Brittany's mind lets go of things sometimes. Mostly, she just can't find the thing important enough to remember, but once in a while she forgets things she may need later. Like her locker combination.

She's pretty sure there's a 47 in there, and maybe an 8, but it's not enough to get her locker open. More often than not, it pops into her brain after a few minutes, but not today; she thinks, maybe, it has something to do with how it feels like she has been away for so long. It was only one weekend—two days—but it seems like so much more.

(Her hours with Santana meant more than all of the hours at school.)

The numbers still refuse to reveal themselves, so she spins to face the hall and sets out for the office. Santana fills her mind so completely that she is in a surprisingly good mood for being at school.

She glides through the hall untouched at first, but then she is hit with a reminder of why she hates school as other students collide with her; some keep walking as if they hadn't seen her, and the rest shove her as if she has done something wrong. She rights herself and continues down the hall.

There's a new student, she knows, because when there is a new person at the school everyone is talking about it; but it's not until she is a few lockers away from the office, regaining her balance from the foot that tried to trip her, that she sees any sign of the new girl. She can't see her at all, really, due to the jewfro in the way, but she hears Jacob Ben Israel—the owner of said jewfro—questioning her.

The sound of the girls reply fades as she steps into the office.

The bell rings just as she makes it back to her locker with the slip of paper containing her combination. Her locker rattles as she opens it in the empty hall, and then clunks as she shuts it after grabbing her Algebra II book.

As soon as she walks into room 7, "You're late, Brittany."

She shuts the door behind her and makes her way to her seat, offering a quick Sorry in response.

Ms. Bletheim stares at her. "You're late every day, Brittany," she pushes.

It's not completely false—she does have trouble making it to her seat before the bell a lot—but she's there, sometimes, before many others. Brittany doesn't like to argue, though, and, not knowing what else to say, she shrugs.

(She thinks of how having Santana's eyes on her makes her giddy, and brings that smile to her face, and how all these other eyes make her feel like filth.)

It's not even second period before her face is covered in cold, syrupy beads of ice.

It's something that was nonexistent until the middle of her sophomore year. One day, out of the blue, the school put a slushy machine in the cafeteria. Brittany was a little excited at first—what's not great about one of your favorite drinks to cheer you up?

And then, this.

Today they even leave her the cup.

She holds her chemistry book to her side, trying to prevent any more of the blue drink from soaking into it, and walks to the nearest bathroom.

The syrup is already sliding down her shirt as she reaches the door, which she opens only to be knocked to the side; her book makes a loud smack as it hits the floor. A girl walks out, and Brittany is alone.

(It'll all be over this weekend crosses her mind, but then she remembers.)

It suddenly occurs to her how severely she misses Santana.

(Santana still doesn't know.)

Her sticky hand hovers by her pocket, where her phone is tucked inside, and she considers calling her; she's already late to class, and she could really use hearing the sound of Santana's voice.

A drip of slushy falls into her eye, though, and she knows she needs to wash her face before it dries and makes everything worse.

It doesn't take all that long to clear it, but the evidence is distinct down the middle of her shirt.

She calls Santana; she listens all the way through the end of her voicemail, and thinks, maybe, it has put her together enough to make it through the rest of the day.

At lunch, Brittany sneaks to her usual hideout inside the gym. She's not supposed to be here, technically, but nobody has ever said anything.

She has her mind set on dancing, and it's not until she's on the floor with her phone, ready to play some music, that she sees a text along with a missed call. They're both from Santana.

I'm sorry I missed your call. I tried to call back but I'm guessing you're in class.

She foregoes the music, and the dancing, and calls Santana.

Her heart lifts when she answers.

"Hey," Santana says, and her voice is soft.

Brittany leans back until her body is against the floor and offers her own, "Hi."

"Sorry for not answering earlier," Santana says. "Did you need something?"

"No." Brittany shakes her head into the dark, empty space. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

There's a pause, and then Santana repeats, "Sorry."

