Archive of Our Own ^beta

Quinn didn’t plan to stay.

She never really did when it came to Lima. It was one of those places you pulled away from like a scab, knowing if you picked at it too long, you’d bleed again. But here she was. Folded into one of the back rows of the choir room, arms crossed, back stiff, letting her eyes drift toward the piano keys instead of the eager, bouncing voices filling the space.

Mr. Schue stood at the whiteboard with a clipboard in one hand and a red marker in the other, looking thrilled in that desperately-trying-to-make-this-fun-for-everyone kind of way. It hadn’t changed. None of it had.

“Alright, team,” he said, grinning. “Legacy Week!”

A few groans. A few claps. A small eyeroll from Unique that Quinn instantly liked.

“Pairing up a former member with someone new,” Schue continued. “Sharing what we know, learning from each other. Passing the torch. Y’know, classic New Directions.”

Quinn didn’t flinch, but her stomach twisted. Classic New Directions had been messy. Loud. Complicated. A time capsule of failures wrapped in standing ovations. But she sat through it, like always. Like she didn’t feel her own name etched into the walls of this room.

She’d only agreed to help because Santana goaded her into it.

“Come back for one week,” she’d said. “Mentor some poor girl who still thinks show choir changes lives. Heal your inner child or whatever.”

Quinn thought she’d be paired with Kitty.

Kitty, who still wore her ponytail like a blade. Who walked the halls like she was being filmed. Who had once cornered Quinn at Breadstix and told her she had posters of her routines pinned above her mirror.

Kitty, who had made Quinn feel like she wasn’t a washed-up teenage tragedy.

She’d caught Kitty watching her that first day, not staring, but studying. Like she was trying to memorize Quinn’s walk, the way she held her folder, even how she tied her shoes. It was flattering, in a hollow sort of way. Like being turned into a costume.

“Alright,” Schue said, looking at the clipboard. “Here’s how we’re pairing it up this week…”

The names came out fast:

“Noah with Jake. Finn with Ryder. Brittany with Sugar. Mercedes with Unique. Santana with Kitty. And” he looked up, eyes skimming “Quinn with Marley.”

There was a pause.

Kitty sat up straighter. “Wait, Mr. Schue,” she said as her eyes flicked to Marley, “actually, Marley and I talked. We were thinking we’d switch. I’ll take Quinn.”

There was an edge in her voice that wasn’t quite casual.

Quinn’s eyes moved to Marley for the first time.

She was small in her chair, posture curved inward like she didn’t want to be seen. Dark lashes lowered. Her fingers gripped the corner of her sheet music like it might fly away. She didn’t say anything. But Quinn noticed the glance. Quick and flickering of Marley’s eyes darting toward Kitty like she needed approval just to breathe. Quinn had seen that look before. She knew what it meant when someone learned to shrink in the presence of a girl who smiled with teeth.

“No switching,” Schue replied, already scribbling on the board. “We’re mixing things up for a reason. Kitty, you’re with Santana. Marley, you’ve got Quinn.”

Kitty’s jaw tightened as she slumped back.

Quinn said nothing. Just tapped her thumbnail against the side of her forearm. A silent, reflexive click-click-click.

Not Kitty.

She didn’t know much about Marley. Only heard her name once or twice, mostly in reference to being “the new Rachel.”

Quinn nearly flinched at that alone.

Rachel had been fire and hunger and show-stopping solos. She demanded space, commanded attention, performed like she needed it to breathe. Quinn had spent most of her high school years resenting Rachel and the rest trying not to want her.

And this girl, Marley, was too quiet. Too careful. Too… breakable.

Quinn didn’t want breakable.

She wanted control. She wanted someone who would reflect her back to herself, but better. Cleaner. Someone who didn’t remind her of Rachel at all.

Quinn wanted to mentor Kitty, simple.

After the pairings were read, Schue gave them each their assigned song and instructions to rehearse all week, perform Friday.

Easy. Familiar. Forgettable.

Quinn’s gaze drifted toward the trophy case by the door. Her name was still there, etched under a photo of the ’10 Regionals win. The plaque had dulled, fingerprint-smudged and tarnished by time. She wondered if anyone still stopped to read it.

