"Like I predicted, she wants to do a reading on both of us," she tells you.

"Fuck," you sigh, and hope this doesn't take as long as it sounds.

"Fuck indeed." Interlacing her fingers with yours, Quinn winks and tugs you along, whispering, "C'mon."

Very reluctantly, you enter the small home behind Quinn. It's dark and dreary, and you've never physically been to a farm before, but you know they look nothing like this; dusty paintings hang from the walls, purple and red rugs lay in random places all over the ground, strange decorations like voodoo dolls and elephant tusks sit on high shelves.

Keeping your eyes wide open and alert, you grasp onto Quinn's hand tighter and follow her and the old woman into a small room. A giant chair with bedazzled jewels attached to the edges sits behind a desk. You dubiously eye the tarot cards and crystal balls scattered around the room as you sit crossed leg on a burgundy rug beside Quinn.

"Where're the animals?" you whisper under your breath, watching closely as Mamá Maravilla scampers around the stuffy room.

Quinn leans to the side, nudging you in the shoulder teasingly. "Probably in the backyard," she whispers back. "Why? You scared?"

Rolling your eyes, you nudge her back. "No, I'm not scared," you scoff, smirking to yourself, because ha, that's the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard. "What's she doing?"

"Searching for her black pot to cook you in."

"Stop it," you whimper; not because you're scared, though.

(Cannibalism is just really gross. That's why.)

"I knew you were scared," Quinn chuckles, pinching your sides, and you squirm away from her, because it's mostly her who's scaring you right now. "San, chill out. All she's gonna do is read our palms, say some stuff we already know, and then give us a dead chicken."

Scooting back over, you take the hand Quinn offers you and let out a breath of air when she squeezes reassuringly. The two of you wait another five to seven minutes as Mamá Maravilla sets out over a dozen candles and dims the lights in preparation for the ceremony.

(And you make sure to keep an eye out for any black pots.)

With a wicked grin, Mamá Maravilla kneels before you. She takes your hand first, and you almost flinch when she starts to rub a cold, blue gel over your fingers. "This is gross," you deadpan, cringing in disgust. "What is this?"

"No idea," Quinn mumbles, squinting her eyes curiously, and you're this close to pulling your hand away and running out the house, but Mamá Maravilla starts talking, and all you can really make out are the words viva and mucho.

"What's she saying?" you ask Quinn, eyes glued to your gooey hands.

"She says your hands are dry and you should really consider moisturizing them."

Ducking your head, you narrow your eyes on hazel. "Two words, Q," you whisper, eyebrows furrowed. "Bull. Shit."

Quinn lolls her head sideways and looks you in the eyes with a soft expression. "She said you've faced a lot of hardship and struggle in your life, but there's a guardian angel over your shoulder here to turn things around," she explains, squeezing your fingers again. "I don't know. Something along those lines."

Mamá Maravilla hands you a hand towel to wipe off all of the nasty blue stuff. You don't think too much into what she said. Sure, it's all true, but you suppose this crazy, old woman says the same thing to all of her clients.

(After all, what kind of person doesn't go through struggles and hardships in their life?)

Mamá Maravilla takes Quinn's hand next. There's a bit of silence, some mumbled words in Spanish, then out of absolutely nowhere, the old woman starts talking louder and louder with this huge, giddy grin on her face. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Quinn blushing as she shakes her head furiously before responding in a bashful whisper.

Discreetly glancing in your direction, Mamá Maravilla just winks before dropping Quinn's hand and walking out of the room. The door slams on her way out, and Quinn flinches slightly.

Slowly, Quinn lets go of your hand and rubs her palms on her thighs. Your fingers are a bit sweaty, and you arch an eyebrow when you realize the sweat is not your own.

"What was that all about?" you ask her, carefully standing up from the rug.

"Um, I..." Quinn mumbles, standing up after you, and you wait and wait and wait, until it becomes quite apparent that she's stalling and obviously making something up from the top of her head. "She just said I'm too impulsive and crave an adventurous life or something. Nothing significant. I already knew that."

