Friday, June 4th, 1999, 2:15 p.m.

The rosy air of the room shattered. At least in my mind, it did.

I pulled away, and she was smiling, but she stopped when she saw my face. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly, confused. Her cheeks were colored with heat, and her lips were red like cherries. I breathed quickly, but not because of the kiss. Panic boiled in my stomach.

She still hadn't said it back. Doubt spread through my mind, turning the pleasurable burn in my body to an anguished fire. I began to tremble.

She's using you, my brain screamed. She's just bored, Santana. Don't you understand? Do you really think you're that special?

I understood loud and clear. "You shouldn't have done that," I said lowly, looking at the floor.

"Wha–" Brittany started, blinking rapidly. "Santana, why? What are you talking about? That was–"

"You have to leave," I said, looking up to meet her eyes, even though I could barely keep it together. I fought back tears, balling my fists at my sides. "We shouldn't have done that." I was being impulsive. I knew it, but I didn't do anything about it. It was too late to control it.

"Santana," Brittany said desperately, trying to reason with me.

I walked towards her, forcing her to back up to the door. "Brittany," I pleaded. "Please go home." I looked away as the first tear slid down my nose. She reached out to wipe the tear away, but I stumbled backwards, brushing it from my cheek with my own hand. "Just go. I can't do this."

"No, San, please," Brittany begged, stepping towards me again. "You can," she insisted. I recoiled, shrinking back towards my bed again, putting even more distance between us. Brittany got the message and stopped. I couldn't stop my tears now, and Brittany was crying too. "I'm sorry!" she said, raising her voice. "We can pretend it didn't happen." She was close to sobbing. "Please!" Her tears ran down her cheeks, and she didn't bother to wipe them away. "Santana!"

"Get out!" I yelled, walking towards her, pointing towards my door. She cowered, afraid I would hurt her. I had no intention of hurting her. I would never, ever do that. But she had that look on her face, the one that I wish I hadn't seen before; she was petrified. The only place I had seen it before was when we were cramped together, hiding under a library table. I thought I was going to throw up. Guilt filled my chest and closed my throat, but I didn't react to it. I had to keep it locked inside.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't love Brittany. I don't know why I told her I did.

You're just confused, I told myself. That's all.

Brittany backed into the hallway, bumping against the wall in front of my door. She stared at me with wide eyes, waiting for me to do something, to apologize. I was in too deep to turn around. I stood with my hand on my bedroom door, watching her.

You can't love a girl. She's just your friend. She shouldn't have kissed you. She's just putting ideas in your head.

I wanted to scream, or puke, or both. I breathed heavily, still watching her. She hadn't moved from her position against the wall. Her hair was wet against her neck with tears, and her lips were still swollen and pink. She watched me, trying to predict my next move.

You don't need her. And she doesn't need you.

I slammed my bedroom door with a bang that resonated through the house. I heard her sobbing as she ran down the stairs.

7:30 p.m.

My mother found me five hours later. I hadn't moved from the center of my bedroom floor – not even to the area rug, which surely would have been more comfortable than the unyielding wood floor. I was curled up in the fetal position, still struggling to breathe. The sobs that wracked my body for hours had subsided, leaving me gasping on the floor like a fish out of water.

I fucked up.

I knew I had ruined everything, yet I couldn't seem to get enough oxygen to my brain to realize what I had done. I lay on the ground, moaning quietly. My head pounded. All I could think about was Brittany's face right before I slammed the door.

What have I done?

I didn't even move when I heard the car in the driveway, or when my mom yelled up the stairs asking where the hell her dinner was. I just trembled on the floor, a victim of my own stupidity. I touched my lips, remembering how Brittany's felt against them. How had I pushed her away?

Knowing I had to get up before my mom found me, I extended my arms, trying to get onto my hands and knees to stand up. I couldn't do it, and I collapsed on the floor. New tears sprang to my eyes, proving that I hadn't exhausted my supply of them. The light outside was fading fast. It was almost dark when I heard her footsteps on the stairs. My mom burst into the room.

"Santana? Why didn't you make–" she started to ask, flinging the door open. I couldn't see her face, but I could hear her intake of breath when she saw me. She stopped mid-question. I tried to slow my breathing.

To let her see me like this was the most demoralizing thing I had ever experienced. Brittany hadn't even seen this aftermath, only the storm. I had never felt so broken. After a few silent seconds, she ran to my side, crouching down on the floor to cradle my head in her lap. I began to cry again. She stroked my hair, which was damp with my tears.

"Santana, mija, what happened? Oh god, oh god," she whispered, pulling my limp body to hers. I couldn't even open my mouth to speak. She sat with me in the dark. He scrubs felt soft on my skin. I grabbed fistfuls of the blue-green material, desperate for something to hold onto.

"One good thing," I sobbed into her shirt. "She's gone, mom, she's gone." I could barely form coherent sentences.

I don't even know that my mom heard what I sad, much less understood what I was talking about. She didn't move, she just whispered into my hair.

"It's going to be okay," she murmured. She repeated it over and over again, holding me close to her. Her cool hands found my forehead and my neck, feeling for signs of illness. She pressed her cheek to mine before adjusting herself above me. I don't know what she found. I didn't think it was possible to be so angry at yourself that you feel sick, but that's the way I felt.

I lay there for what felt like hours. I don't actually know how long we sat on my bedroom floor, but I know that the stars and the moon came out, bleaching the room with pale light. My back began to cramp up.

"I think we need to call Ms. Pillsbury," my mom finally said. "I think everything hit you at once." The fact that she remembered Ms. Pillsbury's name eluded me until later, when I realized that, despite the front she had put up at the police station, she actually cared about my mental health. This wasn't the superior Maria Lopez, this was nurse Maria Lopez. This was my mom. "Do you still have the card?"

"Yes," I sniffled, managing to choke the word out. She sighed, but it was merely one of sadness – not disappointment, as I might have thought, or even exasperation at the realization that her daughter had finally cracked. I wasn't strong anymore.

In the back of my mind, I knew she thought my breakdown was because of the shooting. She was partially right; I knew that my hysterics were only magnified by the fact that these new feelings of abandonment were coming after such a turbulent time in Littleton. Brittany had been my way of avoiding the tragedy, but as soon as she was gone, it caught up to me. And it had taken a month and a half for that to happen. I was a wreck.

