Santana's POV
To say that our memories define our lives would be an injustice and an inaccuracy. We are so much more than those memories, those experiences. All of this, however, is not to say they aren't worth something.
As for me, I have experienced what seems to be the gamut of life's emotions.
Happiness. Success. Fear. Loss. Anger. Heartbreak. Love. Each feeling is attached to different memories accordingly.
On a Thursday, my little brother was born, and I was so happy. I finally had a little brother. What six-year old girl doesn't want to be a big sister?
On a Friday night, I kissed a girl for the first time. I was 16, and it was a dare. It was exhilarating and a little scary. Her lips were soft, and she smelled like shampoo.
On a Wednesday night, I kissed a girl for the first time on purpose. We were studying together for a test in college. She kissed me back, and that might have been even scarier.
On a Monday, I got my acceptance letter to law school. I don't think I or my parents have ever felt more proud. My mom wore the biggest smile that whole night.
On a Saturday, my parents and little brother were killed in a car accident. They had been on their way to see me graduate law school. I still don't have words for the emotion. It was more than sadness, more than loss; it was impossible, unfathomable. It was learning you're alone in the world, and not one of the billions of people still left can comfort you. It was pain beyond the worst pain.
I thought happiness would forever evade me after that day. On some level, I don't think I wanted to feel happy ever again.
I don't know why I remember the important events of my life on the exact days of the week they occurred. My brain just works that way.
All of those things, those memories, good and bad…they were all before her.
When she came, happiness came with her. It was slow, almost unnoticeable at first, but it inevitably came, and I began to add new memories, ones that don't hurt to remember.
Our first kiss was like forgetting how to breathe, in a good way. It completely consumed me. Every kiss thereafter was like forgetting all over again, both craving air and dreading the moment I'd breathe again because her lips would be gone.
The first time I woke up in her arms was like tasting sunlight. It was warm and reached every nerve in my body, and she had no idea what she already meant to me.
There were so many firsts with her. I could recount hundreds, I'm sure.
There were also so many surprises, like the time she came into my office with such a serious expression I actually grew worried. It wasn't often that she wasn't smiling, especially when she was looking at me.
"Ms. Lopez," she said quietly, as she fetched a single sheet of paper from her bag. I remember looking at her expectantly. She never called me that anymore, not even in the office.
"I'd like to give you my written two weeks' notice."
I distinctly remember my jaw dropping. She hadn't told me she was quitting.
She placed the sheet of paper on my desk and gave me that wink of hers I love so much. It at least let me know everything was okay.
"I'll explain when you come home."
Completely baffled, all I could do was nod absently and watch her walk out of the office.
When I got home, I'd barely stepped one foot in the door before she wrapped me up in a hug. She was kissing me with those soft lips of hers, and I was reminding myself to breathe.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I wanted to surprise you with this."
She then handed me another single sheet of paper: an acceptance letter from a small culinary arts school in the city.
"Culinary arts?" I remember asking, looking up at her with a confused smile.
"Well, I've always enjoyed cooking, and you like my food, so…" She was sheepishly swiping her toes across the carpet in the cutest way I'd ever seen.
"Britt, you're an amazing cook. This is perfect for you."
She smiled at me. God, I will always love her smile.
"So, I obviously can't have a full-time job and go to school…and it gets harder and harder every day to keep our relationship a secret."
I agreed with her. It was beyond difficult to be so close to her every day and have to hold it all in until after leaving the office.
Thus began the next chapter of our lives, and I was — I still am — so proud of her for going after something she loves doing.
Life moved at that pace for a while, and both of us were happy with it. I'd go to work, and she'd go to class. She asked about my cases, and I asked about (and often tasted) what she was learning.
About a year later came the next change and, with it, another happy memory.
"Let's get a place together." Brittany said the words like it was no different from announcing it was going to rain. She was looking across the table at me. Her beautiful, clear blue eyes betrayed nothing but sincerity. I love that about her.
Slightly surprised, I placed my wine glass back down on the table, not even having tasted the red wine inside yet. Then, I grinned at her, mirroring the way her lips pulled up at the corners. "I don't think you'll ever stop surprising me," I mused while tracing my finger around the base of the glass.
I looked around my condo. We spent most of our nights here together, anyway. To be perfectly honest, we were practically almost living together already. One of her sweaters was folded across the back of the couch, and her blanket sat in the reclining chair by the window. However, the walls were still white and bare, and the books and furniture were all mine. It wasn't our place.
"What makes you want to live with me, anyway?" I asked playfully, and I took another bite of the delicious tilapia Brittany had cooked for us.
Brittany casually brushed some blonde hair out of her eyes before speaking. I wondered if she knew how cute she was. "I couldn't possibly not want to live with you."
Even though we'd already been together for almost two years, there were still moments where my heart threatened to stop beating because of something Brittany would say. This had been one of those moments.
"Besides, I practically already live with you. I just thought it'd be nice to have our own place, you know? One without memories of loneliness, one where you never don't want to come home."
I remember staring at her for a long time. God, she just gets me.
"Plus, we can pick wall colors together and then change it a hundred times if we want. I can cook for you and not worry about making a mess. We can hang pictures and posters and maybe even get a place with a balcony. I know how much you like looking at the skyline now."
She was right. Thanks to her helping me get over my fear of heights, I do like looking at the skyline. All I could do was drink her in.
"Say something, Santana. You're making me nervous over here."
I chuckled. "Nervous" is an emotion I just don't associate with Brittany Pierce.
"You had me at 'let's get a place together.'"
She laughed, and then we finished dinner and began looking for a new place.
It didn't take us long to find an apartment we both liked. Big kitchen for her, big study for me, big bedroom for…well, you know.
The balcony is lovely. There's always a breeze this high up, and New York feels wonderful in summer. Most importantly, I'm pretty much convinced that this view was made for us to look at.
I can hear Brittany inside, whistling to herself as she unpacks some of her things. As I sit here, listening to my love and enjoying this view of the city, I experience a rare moment of complete and utter contentment.
Behind me, the French doors to the balcony open, and I turn to see Brittany standing there in the doorway. Somehow, she always looks like a goddess, and sometimes, that's completely maddening.
"There's only one box left. Want to help unpack it?"
I stand and stretch as the breeze tickles my face, and then I walk inside.
On the table sits the last box. Our new apartment looks wonderful; Brittany is such a better decorator than I am.
"I think it's just a few of your things," Brittany says from the balcony doors. She closes them gently and kisses my cheek as she passes me.
"If you want, I can pour some wine while you sort it out."
I nod and smile at her, reminding myself to compliment everything she's done with the space when she comes back.
When I open the box, I see the last of my books, lined up neatly, spines up. One by one, I remove them and place them on the bookshelf until only one remains.
I look down at the little brown journal still sitting in the box and smile.
Like I said, memories certainly do not define our lives, but they do play a huge role. Each memory leaves a mark.
I tuck the little book away on the bookshelf for safekeeping. After all, it contains a set of memories I never want to let go.