People started pairing off in pockets around the room. Santana gathering Kitty like “Relax, Kitty. You still get to watch a real Cheerio work. Front row seats, try not to take notes out loud.” Already divulging in teaching in her lima heights fashion. Brittany was talking to Sugar about jellyfish, for some reason. Mercedes had Unique giggling like they’d known each other for years.

Marley hadn’t moved.

Neither had Quinn.

“Um,” Marley said, barely above a whisper, finally turning in her seat. “I-I guess we’ll meet tomorrow? After school?”

Quinn looked at her again, really looked.

Marley was still holding her music sheet like a shield. Her voice trembled in a way that didn’t sound afraid of failing, but afraid of disappointing. Her eyes didn’t quite meet hers.

“I’m here to help,” Quinn said. Flat. Measured. “That’s it.”

Marley nodded once, like she’d expected it.

She didn’t see the way Quinn’s gaze lingered.

Not on her face.

But on the way her shoulders pulled in, just slightly, every time Kitty looked over.

_____________

The choir room always sounded louder when it was empty.

It was late enough that the hallway lights had already dimmed, shadows stretching long across the tile floor. Quinn sat at the piano bench, elbow leaned against the closed lid, idly flipping through the sheet Mr. Schue had left in her box.

A ballad. Of course it was.

She didn’t recognize the composer, but the melody felt familiar. Big emotion in a soft wrapper. The kind of song that wasn’t supposed to work unless you meant every word.

She hated those.

Footsteps behind her. Then stillness.

“Hi,” Marley said, voice light, uncertain.

Quinn turned.

She was standing just inside the room, hugging a worn notebook to her chest like it might protect her. Her braid was tighter today. Her eyes weren’t.

“You’re late,” Quinn said, not unkindly.

“Sorry. I had to help clean up after lunch. My mom-” she cut herself off. “Sorry.”

“You already said that.”

Marley nodded. She stayed where she was, awkward in the silence.

Quinn turned back to the sheet music. “It’s a solo. You’re singing it.”

“Oh.” Marley stepped closer, just one step. “Right.”

“You can warm up if you want,” Quinn said. “Take your time.”

There was a piano. There were instructions. It was all very procedural. Quinn liked that.

Until Marley opened her mouth to sing.

Marley didn’t warm up. She didn’t even ask for a key.

She just nodded once, like she didn’t want to waste Quinn’s time, and stepped into place beside the piano. Her fingers were shaking, just barely, as she went to grab the sheet music Quinn was holding for the solo had given her. Marley reached out to take it.

Their fingers touched, quick, electric.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

Quinn blinked. Marley pulled her hand back immediately, like she’d touched something hot, clutching her notebook tighter to her chest. She didn’t look up.

Quinn cleared her throat. “It’s Gravity by Sara Bareilles, it needs full commitment, full intensity, the song doesn’t work unless you sing like you mean it” she said, staring at the notes instead of the girl beside her. “and you’re going sing like you meant it right?”

Marley nodded again, more tightly this time. She stepped forward and opened her mouth.

The first note came out light. Almost too light to hold weight. She sang like she didn’t believe she deserved to be heard. Quinn recognized that tone, the one you used when you were hoping no one would notice you trying.

The song was a stripped, piano-led ballad. Something tender and exposed.

The kind of piece where every note felt like a confession.

Quinn knew the song from years ago, an indie cut Schue must’ve found while trying to sound edgy. It didn’t even have a chorus, just rising chords and a pleading refrain:

| Set me free... leave me be...
| I don’t want to fall another moment into your gravity…

Not an easy song to fake your way through.

Marley was doing okay... Until she wasn’t.

On the second line, her voice cracked.

It was subtle. Barely a breath off key. But she stopped cold, like she’d broken something too delicate to glue back together.

“I’m-I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Quinn said automatically, though she hadn’t stopped staring at the music.

“I know I’m not what you expected.”

That made Quinn pause.

“I didn’t expect anything,” she said, a little sharper than she meant.

“But you wanted Kitty.” It wasn’t bitter. Just factual. Small.

Quinn tapped a chord on the piano, low, round, unfinished.

She didn’t answer.

Marley looked over then. Just for a second. Just enough for Quinn to realize she’d been watched more than she thought.

“I can try again,” Marley added quickly. “I’ll do better.”

Quinn looked at her fully now.

