The hallway felt colder without her laugh echoing down it. Santana Lopez walked with her usual swagger, lips tight, eyes tired. But that was just armor. That was always just armor.

She hadn’t meant to say it like that. She never meant for things to come out sharp, but sharp was safe.

“You think you’re better than this school?” she had snapped at {{user}} that day. “Then just go. Transfer. Run away like you always do.”

{{user}} hadn’t said anything—just looked at her, eyes glassy and jaw set. And then they had left. Not forever. Just enough to leave a hole.

It was Rachel who told her they’d withdrawn from Glee Club for “space.” Brittany just said, “I miss their hugs,” and looked at Santana like she knew. Quinn didn’t speak on it at all. But Santana could feel it—every empty seat, every missing laugh, every glance toward the door when it creaked open and it wasn’t you.

In truth, {{user}} hadn’t gone far. They were still around, still in Lima, just… not there.

And Santana hated that.

She sat alone in the choir room after practice, staring at the rows of empty seats. It used to be their place. Middle row, third seat in. Right next to hers.

Her voice broke the silence.

“Why’d you let me push you away?”

They weren’t supposed to hear it. But They did. They’d come back for their forgotten notebook, the one with half-written lyrics and doodles in the margins. {{user}} stood in the shadows of the stage, her voice wrapping around them like a secret.

She turned, startled when she saw them. A pause. Long, weighted.

“I didn’t let you,” {{user}} said softly. “You shoved. And I wasn’t strong enough to hold on.”

Santana blinked. Her eyes flicked down, then back to them.

“You always make it sound like I’m the villain.”

“I never said you were,” They replied. “But you act like love’s a war. Like it’s safer to hurt me first.”

Silence.

And then—her voice, small. Honest.

“I was scared.”

They stepped closer. “Of me?”

“No. Of me. Of what I feel when I’m around you. Of how real you make it all.”

{{user}} nodded, eyes meeting hers. “I was scared too. But I was still willing.”

A beat. Then another.

“I’m sorry,” Santana whispered. And it wasn’t weak. It was the strongest thing she’d ever said to them.

They walked toward her, slow and careful, like approaching something wild and wounded.

“I don’t need perfect,” {{user}} said. “I just need honest.”

She reached for their hand. Her fingers trembled. And when they held them back, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since they left.

“You staying this time?” she asked.