"Stop," Brittany laughs. "I was between classes anyway."

"Okay," Santana says, like she's not really okay with it.

"So what are you doing?"

"Nothing, really; staring at a shitload of work I should be doing." Brittany laughs, and Santana adds, "I'm glad you called."

"Yeah, me too."

There's a little hum from the other end, and then, "What about you? Shouldn't you still be in school?"

"It's lunch," Brittany says.

"I was just thinking about food. What are you eating?"

Brittany lifts her knees and slides her legs close. "I'm not."

"Why not?" Santana asks, and, like an afterthought, "I wish I could bring you lunch."

Brittany glances at the doors, as if Santana was about to walk through. "I wish you could, too."

"Why aren't you eating?" Santana asks again.

"I kinda lost my aptitude. I don't eat at school most days; I just go the gym."

"Appetite," Santana corrects.

"Oh, right."

"What are you doing then, if you're in the gym and not eating?"

"Most of the time I dance, but today I'm talking to you."

"So you were serious about the dance thing."

"Of course," Brittany says, because she wouldn't lie to Santana.

"How long have you been dancing?"

"As long as I can remember," Brittany says, smiling happily. "Mom says I started dance classes when I was, like, four."

Dancing has always been Brittany's thing; it's practically her life. And when she hears Santana laugh, she can't help but compare the feeling of hearing Santana, being with Santana, to the bliss of dancing.

"Go dance," Santana tells her, and it sounds like goodbye, except, "I'll stay on the line and play you music."

Brittany giggles at the idea and sits up. "Sant—"

"Dance for me, Britt."

Her voice is so light and playful; Brittany can't say no to that.

And Santana doesn't give her the chance. As soon as her phone is on the gym floor, before she can even stand up, grainy music is flowing through her speaker.

Brittany laughs at Santana, at the music, at the situation. She takes a few steps away from her phone and begins to dance.

The smile doesn't fall from of her face as she moves, body twisting freely. It feels better than it ever has before; something about the idea of Santana sitting back in her room, on the other end of the phone, thinking about her dancing. Even though Santana can't actually see her, it's exciting.

Her body is ablaze, she feels so ebullient; she gets so entranced by the feel of it all that when the bell rings, she almost misses the sound.

She doesn't even pause before she drops next to her phone.

"Santana," she pants into her upside down phone. The music cuts off and she fumbles to right her phone as she hurries toward the double doors. "I gotta go."

She doesn't mean to cut Santana off, but she's already ending the call when she hears something mumbled from the other end.

(Santana still doesn't know.)

As soon as Brittany opens her front door, her sister's hand leaves hers. She disappears into the house and Brittany follows her to the kitchen.

"We got apples, Bitty!" her sister squeals, already propped up on the counter next to their mom, who is cutting apples.

Brittany smiles at her sisters not-so-sneaky little fingers as she tries to steal an apple circle from the cutting board. Her mom covers the little hand and moves it away, looking over her shoulder to ask, "Peanut butter, Britt?"

Brittany agrees, slipping past her mom to the pantry. She grabs the peanut butter and turns back to find her mother still cutting, and her sister still staring. From the other side of her mom, she glances at her sister before quickly snatching an apple circle at the same time her mom removes her sisters hand again. Instead of a little pout this time, her sister looks at her with a wide grin; she snaps the circle, extending one half behind their mother's back.

At the first crunch of the apple, her mom sends her a look that is meant to be a glare; her sister gives in to giggles and she cracks a grin. Their mom shakes her head and opens a drawer, grabs a spoon.

They all sit at the table, Brittany's sister delving into her day without delay. Their mother listens attentively, but Brittany can't help but feel the weight in her pocket. All she can think about is talking to Santana.

(Santana still doesn't know.)

She looks up to excuse herself and finds her mother's eyes already on her. She closes her mouth and looks back. "Not gonna eat the rest of your apples?" her mom asks.

"I'm not that hungry," Brittany says.

"I'll eat 'em!" her sister offers, already reaching for her plate.