"Let's get you into bed," she whispered, gently taking my head out of her lap so she could stand. She stretched her muscles as I got to my knees, and I knew that her aging body was sore from sitting on the floor for so long. She reached down to help me up. I took her hands and stood, wavering as the blood drained from my head, leaving my vision spotty and my legs weak. Her callused hands led me to my bed, where I pulled back the covers on my own and slid into the cold bed.

The clock told me that it was almost nine; she had sat with me on the floor for two hours. My gratitude was only overshadowed by the fact that I could still barely think about anything besides Brittany. Not even what I had done, just her. Just the kiss, and just her face. I couldn't imagine the repercussions of what I had done – not yet. I was still too much of a mess for that.

"Are you hungry?" my mom asked softly. "I can make you something."

"Water," I croaked, feeling my chapped lips and my dry throat as I spoke. "Please."

She nodded and disappeared, and I immediately felt abandoned again, and desperate for some human interaction. I knew that once I got my glass of water, my mom would be gone again, and I'd be alone.

I didn't let myself believe that Brittany might come over at midnight. That wasn't even a possibility, yet I couldn't help but hope that she would. I knew I was setting myself up for disappointment.

My breathing was shaky as my mom appeared in the doorway, a glass of water in her hand. She handed it to me, and I took slow sips of it, sitting up against my pillows so I didn't spill it all over myself. She sat at the foot of my bed, and the scene's resemblance to the first morning after the shooting was striking. However, this time, the nightmare was real. I weakly set the glass back on my nightstand.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked. "We don't have to if you don't want to. But I need you to tell me what happened eventually."

I shook my head. "I can't right now," I told her. She seemed to understand, different from the last time she had sat at the foot of my bed and I had given her that excuse.

"Alright. Yell if you need me," she said, patting my feet and standing from the bed.

As soon as she left the room I began to cry again. I had been alone before, but now I knew what it was like not to feel alone, and the lack of Brittany beside me was crushing, especially because I had no idea what the consequences of my behavior were going to be. She might never want to see me or talk to me ever again. She might tell everyone that I was a psycho lesbian and I tried to kiss her. She might hate me.

I'd lost her as a friend, and that alone was killing me. I bit down on my lower lip, trying not to scream in frustration, in agony.

I begged sleep to take me, knowing that it would be the first of many nights without the girl I loved.

Saturday, June 5th, 1999, 9:45 a.m.

I woke up briefly to the sound of the car engine on the driveway. My mom was going grocery shopping, as she always did on Saturdays. I groaned and rolled over, repressing painful memories from the day before. Brittany wasn't in my bed for the first time in a month. My pillow was a poor substitute for her as I pressed it to my chest, trying to recreate the warmth that she provided every single morning. Tears welled in my eyes. She was gone.

Trying to go back to sleep, I squeezed my eyes shut. There was no sleep to be had, however. I had been out for over twelve hours, and my body refused to sleep for any longer. I lay in bed for another half hour, trying to think of anything but Brittany, which was impossible to do. She had become my life. Every thought circled back to her, and then to the previous day.

I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, wishing I could fast forward to night, when I could sleep again. I couldn't possibly live with myself for an entire day.

I had hurt Brittany. Brittany, who had always protected me, whose parents and sister had been a second family to me. Brittany, who had molded her body to mine every single night and whispered her secrets in my ear. And I had slammed the door in her face.

The mirror in the bathroom reflected an image that I didn't want to see. I looked like shit; my eyes were red, and my hair was matted to my forehead with sweat and tears. My lips were raw and lined with dried blood from the night before; I had chewed them all night in my sleep. My skin looked yellow.

I took a shower so hot that the water burned my skin. I thought it was necessary; it was some way to feel anything other than disappointment and anger and confusion. The shower, though I spent about forty-five minutes in it, didn't last long enough. I was out and curled in a towel on my bathroom floor within the hour, staring blankly at the toilet, wondering what was wrong with me.

There were a lot of things wrong with me. There were a lot of reasons why Brittany shouldn't love me, and a lot of reasons why she would never love me. For one, I thought sadly, I fell in love with a girl. A crime in itself, my mother always said, a pastime for those who want to disobey God. Secondly, I was completely unlovable; I was hardly beautiful, otherwise other people would've told me I was. I was smart, but not the smartest. My family had almost no money. I didn't even have a father, and it wasn't like my mother was around all that often.

All I had was Brittany. And now I didn't even have her.

I had slammed the door in her face like the bitch that I was. I shut her out. I told her I loved her and then I blamed her for kissing me, something I had always wanted.

What is wrong with me?

"Stupid," I whispered. I twisted my fingers in my hair and rested my chin on my bare knees.

Stop being so pathetic, I told myself. It's just a girl. You don't even like girls.

But what if I did like girls? Not just one, but maybe more than one. Maybe two, or three, or four. I'd never felt drawn to a boy the way I felt drawn to Brittany. Did that make me a lesbian?

My head began to hurt. I stood and shed my towel, shivering when the cool air of the house hit my damp skin. I walked slowly into my bedroom, pulling on the closest pair of sweats. I bent down to pick up a t-shirt to put on, but I realized that it was a cheerleading t-shirt. I hurled it against my window and turned to my dresser to find another t-shirt.

I paced in my room, thinking about what I had done. I wondered what Brittany was doing, and if she was thinking about me. I wondered if she was crying. I wondered how badly I had hurt her. The look on her face right before I shut her out was only one that unimaginable pain could cause.

And I didn't know how to fix it.

I wandered downstairs around noon when I could no longer stand the grumbling in my stomach. It had been over twenty-four hours since I had last eaten. It had seemed a lot less important than self-reflection. There was a note on the counter from my mom, saying that she had gone grocery shopping and she would also be stopping at the dry cleaner and the barbershop. Typical.

Fine with me. I was better off alone.

The second half of the note said that she had made mac and cheese the night before, and there was a container of it in the fridge. I froze as I read that, dropping the note back to the counter. I stepped towards the fridge and opened it, finding the mac and cheese immediately among the few items on the nearly empty shelves. My hand closed around the container and I removed it, staring at it mournfully.