Her hands. Her posture. The way she flinched when she thought she’d disappointed someone. The way her voice curled in on itself like a body trying to survive winter.

“No one’s asking you to,” Quinn said softly.

But the question in her throat was different: Who made you believe you had to?

Marley didn’t move at first. Her fingers tightened around the frayed edge of her lyric sheet, the paper flexing under her grip like it might snap in two if she let go. She nodded again, but slower this time, like she had to coax the motion out of herself.

“I’ll start from the top,” she said, so softly Quinn might not have heard if the room wasn’t silent.

Quinn didn’t respond. She just shifted slightly, hands poised over the piano keys, letting her foot rest on the soft pedal. When she played, the sound was muted, careful, like she didn’t want to spook her.

The first chord hung in the air, gentle and unfinished.

Marley came in on the second beat.

Her voice was clearer this time. Not confident but determined. The way a match flares when it first catches, trembling under the weight of its own flame.

| Set me free... leave me be...
| I don’t want to fall another moment into your gravity…

The note rose delicately, the kind of pitch that could fracture if you breathed wrong. Quinn kept her eyes on the keys, but her ears were locked in. She felt it, the wobble hidden beneath the vowels, the way Marley sang like she might not believe what she was asking.

| Here I am... and I stand so tall...
| Just the way I’m supposed to be…

That line caught something.

It wasn’t pitchy. It wasn’t wrong. It was raw. It sounded like Marley was asking the question for real. Like she meant it. And maybe didn’t want to know the answer.

Quinn’s fingers hovered over the next chord, but her throat moved first.

She joined in, softly, instinctively, layering a harmony just under Marley’s melody.

It wasn’t rehearsed. It wasn’t planned. It was reflex.

The kind that came from years of doing this, of knowing when someone’s voice needed grounding. And maybe (though Quinn would never admit it) from wanting to make it easier for her to keep going.

Marley faltered, not vocally, but physically. Her eyes flicked over in surprise, like she hadn’t expected Quinn to follow. Like she hadn’t expected anyone to.

But she didn’t stop.

Their voices found each other in the center of the song, Marley’s tremble wrapped in the calm of Quinn’s lower line. They weren’t polished. They weren’t perfect. But there was something about it that made Quinn press into the next note like she meant it.

| You’re on to me, and all over me…

Marley closed her eyes on the word “over,” just for a second. And in that second, Quinn watched her.

Not just her voice, her. The way her shoulders dropped. The way her lips curved, barely. The way something that had been clenched finally seemed to loosen.

She was beautiful like this.

Not styled. Not perfect.

Just… open.

Quinn didn’t realize she was staring until Marley looked back.

Their eyes caught. Only a second.

But something shifted.

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t chemistry in the way Quinn had learned to recognize it.

It was recognition. Like she’d seen Marley in a hundred rooms before this, but never really looked. Not like now.

And Marley, for a heartbeat, smiled.

Not big. Not bright. Just real. A smile that said, Thank you for staying.

Neither of them knew they were leaning into each other’s space, just slightly, just enough to be dangerous trapped in their own bubble.

Then the door creaked.

Only Marley heard it.

Her eyes flicked toward the window, and Quinn’s dropped to the piano. She was just as caught off guard by everything: by the sound, by the moment, by what might’ve happened if it hadn’t broken.

The window above the handle was blurry, half-frosted. But there was no mistaking the shape.

Kitty Wilde.

Watching.

And grimacing.

Not the kind of look one might expect. Not the kind Marley wanted.

Kitty’s was sharp. Upset. The kind of look people gave when they thought they were owed something.

Marley blinked but didn’t stop singing.

She backed away, though. Her posture shifted. The line between them snapped quiet.

She didn’t look at Quinn again.

Not while Kitty was still there.

Not while she could still give her more ammo.

Quinn kept playing, slower now, softer, watching Marley retreat without moving her feet.

Confused and trying to draw her back in.

She wanted to say something.

Anything.
“You were…”

But the words caught.

Quinn pressed her mouth into a line.

Then hit the final note.

The last note faded into silence.

Not applause. Not even a breath.

Just the soft hum of the overhead lights and the creak of Marley stepping away from the piano, like she was trying not to make a sound.

Quinn lifted her fingers from the keys and let them hover there for a second longer, as if finishing the phrase too quickly would make it feel less real. The moment still hung in the air between them… fragile, lingering, unresolved.