You knit your brows together, reluctant to believe the bull she's spewing. "You sure that's all?"

Quinn nods, obviously flustered. "Yup," she nods again. "That's all."

Flip the lighter open. Blazing fire. Hot, hot, hot. Burn, baby, burn. Flip the lighter closed.

Open.

Closed.

Flick.

Tsk.

Flick.

Tsk.

You take out a cig, light it up, and smoke it like a chimney.

He's staring at the back of your head; you can feel his heavy gaze focused on you, determined. Shifting restlessly on the porch step, you slap the back of your neck when a mosquito bites.

(You hate those fucking vampire bugs.)

Closing your eyes, you inhale the bitter smell of your cigarette. There's nothing better than a good smoke on a cool Sunday morning. Behind you, Mowgli clears his throat. Somehow, you don't think he agrees, especially when he needlessly clears his throat every time you take a drag.

Rolling your eyes, you crane your neck sideways and smirk. "Want one?" you offer, shaking the box of cigs noisily, just to irritate him further.

Mowgli huffs and turns up his nose. "Nope."

"Suit yourself," you singsong, shrugging a shoulder as you tuck the pack of cigarettes back into your pocket.

"You realize what smoking does, right?" he asks after a few minutes of silence.

You consider his question. "Makes nerds look cool?"

"No."

"Makes lesbians look butch?"

"No."

"Makes boring Sundays less boring?"

"Santana," he sighs, sounding exhausted. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." You've never been more serious in your entire life than you are right now. Seriously. "I never told you this, but I get anxious. Smoking gives me something to do with my hands. It takes the focus off my body and switches it to my thoughts."

(Your body is a weapon, used for destruction and pleasure, Santana. Your thoughts are a maze, used for interpreting and deciphering.)

You hate it when Dr. Rosenthal enters your mind like this. You thought you had left him back in downtown Houston, but it seems he boarded an airplane, snuck into your head, and travelled all the way to Mexico with you.

"Wait," Mowgli squints his eyes, trying to understand. "So, you're saying that smoking..."

He trails off, puzzled, so you pick up his slack. "Takes me away, helps me think-"

"Extinguishes your craving."

You snuffle, amused. "Excuse me?"

"I wrote a thesis paper on smoking last year," he explains, seeming pretty smug about it all.

"You? Wrote a thesis paper?"

"I'm eleven, not stupid."

(He's said this about five times this summer. Each time it's said, the words make less and less sense.)

You shrug, careless either way. "Okay."

"Smoking causes lung cancer," he continues, rocking back in his chair. "Do you really want lung cancer?"

"Obviously not," you mutter, because what you want is for this conversation to be over now. "What kinda sicko wants lung cancer?"

"Orange juice and video games."

"Orange juice and video games want lung cancer," you deadpan, flicking some ash off the tip of your cigarette. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"I read online that orange juice and video games help smokers who're trying to quit," he explains, sending a disgusted look to the cigarette as you place it between your lips and inhale deeply. "Supposedly, orange juice tastes bad with cigarettes, and video games give you something to do with your hands to feel less anxious. Just an idea if you ever feel like quitting."

Actually, you have considered quitting in the past, but you're a little full of disdain this morning, so with an exhausted yawn, you mutter, "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."

"Anytime, Amy Winehouse," he replies, letting out a heavy sigh. There's a pause, and you almost thank God for shutting him up, until Mowgli nudges you in the back with his foot and says, "Hey, look who it is."

As usual, the sun is glaring today, so you have to shield your eyes from the sky to see who's approaching. "Well, well, well," you smirk, raising your eyes more and more the closer she gets. "If it isn't my good friend, Q."

"Hola, Quinn," Mowgli says, jutting his chin in acknowledgment.

"Gabriel," Quinn greets, nodding in return. "San." Her eyes linger on you with that intense gaze in her irises; you wonder if she looks at all of her friends like that.