It just reminded me of Brittany. And that was not okay.

I opened it and dumped the contents into the trash. I tossed the container into the sink and walked back upstairs, desperate to do anything that wouldn't remind me of her. I knew it was getting bad when I felt the need to drag my fingers noisily across the banister supports, just so I didn't have to walk up the stairs in silence. That was an activity reserved for Brittany.

My room felt incredibly small as I paced from corner to corner, digging my nails into the flesh of my palms to distract me from thinking about Brittany.

Get it together. You don't need her.

I didn't have Brittany for seventeen years. Why would I miss her now?

Because you love her.

"I don't love her," I said out loud to myself, running my hands through my hair. My voice broke in the middle. I had never been great at lying, especially to myself. My bed offered me little comfort as I fell into it, sighing deeply. I leaned up to pull the blinds closed before I tugged the covers up to my chest.

I needed a distraction.

Distractions were readily available for high school kids. There was sex, drugs, alcohol, and for some, like me, books, but I was positive I wouldn't be able to focus on words on a page for longer than five seconds, so that was out of the question. There was no one to have sex with, even if I wanted to have sex, and drugs were out of the question. It wasn't like there'd be any in the house, anyway, and I didn't know anyone who could get me some.

And that left alcohol.

My mom kept a bottle of vodka under the sink in the kitchen. It was half-empty. She hadn't taken it out in years; I was pretty sure the last time I saw it was when she made herself a Bloody Mary after a rare hangover from a New Year's Eve party. I think I was fifteen. I prayed that she hadn't thrown it out as I ran downstairs, already dizzy from not eating. I bumped into the counter as I walked to the sink.

I had never so much as tasted alcohol before. I knew my mom avoided it, and she always told me that I should never get into it because it was dangerous. I didn't really see the harm in it, but I had never really felt a desire to drink it.

Now I was positive that it would make me feel better, and so I made the split decision to have some. People always drank in movies after breakups. And best-case scenario, it would make me fall asleep and forget about Brittany. The scent of chemicals under the sink made me wrinkle my nose as I removed a bottle of dish soap and an unopened roll of paper towels to reach the vodka. The bottle was fuller than I remembered it being. I did the math; it would take my mom at least another hour to come home. I could drink plenty and she would never know.

I pulled a glass out of a cabinet and unscrewed the blue cap off of the frosted bottle. I poured the liquid into the glass slowly until it was three-quarters full. I didn't know exactly how much vodka I should be drinking, but an almost full glass didn't seem like that much. The scent burned my nostrils. I dipped my pinky in it and tasted it, wrinkling my nose at the strength of it.

There was no way I could drink this straight.

I knew my mom had mixed it with orange juice that one time, so I figured it was a possibility. I took the half-gallon of orange juice out of the fridge and filled the rest of the glass with it, watching the orange and clear swirl together to form a murky citrus mixture. The glass was full before I could completely disguise the scent or the taste of the vodka, but I didn't care. I put the orange juice back in the fridge.

I had zero hesitations as I tossed the cup back and let the drink splash into my mouth. As soon as it hit the back of my throat, I slammed the glass back down on the counter, causing the remaining liquid to slosh up the sides of the glass and splash onto the counter. I used a dishtowel to wipe it away.

"Ugh!" I exclaimed, wiping my mouth of the disgusting liquid. The vodka burned badly. I kept drinking it, knowing that eventually I could forget. It was burning the taste of Brittany from my lips and my mind. I swished it around my mouth, getting used to the burn.

I didn't feel anything at first. It just felt like I had drank a bunch of water too fast. I screwed the cap back on the vodka and replaced it carefully in the back of the cabinet under the sink. I stood, stumbling immediately into the sink. I couldn't tell if I was imagining the drunkenness already setting in, but I definitely couldn't walk in a straight line, much to my amusement. I knew I was being stupid; nobody ever gets drunk thirty seconds after downing a drink, no matter what the alcohol content. But it distracted my thoughts, and that was just fine. I rinsed the glass out and left it in the sink before walking slowly up to my room, dragging my hand across the banister again, just to fill the silence.

Upstairs, I lay on the floor, waiting to feel the effects of the alcohol to kick in. I rolled back and forth, feeling giddy and stupid. I had found a distraction.

No more Brittany.

Except that wasn't true. Not really. She was still there, in my room, kissing me on the lips. And I was still there, moments later, slamming my door in her face. Nothing could make me forget the taste of her lips, or the feel of her hands on my body. I groaned, grabbing the edge of my bed to stand. My legs felt like dead weight as I stood. I crawled into my bed, tears already falling onto my pillow.

"Britt," I whispered into her side of the bed. "Come back." I clutched the pillow she usually slept on to my chest, wishing that I could still smell her on it. I didn't know where the sadness was coming from – I had been numb to emotion for the entire day – but it bloomed in my chest, making my heart swell and tears run down my cheeks. I missed her already.

I began to weep, regretting drinking the vodka. It was only making me more upset, and I could barely breathe. I don't know when I passed out.

1:00 p.m.

I woke up to my mom knocking on my door. I hadn't realized I'd closed it.

"Santana? Are you awake?" my mom asked, opening the door slightly. I sat up a little, hoping to stand up and leave my bedroom. I was dying for some social interaction. Sleeping had been a distraction, but now that I was awake, I was bound to think about Brittany. I noticed that being around my mother made me think of other things, almost as if I was scared she would punish me for my thoughts about Brittany. I punished myself enough as it is. If I talked to her, I wouldn't think about Brittany.

"Yeah," I called. My speech sounded slow. My throat burned, and I rubbed my dry lips together. "Just taking a nap," I elaborated, noticing the way my words bumped into each other. I remembered the vodka. How much had I drunk?

The alcohol had worked. I felt kind of giddy at first, and my stomach soared into my ribcage. But after my stomach returned to its correct position I was immediately sad that I had been alone to try my first drink. I wished I had been with Brittany, but I knew she probably didn't drink. She was too good for that.

I sat up in my bed, clutching my head. I swung my legs over the carpet and stood, wavering on the spot. The minimal contents of my stomach rose to my throat, and I knew the burn was from the vodka coming back up.