"Noo," their mom protests, holding onto the small girl from the side. "Mommy's gonna eat them!"

Her sister giggles and Brittany stands up; she brushes the girls hair back, smiling down at her when she tilts her head to see. "I'm gonna head upstairs."

"I'll call you when dinner's ready," her mom says, smiling warily and watching as she leaves the room.

Lord Tubbington is waiting at the top of the stairs, watching her climb the steps and only lifting his head when she reaches the top. His back lifts slowly and then falls—like a sigh—and he follows her to her room.

Brittany sits on the end of her bed and Lord T leaps up, going straight to her pillow and settling into it. Brittany absentmindedly reaches over to stroke his fur and her eyes catch the drawer of her nightstand.

She just stares.

And then she leans closer, earning a disgruntled sound from Lord T, and removes the envelope.

Her fingers run across the paper; she's conflicted again.

She pulls Santana's blanket into her lap and shuffles on the bed until her back is against the headboard. She drapes the blanket over her lap and sets the letter on top.

She wants to talk to Santana, but not about this.

How is she going to tell her?

("Santana, I...")

The words have gone through her mind a million times, she has written them out, but she has never said them out loud.

There's a soft knock on her door, there's a meow somewhere close. She opens her eyes and her dad is smiling from the crack at her door.

"Dinner's ready, Britt," he says.

"'Kay," she croaks, struggling to move her hands; she peeks down to find the weight on her lap is Lord Tubbington.

"Hop up," her dad says, closing the door. Lord T slinks off her lap, freeing her hands and revealing the now crumpled envelope. She flattens it over her knee once before returning it to the drawer and joining her family downstairs.

Halfway through dinner, she gets a text from Santana.

You left your picture in my room

She smiles, just a little, because Santana; she falters because, at first, her plan was to leave the picture for Santana since she would have no use for it.

(Santana still doesn't know.)

She doesn't send anything back. Her phone goes back to her pocket and she hurriedly eats everything left on her plate so she can get back to her room.

She feeds Lord Tubbington his usual serving of leftovers before jumping toward the stairs. He looks like he wants to follow, but stays with his food. She makes sure her door isn't shut fully because she knows he'll be up soon.

Her phone is out of her pocket when she reaches her bed, but she only holds it. She gathers Santana's blanket in her arms and settles back onto her place against the headboard. The blanket is spread over her lap again, and then her phone is there.

She finds Santana's number.

She glances at the door.

She calls.

There's about six rings, and then Santana picks up.

But she doesn't say anything, and it's silent for a moment.

And then, "Hey."

"Hey," Brittany says back.

(She thinks Santana's voice may just be the best thing.)

"How is it being home?" Santana asks.

"It's okay," Brittany says, when she really wants to say too far away from you.

There's a pause before, "Your parents aren't mad or anything?"

"Why would they be mad?" Brittany questions.

"I kinda got the feeling they didn't exactly know about your trip..."

Brittany shrugs, then sighs because that won't work with Santana not in front of her. "They still don't, but everything is fine. Really."

Santana responds with an uncertain, "Good."

"What about you? How was your day?"

"Oh, uh... it was alright. Nothing big; class, homework..."

(It sounds like there's more.)

She's about to ask Santana? but—

"I—Because we talked earlier I didn't—Can we talk about it?"

(Brittany was waiting for this, but she wants to forget it.)

(She wants to forget it and remember Santana.)

(But Santana still doesn't know.)

"Yeah..."

(Santana needs to know.)

"At the airport, I didn't want to let you go; especially after..."

"I know." A breath. "I'm sorry; it's just so much, and I couldn't leave without saying anything... and I didn't lie about anything, I swear. I did go to have a good day, and the moment I saw you I just had to say something to you. And it's been driving me crazy that you don't know. You don't know what you did, and what I..."

"Brittany," Santana says, and it sounds like please.

"I'm sad, Santana."

But that's not it.