She drops a pair of dark shades over her eyes, thus hiding her sparkling hazels from sight. Her dusty brown boots kick at the ground, creating a cloud of dirt, causing you to cough from both the dust and the swirls of smoke coming from your lit cigarette.

"You alright there?" Quinn smirks, shoving a hand into the pocket of her ripped jeans.

"Peachy."

She nods, accepting your lie, and turns to Mowgli with a bag of shriveled pomegranates. You don't know why he likes those things so much; they're dry and wrinkly and gross. Quinn doesn't like them either, so you suspect she only picks them up as an excuse to see you, or because she's just a naturally good person.

(This time, you secretly hope it's the former.)

It's Sunday, and it's really really really hot, so you remain silent as Mowgli and Quinn talk about the sale on salmon and swordfish at the fish market. The sound of their laughter and light conversation easily calms your racing thoughts. You begin to peacefully drift off while smoking the rest of your cigarette, until you feel a kick on the side of your foot.

Opening your eyes, you warily stare up at Quinn's lopsided smile. "What?"

"Get up," she demands.

Releasing a line of smoke into the air, you lean back instead. "Why?"

"Today is the day."

"And so was yesterday, last week, and the week before that."

Quinn shrugs a helpless shoulder. "Our schedules have just been off," she says, glancing behind you, at Mowgli, probably. "But since we're both not busy today, I figured-"

You arch an eyebrow and challenge, "Who says I'm not busy?"

"Gabriel says," Mowgli speaks up, much to your chagrin. "She's not busy, Quinn. Just slowly killing her lungs one cigarette at a time."

Quinn crosses her arms and thoughtfully eyes the smoking cig in between your fingers. "I think it makes her look sexy," she smirks, taking a step closer, and your heart hammers so hard in your chest you can feel it thumping against your back.

"How about butch?" Mowgli asks.

You whip your head sideways and growl, "Mo..."

"Yeah, that too," Quinn agrees.

"I hate you both."

"You love us," Mowgli says, then under his breath, whispers, "Some more than others."

"Mo," you warn, gritting your teeth.

"What?" he exasperates, raising his hands. "It's not my fault there's a damn foot in your mouth. Just tell her."

As you withhold from wrapping your fingers around Mowgli's neck, Quinn eyes the two of you suspiciously. "Tell me what?"

"That she likes your tits," Mowgli blurts, chuckling when you shoot up from the porch step, annoyance in your eyes.

"You little twerp," you sneer, giving chase once Mowgli dashes out of the rocking chair and hops over the railing. "If you don't get the fuck away from here right now, I promise, you will never learn the true function of your penis, and believe me, peeing isn't the only one."

You chase him halfway down the road until he disappears, and it's a wonder how anyone deals with little brothers. You could barely deal with your older one, and now, look, he's gone.

You follow her footprints in the sand. She won't tell you where she's taking you, but you don't mind. You'd follow her to the moon and back.

Quinn walks a few steps ahead of you as she leads you across the shoreline. You'd never admit it aloud, but your eyes linger on her ass as you walk. Every time she peeks over her shoulder, you have to look off into the ocean, feigning oblivion.

She giggles, because of course she knows, and sometimes you even think she's doing it on purpose; swaying her hips back and forth, running her tongue over her bottom lip, combing her fingers through her short, blonde locks.

The smirk on her thin lips easily gives it all away. Quinn thinks she's a pro at keeping her emotions hidden, but truthfully she's not as good as she thinks. You know all about keeping stuff hidden. You did it for months, once upon a time. You don't remember when you began building these walls; all you know is that you learned from the best.

Taking a few long strides, you easily catch up to Quinn in about five steps. She smiles at you with those glisteningly white teeth, and you can't help but bashfully duck your head and shove your hands into your pockets.

Days ago, you promised yourself to stop falling under Quinn's magical spell. You promised to keep your emotions in check, because what kind of lesbian wants to fall in love with their only friend?