Shit.

It was just like the time I had vomited on Brittany's driveway, except she wasn't here to hold my hair back. That had been the first day, before I fucked everything up. I sprinted to the bathroom, barely making it through the doorjamb. My shoulder slammed against it, making the wall shudder.

"Santana?" my mom called from downstairs. I could hear grocery bags wrinkling on the counter over the blood rushing in my ears. I held my hand over my mouth as the bile leapt into my throat.

I had barely knelt in front of the toilet before I vomited. There wasn't any food in my stomach, so all that came up was an acrid, burning liquid, and lots of it. I pushed my hair out of my face, wishing I had Brittany to hold it back for me.

No, I didn't wish for that. I didn't want her to see me like this, vomiting because I got stupid and decided to drink away my feelings. I heard my mom's footsteps pounding up the stairs, just as they had the night before. Tears blurred my vision. After a second of debating whether to let her in, I managed to make it to the door and weakly close it. I thumbed the lock into place, shutting her out as she reached the landing at the top of the staircase. I sat with my back against the door, my head tilted back against the wood. My entire body felt clammy and limp. I could still taste the orange juice and feel the burn of the alcohol mixed with the bile from the vomit.

Thinking about it made me gag again.

"Santana!" my mom shouted, banging on the door with her fist. It was just like last night, except now I was feeling guilty for a different reason. I didn't respond. "Santana!" she yelled again, more desperate. "Are you alright? Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," I croaked, my ragged voice betraying me. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Mija, let me in," she said through the door, and I could feel her body weight pressed against it. She was leaning against the barrier, her ear to the wood, listening for my response. I had no plans to let her in. "Let me take your temperature."

Nurse Lopez, coming to the rescue. I took a deep breath, coughing at the taste in my mouth. I needed water.

"I don't feel well," I told her. "I just need a little while alone."

She couldn't know about the vodka.

The weight left the door, and I heard a hushed string of curses from outside of the bathroom, followed by an "I knew something was wrong."

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to get the images of Brittany out of my head. The colorful spots on my eyelids didn't stop me from thinking about her, and my memory was entertaining me with the first time I smelled the lavender of Brittany's house, and the way she gently took me by the hand and let me borrow her pajamas. My stomach roiled, and I crawled to the toilet, resting my chin on the seat. I grabbed the sides of the bowl with both hands, trying desperately not to float away.

"Santana?" my mother was asking again, knocking on the door. "Honey?"

"Mom, leave me be. I need to take a shower." I propped my head up in my hands, rubbing my palms across my clammy cheeks. Damp strands of hair stuck to my temples, wet with my sweat. My speech was still garbled, and that wasn't helped by the repulsive taste in my mouth.

"I think you might have something, Santana," she said slowly, pressing both of her hands against the doorframe. I could tell by the way the structure creaked. "If you're this sick I need to take you to the doctor."

"I'm fine, mom," I told her, but on the inside, I was panicking. Did I drink enough to give myself alcohol poisoning? How quickly did that happen? I racked my brain for information that had been drilled into our heads all throughout school health classes, but I couldn't remember anything about alcohol poisoning, or how much was a dangerous amount to drink. It wasn't like they taught portion control in health class.

What the fuck had I done? Now I had to hide another thing from my mom, and pass it off as a five-hour virus. It was unlikely that she'd believe it, but it was equally unlikely that she would check the level of vodka in the bottle under the sink. She wasn't stupid, but she wasn't suspicious. Then there was Brittany to consider.

How could I forgive myself for what I had done to her? How could I apologize to her? How could I make her forgive me?

There were too many questions I didn't have the answers for. The guilt was making me feel sick, and it was completely unrelated to the poison in my digestive system. I didn't remember hearing my mom's footsteps disappear from the hallway, but I could hear her moving around downstairs. Incredibly, I vomited again. I hadn't even thought I had anything left in my stomach, but apparently I was wrong.

It was even worse the second time, but I gripped the sides of the toilet hard and let it run its course. The retching racked my body and my chest pressed painfully against the toilet seat. I didn't bother to pull my hair away from my face. I was too far gone for vanity.

When I had successfully emptied out the last of the liquid in my stomach, I feebly reached a sweaty arm out to flush the toilet. My head pounded, desperate to be released from the pressure of gravity and the stress of thinking about Brittany.

The bathroom tiles were cool under my hands, and I didn't trust my body to stand up, so I pushed myself towards the center of the small room, feeling beyond pathetic. I lay down and rested my cheek against the white ceramic, sighing at the comfort on my warm skin. I groaned and curled my knees to my chest.

If only Brittany were here.

I didn't really know how she'd react to my state of helplessness. A week ago, if she didn't know about the vodka, she'd probably do exactly what she did on that first day – pick me up off the ground, give me a washcloth, and let me borrow her cheerleading t-shirt, because that one was my favorite. No questions asked. Now, though, I had no idea what she'd do. Would she do the same? Maybe. Did I expect her to? Not at all. If Brittany walked in, right then, and saw me on the floor, I wouldn't be surprised if she turned around and walked out. Especially if she knew why I was laying on the floor, marinating in the stench of my own vomit.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I had never felt so guilty. Not even when I escaped with my life from a library where so many didn't. This was a different kind of guilt; it wasn't just on my heart, or my mind, but it was on my soul. I felt dirty.

I felt guilty for liking her in the first place. That was another thing. Her. Liking a girl. That only added to the weight of the guilt. I felt guilty for jeopardizing our friendship, and guilty for letting her kiss me when it was the last thing I should've done. I felt guilty for slamming the door in her face. I felt guilty for surviving, even though that wasn't in the forefront of my thoughts, but its weight was still there, on my shoulders. I felt like I was being crushed into the tile of my bathroom with guilt.

There was nothing simple about my guilt. It was unbelievably sobering.

I scraped my fingernails down my cheeks, desperate to feel something. I felt nothing. I glanced towards the powder blue shower curtain, narrowing my eyes at the color's similarity to Brittany's eyes.

I couldn't stop myself. She was everywhere.