"I was... I was so done with it. Everything. And it's not even—I don't know. New York... it was the first place I thought of. When I—when the day was over... I was going to—"

(I was going to commit suicide.)

Her head fills with tears fighting to get out and she swallows. "I was going to kill myself," she chokes out, her skin prickling as a shiver runs from her cheeks to her shoulders to her arms to back to her legs to her chest.

(Santana knows.)

(Santana knows.)

(Santana knows.)

And there's nothing. No response. No sound. She pulls the phone back, but Santana hasn't hung up.

(Oh, god.)

She begins to worry that it's too much for Santana, that she doesn't want to deal with all of this.

And then she hears a sniffle.

She frowns, whispers, "Santana?" and then, "Are you crying?"

Again, nothing; but this time Brittany can hear it. Santana is breathing hard, erratic.

(She made Santana cry.)

"Oh, no, Santana," she pleads. "Santana... please don't cry."

"Brittany..."

It's all in her voice, and Brittany hates it.

"I'm so sorry, Santana," is all she can say.

"No," Santana says quickly; she's trying to clear her voice, she's trying to make herself able to speak. "No, Britt, don't apologize to me..."

"Sant—"

"How could I—" Santana's voice wavers. "How could I not fucking—"

"I never meant to make you deal with this..."

"Brittany." Her voice is low again. "God, Britt. I wish you were here right now. I wish I could... I wish I would have..."

Brittany didn't expect that. "You want me to be there with you?"

"Of course," Santana says, like it should be obvious. "I wish I could hold you right now, and just... never let go. Fuck, I wish I would have done... more."

Brittany lets it be silent for a moment.

Then,

"You did everything, Santana."

"What?"

"You helped me have the most perfect day. And you... and you asked me to stay, Santana. And I did... b-because of you."

"But—"

"I'm here because of you."

"I wasn't the only one you spent your day with, Brittany. There was Kurt, and Sam."

"I had my mind made up. I loved meeting them, but they weren't going to change that; they didn't. But... you did."

"Brittany..."

They're quiet for a while; a long while, Brittany thinks, but she's too content listening to Santana's breaths to care. Her eyes are closed, and all she wants is to feel Santana next to her.

"Is that why you were crying?" Santana asks suddenly.

Brittany can tell she already knows the answer, but, "Yeah."

She hears something like a sigh from the other end. "You're... how are you feeling now?"

"Calm," she says truthfully. "But sad because... and I made you cry."

"Oh, Britt," Santana says. "Your parents... do they know?"

"No," Brittany says, glancing at her nightstand drawer, thinking about how they might react.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Only you," Brittany says. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"I understand, it's a big deal. I'm just... I'm glad you told me at all."

"So you're not freaked out or... something?"

"Freaked out?" she asks. "Why would I be?"

"I've heard people talk about s—about what I was going to do, and they never say anything nice; it's always that the person is selfish, or stupid... and they just make fun of it."

If there's anything good about being treated like you don't exist, it's that people will talk in front of you. Brittany's not much for gossip, but she learns a lot. It's not always good—or almost never good, she guesses—and she will never forget about how they ridicule Suzy Pepper for trying to kill herself when they don't even know her reasons.

"I would never," Santana says. "Brittany, you are so amazing."

Brittany laughs. She shouldn't be surprised, because this is Santana, but she feels the relief instantly; she doesn't know what she would do if Santana rejected her now. "You're amazing-er." Santana laughs, too.

"Um," Santana starts, "I get it if you don't... but do you maybe wanna talk about it?"

"Can we have a few more minutes first?" Brittany asks.

"We can have as many minutes as you need," Santana says, her voice so tender Brittany has to say,

"I think I just need you."

"Okay," Santana whispers.

And she listens to Santana breathe; it's the most calming thing she's ever heard.

"I miss you," she sighs.

"I miss you, too," Santana says.

Lord Tubbington saunters into the room and pauses, examining Brittany, before continuing and sitting next to the bed. Brittany gets up to close and lock her door and then gathers Lord T in her arms, trying to keep her phone against her ear as she lifts him to the bed. He walks up the bed and to Brittany's pillow; Brittany sits next to him and pulls Santana's blanket back over her lap.

