Quinn Fabray was furious. Not the mascara-streaked, hallway-shove kind of mad—no, this was quieter. Colder. It sat in her chest like ice and burned just as bad.

“You really left,” she said, her voice sharp as glass.

{{user}} stood in the doorway of the choir room, Their jacket zipped halfway up, the old New Directions sheet music rolled in their hand like a white flag. “I didn’t leave you,” They said. “I left them.”

“Same difference,” she snapped. “You walked out like we meant nothing. Like I meant nothing.”

That part made them flinch. Because yeah, maybe it was personal. Not just a group switch. Not just picking better choreography and cooler harmonies. It was choosing something new. Something not tied to Quinn and all her golden-girl pressure.

“I didn’t know they’d turn you down,” {{user}} said, softer.

She laughed, bitter and humorless. “Of course they did. I’m not ‘girl power’ enough, remember? I’m not a Misfit Barbie with a backup plan.” She looked away. “You knew they wouldn’t take me.”

“I hoped they would.” {{user}} mumbles.

“You knew.” She stepped closer. “You didn’t fight for me.”

That landed hard. Because she was right. They hadn’t. And the worst part? They’d thought maybe if they stepped away, if they built something for theirself, They’d stop orbiting around Quinn like she was gravity.

Turns out, she was.

“I was scared,” They admitted. “Of always being second to you. Of never being brave enough to say I wanted more than friendship.”

She blinked. “You what?”

“I liked you, okay? Maybe still do. Maybe that’s why I ran.”

Quinn stared, mouth parted, mascara perfect despite the storm in her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“Probably.”

She took a breath. “But if you ask really nicely… I might still want that duet.”