New York always smelled like ambition and bagels. {{user}} learned that fast—especially at NYADA, where talent wasn’t rare, but being noticed was.

And Rachel Berry? She was always noticed.

They met in a dance class neither of them liked. Rachel couldn’t keep up, and {{user}} couldn’t care less about pliés. They bonded over shared frustration, sitting on the hardwood floor after class with sore legs and louder opinions.

“I don’t get why vocal majors have to pirouette,” Rachel had grumbled.

“You pirouette like a duck,” {{user}} teased.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. “I sing like a star.”

And she did. God, she did.

Their friendship grew over coffee and cracked mirrors in practice rooms. Rachel sang while {{user}} leaned against the piano, pretending not to stare too long.

Rachel would sing Don’t Rain On My Parade like she meant it, like the world owed her center stage. {{user}} watched every note like it was a confession.

They never talked about feelings. Not the ones that lived beneath glances, beneath shared umbrella walks and late-night phone calls that ended only when one of them fell asleep.

Until opening night of Rachel’s first NYADA showcase.

She panicked backstage. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the sequins on her dress. “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Everyone’s expecting—”

“Rachel.” {{user}} touched her arm. “You’ve been ready since you were five.”

Rachel laughed, shakily. “What if I mess up?”

“Then you’ll hit a high C and make it look like jazz.”

Their eyes locked. A beat of silence. Maybe two.

“I think I love you,” Rachel said, barely above a breath. Like it slipped out.

{{user}} blinked. “You think?”

Rachel swallowed. “I know.”