My legs were weak, but, with a little help from the edge of the sink, I managed to stand. I avoided the mirror. My trembling hands found the faucets in the shower, and I turned them, feeling the spray hit my wrists. I drew them back, reaching over my head to tug my shirt off. The collar scraped against my throat, and I swallowed hard, feeling pain where my throat was raw and burned. I massaged my neck with my clammy palms, hoping to assuage the pain. I grimaced. My shorts came off next, joining my t-shirt in a pile on the floor. When I was naked, I stuck my hand under the water, feeling the temperature.

The water was cold on my skin, but I didn't care; I was numb to everything. I stepped under the stream, letting it wash over my sweaty body. I stood still, waiting for something, anything, to make me feel better, but there was no cleansing power in the water coming from above. It washed the traces of vomit from my skin, ridding me of the stench of alcohol and juice and vomit, but it did nothing to alleviate the weight of the guilt. It didn't join the other impurities in the swirl around the drain as I'd hoped it would.

I didn't even cry as I ran my fingers across my scalp, shampooing my disgusting hair. The seemingly unending reservoir of tears had finally dried up, and now I was standing alone and half-drunk in a cold shower, wishing desperately for the girl I loved to forgive me, and wishing desperately that I didn't love her in the first place.

I regretted wishing the latter.

After my shower, I sat against the door of the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe I hadn't used since the colder days of March. I sat there until the stars came out again. My mother came upstairs twice, leaning against the door, probably just to make sure I was breathing. She tiptoed away quietly both times, most likely assuming I was asleep on the floor. I told myself that she cared enough not to disturb me, not that she didn't open the door because she didn't care enough.

That was another thing; I felt guilty for lying to her.

I think there must be some limit to the amount of guilt a person can endure. Past that, you can't survive. You're just a shell. That's how I felt – empty, lost, and missing her. And I had no fucking clue how to fix it.

That night was hell. I woke up more times than I could count, sweating, crying, and grasping at shreds of beautiful dreams where Brittany was with me and all was right, and cowering away from nightmares filled with gunfire and slammed doors and vodka. My mother woke up to my distressed sleep-talking, pausing outside of my bedroom door to wait for me to calm down again before going back to her own room. I think she was afraid of invading my personal space. She was learning, and I was grateful for that. She only came inside once to feel my forehead. I knew I didn't have a fever, but I let her touch my forehead anyway. Sleeping without Brittany was one of the most painful things I'd ever had to endure. It was only painful because of the two months I'd spent curled against her sleeping form, with her long legs tangled up in mine, and her arm loosely draped over my waist. There was nothing comparable to the ecstasy of waking up in the arms of Brittany Pierce.

But she was gone.

My frustration with myself was nearly unbearable. I screamed noiselessly into the pillow, beating my fists weakly against the soft material. It didn't give me any answers.

I thought about what I would say, or do, if I could see her. I didn't know if I'd just go straight for an apology hug, or if I would stand awkwardly and wait for her to speak. She might yell at me, or worse, tell me she was disappointed. Even worse than both of those things, she might tell me she didn't love me. I couldn't stand in front of her and look into her pretty blue eyes and hear her tell me that. That was the one thing that kept me from running over to Brittany's house, slightly ill, in my pajamas, to beg for her forgiveness.

I was afraid of rejection.

The rational part of me said that Brittany wouldn't have kissed me if she didn't feel something for me, but I had no way of knowing that was true until she told me so. I hadn't known Brittany long enough to predict her reaction to any sort of apology. I had no idea how fast she forgave people, or if she was one to hold grudges. Brittany was never mean enough to reject me unkindly, but I had no idea what her reaction would be. For all I knew, she had a boy she was seeing and hadn't told me about. There was still the situation with Quinn. I was still in the dark about that. I didn't know what kind of rumor had been going around about Brittany, or why they had been arguing the night of the memorial.

There were a lot of things I didn't know, and the more I realized I didn't know, the more I panicked. Without knowledge, there was no comfort. My hands trembled and I waited for sleep to come again, not trusting myself to look at the clock on my nightstand. I knew that if I saw the time, I would be unable to fall back to sleep, and I would justify waking up to do something mindless. And if the clock told me that it was midnight, I didn't trust myself not to have another breakdown.

It was the little things that killed me.

The phrase 'broken heart' ran through my mind a few times, but I knew that it was ridiculous to think Brittany had broken my heart when I had only done it to myself. I could've broken her heart, and I would have no idea. All because I slammed that door. I entertained myself late into the night with 'what if's, imagining the scenario in millions of different ways. There were versions where I didn't let her kiss me, and versions where I didn't even start the conversation. Of course, the version I thought most about, was one where I didn't panic, but I held her close to me, kissing her for hours until we fell into my bed, together, more than friends.

But that didn't happen, and thinking about that killed me just as much as thinking about the little things. Above all, I just missed her. I would've given anything to just be able to sleep next to her that night.

Sunday, June 6th, 1999, 10:00 a.m.

I stayed in bed as long as I possibly could, dreading the inevitable interrogation from my mother, and the force-feeding at breakfast, and the insistence on calling the doctor. I knew I had to get out of bed, so I did, pleasantly surprised to find that I could stand. My head was still throbbing, but the pain was bearable. I walked slowly into the kitchen in a relatively straight line, wincing in the morning light that streamed through the kitchen windows. I clutched the back of my head, looking around the first floor for my mother. The car keys were missing from the bowl by the door, and then I remembered.

Right. Sunday. She was at church.

She had left me at home, probably thinking that I was too ill to sit through mass. She wasn't completely wrong; I couldn't have sat through mass in my dizzy, quasi-hungover state. I doubted Jesus would be very happy to see me at church. The idea brought a small smile to my face, which sent new pain through my temples. I winced and made my way over to the fridge, opening it to find that it had been restocked. Needing protein, I removed the carton of eggs and set a pan on the stove to make scrambled eggs. I found a loaf of bread and slid a slice of toast into the toaster, intending to eat it with my scrambled eggs.

When the toast popped up, I eyed it carefully, shuffling my eggs around the pan with a spatula. My stomach grumbled, daring me to eat the toast. I grabbed it in my fist, ignoring how hot it was, and nearly stuffed it down my throat. The carbs must've absorbed any leftover alcohol in me, because I felt instantly better. Bread had never tasted so good. My scrambled eggs didn't taste as good without a piece of toast, but I didn't mind all that much.