"It's hard to handle everything," she begins to explain. "School is hard enough by itself, but people..." She's never been good at explaining things, but she really wants to help Santana understand. "It wasn't something I decided right away. I'd thought about it before, but I'd never actually considered it... but then I did, and it made sense.

"I even called one of those hotlines, y'know? I think we talked for a long time, and everything they said made sense, but none of it stopped me from feeling the way I do. I still waited, though. I thought about it a lot, but my mind always went back there."

"You seemed so happy when you were here," Santana says. "I had no idea..."

"I was happy," Brittany assures.

"But you... you were still going to do it, weren't you? After our date, that was why you were leaving?"

"I wanted to stay with you. I thought I needed to do it, though."

"But you didn't."

"You asked me to stay. And the way you looked at me..."

"It was my perfect day too; I couldn't just let you walk away."

Brittany's butterflies flutter at the words, and the memory of the words, and she blurts out, "You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, Santana."

"Me too, Britt," Santana breathes.

They don't go much further than that, don't unearth all the reasons. Brittany turns off her light and relaxes into the dark, exchanging words with Santana.

Santana is calm again, and Brittany manages to convince her to get some of her schoolwork done—she even helps; helps is more like making up stuff and getting both of them to laugh, though.

She hears Santana yawn, even when she tries to hide it, and she knows they have been talking for hours, and she knows it has to be late, but she doesn't want to pull the phone from her ear to look.

But eventually she has to ask, "Do you need to go?"

Santana tells her no. "I want to talk. I'm here until you're ready to hang up."

The hours pass, and she's still not ready to let Santana go—or she doesn't want to. She knows she should tell Santana to sleep, but Santana stifles her yawns and talks and listens to her talk in return.

It's only when a loud ringing sounds in her ear that she realizes how long they have actually been on the phone. It's her alarm. Her 6:30 am alarm for school.

"I have to go to school," she mumbles.

"Oh," Santana says, like she didn't know either.

She moves off the bed. "I'm sorry I kept you up all night."

"I should be the one saying sorry," Santana insists. "I don't have class till the afternoon, but you have to go now without sleep."

She steps out into the hallway, smiling tiredly. "How 'bout neither of us says sorry?"

Santana breathes out a laugh. "Yeah, okay, that sounds good."

Brittany notices how tired Santana sounds now and she feels bad but can't help but smile more. "Go to sleep now; I'm gonna wake my sister up and get ready."

"Will you call me later?" Santana asks. "When you're in the gym and not eating?"

"Definitely," Brittany says, smile so big in the way only Santana seems to cause. "I'll call and talk to you instead of dance."

"G'night, Britt," Santana says; Brittany imagines the way it sounds like Santana is smiling.

"Sleep good, Santana."

Brittany stands in the middle of the hall, phone pressed to her ear, in silence. She hears one last sound from Santana's end before the call cuts off.

She puts her phone back in her jeans from yesterday before going to her sisters room. She unplugs the nightlight and flicks on the bedside lamp before touching her sister, saying her name, and peeling her cover back. Her sister looks up at her, eyes half closed.

"Are we late?" she asks.

"No," Brittany smiles and shakes her head, "but it's time to get up."

Her sister squeaks out her unusual morning noise and grabs her hand. Brittany turns the lamp off before pulling her sister toward the door and leading her to the bathroom. She returns to her room to grab clothes before going down the stairs with Lord Tubbington in tow; she stops in the kitchen to put him some food out before going to the guest bathroom, which is pretty much hers, to take a shower.

When her sister makes her way down, they have a quick breakfast and then head out the front door.

Brittany thinks of Santana, and she's ready for another day.

I just want to say thank you to everyone who encouraged me to continue this and everyone who is sticking with it.

I also want to say I'm sorry for how long I take to update, but I hope it is somehow worth it.