(Their only straight friend.)

Not you, that's for sure. You're not going to ruin a good thing. You've done too much of that in the past. You've put your own personal feelings before the people you care deeply about, and all that's done is cause tears and heartbreak and more tears.

Ironically, none of those tears belonged to you, considering you never cry. It was mostly Skye who did the crying.

(You can't really blame her.)

Quinn says something from beside you, but you don't hear, still caught up in your thoughts about the past. You're trying to let go, because there's nothing you can do about it now. The past is in the past, and you should move on, because life moves on. Simple terminology, right? You can't get stuck in a place that no longer exists.

"San," you hear, and then again, but louder this time, "Santana."

"Hm?"

"We're here."

Breaking out of your thoughts, you look ahead.

You're at a cave.

"Why are we at a cave?"

"It's not just any ordinary cave," Quinn says, and you eye her skeptically, because it kind of looks like every ordinary cave at the end of a shoreline; dark and damp and eerily silent.

You peek inside, grimacing at the thick scent of seaweed and fish. "Looks pretty ordinary to me," you shrug.

Sighing through her nose, Quinn wraps her fingers around your forearm, and you try to dig your heels into the sand as she drags you along. Like you said before, you'd follow Quinn to the moon and back, but you never said anything about dark, dreary caves.

"If you follow me, you'll see just how unordinary this cave really is," Quinn promises, tapping you on the tip of your nose. "Don't judge a book by its cover."

At the entrance of the cave, you slip your arm out of Quinn's loose grip and crinkle your nose. "Never deemed you the cliché type, Q."

Leaving you behind, Quinn continues to trek through the sand. "What do you have against caves anyway?"

"Just," you start, then stop, because you never even realized you had something against caves until this very moment. "Whenever I think of caves, the word Batman immediately comes to mind, then the word vampire bat, so."

"Got something against vampires too?"

"Can't have something against mystical creatures, because they don't exist."

Quinn sighs, and you'd think she was annoyed with you if it wasn't for the smile stretched across her cheeks. "So, are you coming or not?" she asks, arching a brow. With a crease in your forehead, you consider the consequences of following a girl you've only known for a month into a dark and musty cave.

"Coming," you say.

It's official; you'll only ever be friends with Quinn. You know this is true, because when you finally agree to enter the cave, Quinn grins excitedly, wraps her arms around your neck, and pecks you on the cheek, but it doesn't mean a damn thing to her.

(Though it means the world to you.)

On the outside, you freeze, but on the inside, there's molten lava flowing through your veins. Quinn doesn't seem to notice as she takes your hand and pulls you inside the cave. Turns out, there are no bats or gruppy little worms hanging around inside, though the salty scent does leave you feeling suspicious.

"I found this place about three years ago when I was a freshmen," she says, dragging you further and further into the darkness. So much blackness surrounds you, you can't even see your left hand. "It was my first volunteer trip. Puck and I were bored at the motel, so we decided to go exploring."

You don't really want to hear about Puck. You like it when she talks about her past, but it kind of sucks that Puck's a pretty big chunk of that. "So," you whisper, because, for some reason, it always seems necessary to stay quiet in the darkness. "You and Puck. What's that about?"

You try to say it as nonchalant as possible, but you don't think you succeeded when Quinn abruptly drops your hand. "What's what about?"

"You and Puck," you say again, feeling up the cave walls. "And where did you go?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because I can't see."

"No," Quinn exasperates, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say you hit a nerve. "I meant, why do you care about Puck and I so much?"

"I don't care abo-"

You crash into a wall. It hurts like a motherfucker. Before you can fall to the damp cave floor, though, firm arms stretch out and wrap around your waist. You can't feel your nose, your temples are throbbing, and something thick and liquidy that tastes a lot like copper seeps through your lips.

"San," you hear, soft and distant. "Are you okay?"

"I think I'm bleeding," you mumble, falling into Quinn's arms even further. You can't tell the difference between the darkness surrounding you and the darkness clouding your brain. All you can feel is Quinn's hands all over your body, and you smile, a bit dazed.