After cleaning up the kitchen and getting dressed, I took the phone from its cradle on the table by the side door. I stared at it for a few seconds. My fingers itched to dial a familiar number, but I restrained myself. The card nearly fluttered to the floor as I fumbled to remove it from my pocket. The black letters stared at me menacingly, daring me to make the call that I had decided was necessary at some ungodly hour of the night.

I needed to do it with my mom out of the house. Knowing that she would be back by 12, I began punching in the number.

She answered after two rings.

"Northern Colorado Counseling, this is Emma Pillsbury speaking."

I stared at the receiver in my left hand, unable to make the words come out.

"Hello?" she asked again. I yanked the phone away from my ear and hung up abruptly, trying to calm my trembling hands. My palms began to sweat, and it was just like that time I met her in the makeshift therapy office.

Why had I decided this was a good idea? What was I even going to say to her? She would laugh in my face.

You felt comfortable with her, I told myself. Just pick up the goddamn phone. If she laughs at you, you'll never need to see her again.

I took a deep breath and picked up the phone again, typing in the number slowly to buy myself more time. Again, she picked up after the second ring.

"Northern Colorado Counseling, this is Emma Pillsbury," she informed me, sounding just as she had the first time. I could imagine her big Bambi eyes looking at me expectantly, waiting for a response. I took a deep breath.

"Hi Ms. Pillsbury, this is Santana Lopez," I told her. What if she didn't even remember me? "From Columbine," I added awkwardly, hoping to dispel any confusion.

"Of course, Santana! How could I forget?" Her voice sounded extremely genuine, and I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "What can I do for you today?"

"I, uh, have a question, actually," I said, trying to find the right way to word my question. There were many ways I could say it. I didn't know how she could help, but I needed whatever I could get, and without Brittany, there wasn't anyone I could talk to.

"I might have an answer," she joked. I could hear some papers shuffling around. She sounded like she was in an office. Why was she in an office on a Sunday morning?

"Okay, well, uh, I have a problem. I think."

"What's your problem?" she asked gently. She didn't try to put words in my mouth, which I appreciated. She didn't assume that my problem was Columbine-related.

"I told someone I loved them."

"Why is that a problem?" she asked kindly. The papers shuffled.

"I don't know if sh – if they, uh, love me back." I began to clench and unclench my right hand, which was fluttering at my waist nervously. Had she heard me slip up?

She paused for a few seconds. "Is it Brittany?"

Well I guess the cat's out of the bag now.

"Wh-what?" I stuttered. "Why would you say that?"

She chuckled. "I remember the way you talked about her at the therapy session, and the way she talked about you."

My heart did a backflip, and my stomach mimicked the motion. "What did she say?" I asked breathlessly.

"I can't answer that, Santana," she said honestly. "I'm sworn to secrecy. But I could tell just by looking at her eyes."

So I'm not the only one that notices those eyes.

I sighed. Now I only had more questions. Did Brittany realize that I was attracted to her and tell Ms. Pillsbury? Did she feel the same way? How could the therapist know after Brittany and I had only known each other for less than forty-eight hours?

I was very confused, but I decided not to ask questions that I knew Ms. Pillsbury didn't have an answer for.

She continued when I didn't respond. "And Brittany didn't say she loved you back?"

"Well… no. She kissed me, and then I panicked and told her to get out. And then I slammed my bedroom door in her face." I winced, realizing how evil I sounded. I was the monster.

Ms. Pillsbury paused, thinking. I wondered briefly why she was giving me this free over-the-phone counseling session. That was another question I decided not to ask.

"Have you spoken to her since then?" Ms. Pillsbury asked slowly.

"No," I said quietly.

"When did this happen?"

"Friday."

"Right. And you don't know what to do?"

I sighed. "Yeah."

She paused again, and I heard the papers shuffling. I pictured two thick files spread out on her desk: a profile of me, and a profile of Brittany. I imagined that there was a picture of each of us paper clipped to the front of each folder, but I knew that was unlikely. They only did that for criminals – people that mattered.

"Do you think that you might be a lesbian, Santana?" she asked me slowly.

My heart nearly stopped. Surprisingly, I had mostly managed to repress the word from my mind in my inner turmoil over my love for Brittany. It was a label I didn't want or need.

"No," I said quickly, firmly. "Maybe. I don't know." I hadn't thought enough about it to give her a definitive answer. It was too much. I could feel the panic in my throat again, and she seemed to pick up on that.

"It's okay, no one is forcing you to be anything," Ms. Pillsbury said softly. "I'm just trying to get an idea of where you're at with your sexuality." Her voice had a calming effect that wasn't unlike Brittany's voice. It would never be Brittany's voice, but it made me feel a little better. I relaxed. "It would probably benefit you to learn a little more about people who might feel like you do. There are books on sexuality at most libraries, and I can give you the names of a few websites to look at."

As for my sexuality, I had no idea where I was at with that. I had barely thought about it, if I was honest. Obviously, I knew that falling in love with a girl was wrong. My mother had taught me enough about that. I still hadn't been able to see myself as someone that fell in love with girls. I was just someone who fell in love with Brittany. And that's what mattered, and it felt right, even though it should've felt so wrong.

I was miles away from labeling myself.

I begrudgingly found a pen and wrote down the names of the websites she listed, wondering if she was reading from one of those pamphlets she had. I had no intentions to take out a book on lesbians from the library, but I figured I could hide in a corner somewhere and read one or two. I was grateful for her help, but embarrassed by this idea that I was different from everyone else.

It was mostly just scary, though.

"My thought," she continued as I wrote, "is that you can understand Brittany and her feelings better if you understand your own first. Does that make sense?"

I told her, "Yes, it makes a lot of sense."

"Perfect. Good luck, Santana. You're going to be fine." The papers shuffled again, replaced in the filing cabinet, probably. I wondered if she had made a record of this conversation. That worried me a little.

I capped the pen and set it down next to the post-it, which I folded carefully and placed in the front pocket of my jeans. My mom would be back by noon, and I could probably convince her to let me take the car to go to the library.

"Thanks, Ms. Pillsbury."

