Santana wishes she could rewind the clock maybe five minutes; wait for Rachel to come in the door again and be there to give her a hug, and say something fucking supportive (she’s been around enough supportive people now to know how that shit works out) because then this wouldn’t be happening.
“Rachel—what are you saying?” she finally asks, when Rachel won’t look away, tears still running down her face.
“You almost kissed me, that night. And for one stupid second, I actually thought—I actually believed that someone like you could want someone like me. But—it was only because you were so drunk that it didn’t even matter that it was just me there, wasn’t it?”
Every word that comes to her mind in response to that statement lodges in Santana’s throat, and all she can do is stare at Rachel.
It’s almost like she’s seeing her for the very first time.
“Rach,” she says, almost pleadingly, because this is too much. Two minutes ago, they were Rachel and Santana, and now they’re—she has no idea, but her lungs ache, and something underneath them hurts even more.
Rachel finally averts her eyes, if only to grab her keys from the key bowl again. “It’s just really hard to believe sometimes that I’m pretty enough for Broadway, when I’m clearly not even pretty enough for you.”
She’s out the door in less than two seconds after that, without her purse, and some part of Santana wants to run after her because it’s nighttime and she doesn’t have her rape whistle, but—
She just can’t. She just sits there, stupidly looking at the half-vegan pizza she ordered because she knew Rachel was going to be home early for a change, and feels like she really should have seen this coming somehow.
Blind With Casualties (x)