Another bright idea I had: let's make this pre-Britanna. Just a fair warning.

The doctor had said that she had overdosed on xanax, a drug used by people with anxiety and panic issues. Because of her recently developed eating disorders, her body couldn't handle the drugs as they usually would. Santana had taken a few before she took a nap. How many, it was near impossible to tell.

Santana hadn't woken up from that nap yet.

It had been four hours since she had gotten to the hospital.

No one left until around eleven o'clock that night. Then, one by one as they had come in, the students and Mr. Shue tore themselves away, vowing to return the next day. Eventually, Santana was alone in her hospital room, except for one boy in the corner of the room, slowly dozing in the recliner, but fighting it in order to monitor the girl in the bed. He wasn't sure why. Did feel responsible for her? Was she like his little sister? Was he the reason she was there? No. Did he love her? Was he in love with her? Maybe. For whatever reason, he felt a draw to Santana Lopez. So Noah Puckerman remained in that chair all night.

At six o'clock the next morning, a cell phone went off, a little too loud for a hospital. Eyes closed, hoping with all he had that last night was a dream, Puck turned off the alarm that would usually

be followed by a string of curses and preparation for school.

On a normal day.

But when he opened one eye and saw the still sleeping and inanimate shell of Santana Lopez, he remembered.

This was no normal day.

Slowly stretching and waking up, Puck never lost focus on her.

What if this is it for her?

What if she doesn't make it?

What if she does make it, but only starts killing herself again?

What if there's nothing they can do anymore?

What if I'm unknowingly watching her last breaths?

What if she's not breathing?

What if, what if, what if, what if, what if...?

Those had been the thoughts that haunted Puck every morning since this girl began her downward spiral, followed by the same thoughts.

Why is she doing this to herself?

Why did they post that picture?

Why did they call her all those names?

Why doesn't she see how beautiful she is?

Why doesn't anyone tell her how beautiful she is?

Why can't I tell her how beautiful she is?

Why, why, why, why, why...?

Puck walked towards the bed and, careful not to mess anything up, he slipped his fingers through hers. Still warm, still living.

Growing stronger.

He listened to the heart monitor. The constant beeping slowly began to speed up. Looking at the little zigzagging line-he had taken a nap the day they learned about what exactly those lines are called and how they work in Med Class-he realized more frequents turns. Stronger turns. Looking down at Santana, Puck wanted nothing more than to see a mere flutter at her eyes, a twitch at her lip that usually hinted at a snarky comment forming, or a scrunch of her nose when she was obviously annoyed.

None of that happened.

What did happen was a sudden grip on his hand. Puck waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, he got that flutter. The soft, brown eyes he'd stared into for four years now opened. With that, Noah Puckerman realized one key thing.

He did actually love her.

So I have a thing for writing sentences

like

this...

Anyway, I hope its good because it doesn't really seem that good to me right now. As always, comments and favorites make me very, very happy:) xoxo