"You're welcome, Santana. And please, feel free to call me again if you feel like talking. That's what I'm here for."

I smiled, glad to have someone in my corner. "Thank you."

I heard a click, and the line went dead. I replaced the phone in its cradle.

1:30 p.m.

I asked my mom to borrow the car as soon as she got home from her haircut.

"Are you sure it's a good idea for you to be driving? You were throwing up less than 24 hours ago, Santana," she said, her newly cut hair smelling of expensive shampoo. She walked forward and felt my forehead with the back of her hand. She pursed her lips. "You don't have a fever, which I don't understand."

"I'm fine, mom, really. It was just a 24 hour virus or something."

"Where could you have picked up something like that? The Pierce's house, maybe?"

My blood froze at the mention of the Peirce family. I shrugged noncommittally, trying to stay cool.

"I'm just bored here, I want to get a few books so I have something to do," I told her. "Maybe some SAT prep stuff or one of those college books. Plus, I do have a few summer reading assignments."

She looked unconvinced.

"I'll be fine, mom," I insisted. I was getting annoyed, but it was really my own fault that I had gotten sick, and therefore my fault that she was hesitant about letting me leave the house.

"Fine," she said curtly, surprising me. "Be back by 4:30 to help me with dinner."

"Thanks, mom." I grabbed the keys from the bowl by the door and refrained from jogging out of the house.

The warm air felt nice on my skin, a welcome change from the air conditioning of our house. I slid into the car and rolled my window down immediately, enjoying the late spring breeze. I wrapped my hands around the steering wheel, trying to think.

I could go back inside. Forget about the library, about Brittany, about my feelings. I could make it stop, even though I knew I would never be able to forget that kiss, or the way she made me feel. I couldn't make myself forget about her, because that fuck everything up even more.

The drive to the library consisted of very few rational thoughts; they were all about Brittany, of course, but they were future scenarios, where I swept her off her feet and we eloped to somewhere far away, like Antarctica. I would probably be cool with living in Antarctica, as long as Brittany were there with me.

What the fuck are you doing? I continually asked myself, questioning my sanity. I wasn't allowed to think about eloping with Brittany, that was ridiculous. I'd only known her a month and a half.

It freaked me out that that was the first problem that came to my mind when there were so, so many.

The library smelled like old paper. It gave me déjà vu, really, to walk into a library; I hadn't been in one since the incident. That old paper smell is what Columbine's library smelled like, too. I couldn't do anything but stand dead still in the middle of the entryway for half a minute, trying to remember why I had come in the first place. My palms began to sweat.

"Can I help you?" an elderly woman asked me from behind the counter. She was stacking books on a cart. There were hardly any people in the library.

"No, ma'am, that's alright," I told her. "I know where everything is."

She looked at me skeptically. "Okay, dear, let me know if that changes."

I nodded. I really did know where everything was in the library. I had spent hours there studying for finals and reading classics in secluded corners of the building. It was a safe haven for me, this public library. The Columbine library had served a similar purpose for me, but I decided not to think about how that had changed. My feet took me to non-fiction, where I located a single copy of Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, the first book Ms. Pillsbury had recommended. It looked untouched, which was a little disappointing. No one had loved this book like books deserved to be loved. I was skeptical of the book at first; the writing style was unusual, and nothing like what I was accustomed to reading. But as I read on, I found the parallels between the story and my own life.

I found my mom in the story first. Jeanette's mother was glaringly similar to my own mother in her religious fervor and her blatant hypocrisy. I gave mental props to Ms. Pillsbury for making that connection.

I saw myself in Jeannette. She was faithful, but afraid. She was different, and she didn't want to be, but then she realized it was okay. I found her intriguing.

I didn't find Brittany. None of the girls in the book were as good as her.

I finished it in three hours. When I had read it from cover to cover, I glanced at the clock. It was 4:45, and I was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago. I leapt to my feet, dropping the little book to the ground. I shoved it back into the row of books quickly and raced back into the lobby, nearly tripping over an empty cart.

The librarian looked up at me, startled.

"You're still here?" she asked bluntly, running another book through her scanner. I glared at her.

"Uh, yes."

"Are you leaving empty-handed?" she asked, sounding grumpy. How could anyone be in a library all day and be grumpy? And why should it matter if I was leaving with something?

I started to say that yes, I would be leaving empty handed, but I stopped.

"Actually, no," I told her, turning around and weaving through the rows of shelving. The library had become completely empty; I wasn't surprised. It was almost dinnertime, and it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I walked quickly around the last few aisles until I reached a section of the library I rarely, if ever, visited.

The book I was looking for revealed itself quickly. There were six copies. I took the nicest-looking one, even though they say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

I practically jogged back to the front desk, needing to get home before my mom freaked out.

The librarian gave me that same hawkish stare. "Is this all?"

I fished my library card from my back pocket. "Yes."

She raised an eyebrow and ran my card through the scanner. I hoped she could see me glaring at her. I knew she was judging me, and I disliked her tone. She handed the book to me wordlessly.

"Have a nice day," I said frostily, turning and walking towards the exit without so much as a backward glance.

I smiled on my way out for the first time since kissing Brittany.

I felt a little bit better, but it wasn't really because of the underhanded insult I'd delivered. Oranges had proven itself to be a worthy distraction, and I learned that my mom really wasn't the worst mother out there. It made me a little less afraid, and I was glad for that.

I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel on my way home, my nerves only mounting as the numbers on the dashboard clock got further and further from 4:30. My mother was going to be pissed. The TV was on as I crept through the door, wincing at the expectation of an immediate scolding. The kitchen was empty, and there was a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove. I stirred it out of habit and glanced towards the living room, where my mom was sitting on the couch reading the paper.

"Decided to come home?" she asked me.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," I told her. "I got sidetracked at the library."

"I bet you did," she said coldly, not looking up from the newspaper. I took that as dismissal and I walked slowly towards the stairs, the book behind my back. I knew her judgment would be even harsher than the librarian's, and I didn't have the balls to stand up to that.

I was halfway up the stairs when she called my name again.

"Santana, what did you get from the library?"

Fuck. I had forgotten to get an actual book at the library. I had no proof that I had even gone.