The light, the light. You can see the light. They always say, don't go into the light, but Quinn's taking you there, so you ignore that voice inside your head and continue to drag your feet through the cold, wet sand until the brightness of the sun shines through a hole in the ceiling of the cave. Squinting your eyes, you gaze up at the gaping hole and stare wonderingly at the narrow waterfall sliding down against the cave wall and into a small stream.

Quinn seats you on a stone near the pool of water, and you try your hardest not to fall forward, still feeling a bit lightheaded. The whole world feels like a dizzy place, and you briefly hope you're not concussed or anything, because you heard those can be pretty dangerous.

"You don't think I see you, but I do," Quinn says, sitting down next to you.

You smile lazily, trying to keep your eyes open as long as possible. "We're out of the dark now," you slur, leaning into Quinn's hands when she starts wiping some of the blood off your lips with a wet handkerchief. "Of course you can see me, silly."

"You're sad," she continues, caressing your cheeks with the palm of her hand. "I can tell."

You narrow your eyes, but that kind of hurts your brain, so you stop doing that. "You don't know anything," you mumble, slowly closing your eyes, because if you close them too fast, they may never open again.

"You're depressed, San," Quinn sighs, actually sounding concerned about your well-being, and you suppose you'd be super happy right now if you weren't about to pass out. "Tell me I'm wrong, S. Tell me."

Ducking your head into her smooth hands as she continues to stroke your cheeks with the pad of her thumb, you whisper, "You're wrong."

Quinn can only smirk as she pulls her hands away. "Do you always do what you're told?"

Dear Journal,

I don't always do what I'm told, but with Quinn, I can't help it. She's right. I am sad. She's right. I am depressed.

At least, that's what Dr. Rosenthal said.

I've always refused to accept it. I've always refused to take the medication, because all it would do is put me in a haze.

I still don't know what's wrong with me. I fall too easily, and then once I'm finally grounded, I ruin everything by starting an earthquake.

I don't want to pull Quinn in with me. I don't want to mess her up like I did Skye. I want to stay away, but something tells me I'm not even doing the chasing; Quinn's only going fast enough for me to catch up.

"Quinn," you say.

"Santana," she answers.

"It's insane how much a banana looks like an erection," you muse, eyes glued to a fruit stand on your way down the pathway.

Quinn nods in agreement, seemingly distracted. "Especially when it's tilted in the right direction."

"Or the north direction."

"Or the north direction," Quinn echoes, continuing to nod her head, and you take a moment to wonder what she's thinking about. Her eyes are focused forward, so you follow her line of vision, but she doesn't seem to be looking at anything in particular. "Do you like bananas, San?"

This feels like one of those questions with a double meaning, but a week ago, you told Quinn you were a lesbian, so maybe this is only a single meaning question. Nevertheless, you shrug a shoulder and say, "Bananas are cool if you're into them, I guess, but I much rather prefer honeydew melons."

Quinn chuckles lightly and shakes her head. "I didn't mean penises and breasts," she says simply, and you almost choke on your saliva. "Do you likebananas? Like, the fruit?"

"Oh, um..." you trail off, searching for the right words, but when the right words don't come, you end up saying the truth, which is, "Yeah, I like bananas. They're pretty tasty."

Quinn looks down and frowns at her Polaroid camera. She picks it up, inspects the lenses, and fiddles with the flash. You wonder if she heard what you just said, but you guess it doesn't really matter, because Quinn's mind is already focused on something else.

"I've always wanted to do something crazy," she whispers, as you continue to walk down the dusty pathway, her camera in front of her face as she snaps a quick shot of a couple enjoying a cup of ice cream sherbet.

Quinn's not looking your way, but you shrug your shoulders anyway. "I'm something crazy," you mumble, mostly to yourself, but apparently Quinn hears, because she laughs, and you're happy it's dark enough where she can't see your cheeks heating up.