"I didn't check anything out," I lied, backing up the staircase until I reached the landing. Her small form appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

She looked doubtful.

"So you were at the library for three hours and you checked nothing out," she stated, tilting her head to look at me. I was looking down at her, and she was looking up at me, but it felt like the other way around. My hands shook where they gripped the thin spine of the book. My sweating fingers slipped against the laminated cover.

"Nothing appealed to me," I said, cringing at the formality of my response.

My mother could be the most bipolar person in the world. She had been worried about my safety just hours earlier, yet now she was perfectly content to stare me down and question my library activities.

"Where were you really, Santana? Did you meet Brittany somewhere?"

"What?" I scoffed. "No. I was at the library."

"Sure you were," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Sure."

I ignored her and locked myself in my room. I heard her go back to the stove to finish cooking dinner, which I would not be eating, just to spite her. I studied the cover of the small book, deciding that my trip to the library had been worth it.

Tuesday, June 8th, 1999, 8:00 p.m.

I waited for over 48 hours before going over to Brittany's house. I couldn't bring myself to go any earlier. I ran through my apology millions of times in my head, trying to find the right words to tell her how I felt, which was difficult to do, considering I really had no idea what was going on in my head. I just knew that I loved her.

I didn't want to scare her. I didn't think I would survive if she slammed her own front door in my face. I refused to think about how I would react if that happened, yet it was one of the sole reasons I couldn't bring myself to go see her.

The days passed slowly, as my days without Brittany usually did. I didn't touch the vodka, and I didn't touch the book I had brought home from the library, even though I was home alone. I kept it in my underwear drawer, under my socks. I took four showers. I didn't feel any cleaner, but they gave me time to think about who I was and what I wanted.

Labels were something I avoided thinking about at all costs. A label would define me, and I knew that. I couldn't be a part of a group I didn't feel I belonged to. I would be blatantly lying to myself if I said I was straight. Straight girls didn't fall in love with other girls. I decided not to try to label myself. It was confusing and unnecessary. I loved Brittany, and that was the only thing I knew. She was all I wanted.

I told my mom I was going over to Brittany's house. She was still mad at me for allegedly lying to her about where I had gone on Sunday, but she believed I was going to Brittany's, because that was a normal thing for me to do. She didn't offer me the car, but that was okay, because I needed the walk to Brittany's to think. And if I didn't have the car, and things went well, it gave me an excuse to sleep there.

"Be careful on the roads," she said in lieu of a goodbye.

"Okay," I answered curtly, glad she hadn't turned around to watch me leave. I was carrying the book in my hand.

The half hour walk to Brittany's did nothing to ease my nerves. I shook worse than I had under the library table, and with every step I debated turning around. I had never been one for confrontation, especially one where I wasn't sure what the outcome would be. Her house came into view. The sun had almost gone to bed, and so I squinted, trying to see if the lights of the Pierce home were on. Brittany's bedroom light was on. My heart dropped to my stomach. The panic surged, but I walked on, knowing that I couldn't possibly turn around.

I needed her too much. I needed to see her, to talk to her, and feel her beside me. I was becoming used to sleeping alone again, but I always awoke at random intervals in the night, confused about where she was. I patted her side of the bed, looking for her, only to find it cold and remember that she was gone.

It made falling back to sleep infinitely harder.

I stood at her front door, waiting. I reached out and knocked on the red wood three times with my knuckles. Ringing the doorbell felt inappropriate, especially if Emily was already in bed. After a few moments of silence I heard footsteps, and I prayed that it was her. I didn't know what I would do if her mother answered the door, or even Emily or Mr. Pierce.

The door opened, and I knew it was Brittany. She was wearing my Alanis Morissette t-shirt. I hadn't realized she still had it, but seeing it on her gave me a little more confidence as I brought my eyes up from the concrete below my feet to look at her face. Her stance was defensive and rigid, and her grip on the edge of the door was tight. I focused on her knuckles. They were white from the strain of holding the door open.

I couldn't believe I had actually made it to her doorstep. I had almost been counting on passing out from anxiety somewhere in between my house and hers. Now that I was here, I couldn't even speak. It was just as quiet as it had been in those seconds before we kissed.

When I could finally look at her face – but not her eyes, because that was nearly impossible – there was no expression, only a blank canvas. Her mouth was perfectly straight and emotionless. She was silent, waiting for me to make the first move. The house was quiet behind her, protecting her. I scuffed the toe of my sneaker against the porch, feeling the worst kind of naked.

The apology that I had practiced so carefully was nowhere. I spent at least forty-five seconds trying to find it, but it had completely left my brain. I had no idea what to say to her. I remembered the book in my left hand. I couldn't tell if she had seen it yet, but then again, I wasn't looking at her eyes.

Feeling desperate, I held it up in front of me like a shield. I still couldn't make eye contact. The blue was too intimidating. I did, however, see a flicker of curiosity dance across her face. I chanced a glance at her eyes, nervous that she would see me. She didn't. She was studying the cover of the book, so I allowed myself a few minutes to watch her eyes. They were a little red, but I couldn't assume that it was from crying or lack of sleep.

She caught me watching her, and we were finally looking into each other's eyes. I still couldn't read her expression, but I could see the tears collecting on her eyelids. Her eyes were shiny in the fading daylight.

"Is this an apology?" she asked me, standing stock-still in the doorway. I was incredibly nervous.

"Is it a good one?" I asked shakily, trying to keep eye contact. My hands fumbled with the thin book, needing something to do, a way to release my nervous energy. Suddenly bringing this book to her house seemed like an awful idea. Why had I thought this was going to work?

She shook her head, and I began to panic, but the corners of her mouth gave away the beginnings of a smile. She stepped forward, out of the house, and reached out, her arms encircled me tighter than they ever had. A breath I had been holding for four days escaped through my teeth and into her hair. She nearly lifted me off of the ground, and I felt her tears on my cheeks where she pressed our heads together. I grabbed a fistful of her hair, desperate to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I also began to cry, not caring that Brittany's entire neighborhood could look out of their windows and see us, hugging in the warm spring night.

I didn't care that none of my questions had been answered. I didn't care that I had fallen in love with a girl. I was with her, and that was all that mattered.