"Oh, really?" Quinn leans into your side to nudge you in the shoulder.

You miss her warmth as soon as she retreats, recreating the strolling distance between your bodies. In a teasing manner, you lean over and nudge her back. "Really..." you singsong, knocking her a little harder than you intended.

(Sometimes, you don't know your own strength.)

"San!" Quinn gasps out a laugh and stumbles over a little, chuckling loudly when you step up to her and wrap your arms around her so she doesn't fall to the ground.

It's a bold move on your end, but then again, you've always been a little bit crazy, just like you pointed out before. "I've got you," you whisper into her ear, smirking at the way she snuggles into your body, trying to play it off as if she's just holding onto you for balance. "Comfy, are we?"

Quinn playfully pushes you away, and the both of you go back and forth like this as you chase each other up and down the pathway, laughing like you just heard the best joke ever, no doubt getting some negative attention from the natives.

Out of breath from running and laughing, you both plop down on a nearby bench to catch your breath, but your breath just ends up getting caught in your throat when Quinn throws her legs over your lap and scoots forward as she continues to silently giggle to herself.

You're still not sure what's so funny, but you laugh along with her, because it's impossible to not be amused by the lazy smirk on her lips.

Quinn chuckles a little bit more before slowly calming down. The sight of her laughing; it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. If you had a camera, you'd definitely take a picture of this moment and keep it in your pocket forever.

You're both silent, listening to the sounds of the tourists and cicadas in the background as it starts to get dark out. "Today is my dad's birthday," she sighs, after a couple minutes of silence. You sit and wait for to say more while carefully trailing a finger down her tanned leg, all the way to her boney ankles.

"Yeah?" you say, when Quinn doesn't continue.

Quinn sighs again. "Yeah," she whispers solemnly. "And I almost forgot."

"I'm sure he won't mind. Did you talk to him today?"

"I talk to him everyday."

"That's good," you say, because it is good; maybe you should talk to your dad more often. "What's today anyway?"

"August tenth."

"Happy birthday, Quinn's dad."

Quinn smiles, but it just looks so sad. "Happy b-day, Daddy."

Her hair is blowing in the wind, and you realize, quite vividly, that the season is summertime and it's warm and you're in a different country and Quinn is sitting next to you. Something bubbles up in your chest, and whatever it is you can't restrain it.

Your chest feels tight, and you can't stop staring at Quinn no matter how hard you try to pull your eyes away. Suddenly, life is moving by too fast, but you want it to stop, just for a moment, just so you can stare at Quinn a little bit longer. Without thinking, because thinking is for squares, you're lurching across the bench, forcefully crashing your lips against hers.

Her lips are soft and full against your own, just like you imagined, but there's something wrong. You're kissing her, but she's not kissing you, her lips completely still against your own, and when you pull back, Quinn's just staring at you with this unreadable expression.

Your heart beats hard in your throat, and you feel nauseous, like you have to puke. She doesn't say anything, just stares at you, hazel eyes wide in surprise. You don't say anything either and stare back, an itching heat burning up your neck.

The world has always been a dizzy place for you, full of confusion and puzzles, but tonight it's even harder to steer clear of heartbreak and pain, because you can physically feel your heart ripping in half at this very moment.

You really thought she would kiss you back. You really thought she's been feeling the same feelings you've been feeling. You really believed she'd confess her love for you after the separation of one of the most spectacular kisses known to man.

Nothing you thought or believed would happen, happens. You're crushed, even more than when Ana O'Reilly forced you out of the closet in the ninth grade because, according to her, what's the point of being in the closet if you leave the door WIDE open?

You left the door WIDE open for Quinn, but she seems to have missed your heart, running straight through the wall, leaving a Quinn-shaped hole right in the middle of your chest.

Clearing your throat, you push her legs off your lap and stand. Quinn tries to say something, tries to stop you from leaving, but you don't listen, more focused on dashing off into the night in a mixture of humiliation and defeat.