Marley clutched her lyric sheet again, tighter than before.

“I think… I should go,” she said.

It wasn’t abrupt. It wasn’t rude. But it sliced through the room anyway.

Quinn’s eyes flicked up. “We still have ten minutes.”

“I know. I just… I told my mom I’d be back early.”

She didn’t make eye contact, Quinn could tell it was a lie. Her voice was neutral, but it had that same tremble, not from fear this time, but from retreat.

Quinn tilted her head. “You don’t need to be nervous.”

“I’m not,” Marley said too quickly.

And yet Quinn could tell that wasn’t a lie, maybe she wasn’t nervous. But that didn’t settle the discomfort of the moment for Quinn. Maybe she was something else entirely, something Quinn hadn’t learned how to read.. yet.

Marley started gathering her things. The lyric sheet. Her notebook. She moved fast, efficiently, like she didn’t want to leave anything behind.

Not even the moment.

Quinn stood slowly. Not in protest. Just to match her pace.

“Same time tomorrow then?” she asked, more habit than anything else.

Marley paused. Her eyes flicked up, met Quinn’s just long enough for Quinn to think maybe she’d say something real.

Instead, she nodded.

“Yeah. Same time.”

Then she left, quiet, fast--So fast a page flew out without her noticing, and with the door swinging shut behind her.

And Quinn was alone again.

Still standing beside the piano, arms loosely folded, eyes stuck on the empty doorway like it might rewind the last ten minutes if she stared hard enough.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t reach for the keys. Didn’t even exhale fully.

Instead, she picked up the sheet of music Marley let fly away, smoothing the edge where it had bent under her grip.

It wasn’t even creased.

Quinn stared at the lyrics, the ones Marley had just sung like they cost her something, and whispered, almost too quietly to hear:

“You didn’t have to pull away.”

Then she folded the page once. Clean. Straight. Tucked it into her folder like nothing had happened.

And left the room before it could start to feel like something had.

_____________

The hallway outside the choir room smelled like lemon-scented floor polish and stale paper, the kind of scent that clung to old school buildings like regret. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, too bright for this time of day, casting long, pale reflections across the linoleum.

Marley sat on the bench near the trophy case. Not the middle, the edge. One foot tucked beneath her, the other flat on the floor, her notebook balanced on her thigh. The page was open, blank, her pencil hovering but unmoving.

She’d written three words and erased them all.

The choir room had felt too close, too loud. Even with just the two of them in it.

Especially with just the two of them in it.

She didn’t mean to leave. Not really. But something about the look on Kitty’s face (and the silence that followed) had crawled under her skin like cold water. Not sharp. Not screaming. Just soaking everything in.

And Quinn.

She hadn’t known what to expect from Quinn Fabray. Idol, legend, maybe mean girl depending on who you asked. She’d seen her name on plaques. Heard Kitty talk about her like she was royalty. Heard Mr. Schue say she used to “own the room.”

She hadn’t expected her to be quiet.

Or careful.

Or to sing with her.

Marley’s throat was still tight, like it hadn’t let go of that moment. Their voices in the same space. Quinn’s eyes on her like they weren’t searching for anything, just staying.

She’d felt something. She was sure of it.

That’s why she left.

Because if Kitty saw it… if Quinn saw it… if she let it show-

Her pencil tapped against the spiral of the notebook in a steady rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

She didn’t know if she was trying to calm herself or summon courage.

Footsteps echoed down the hall. Steady. Purposeful.

She stiffened, breath catching, terrified it was Kitty.

They didn’t turn toward the office. Didn’t fade into the stairwell.

They stopped beside her.

When she looked up, she was surprised to see the former head Cheerio, she released the breath of fear that she was holding in before knowing it was Quinn.

Quinn didn’t say a word.

She sat, slowly, and deliberately, on the other end of the bench, as if the space had always been reserved for her. Her movements were clean, composed. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t glance over. Just unzipped her bag and pulled out a paperback, thumbed to a page already dog-eared near the middle, and began to read.

Marley blinked.

No greeting. No “why did you leave?” No questions at all.

She waited, unsure. Watched Quinn from the corner of her eye.

No flinching. No sighs. No shifting in her seat. Just that quiet, unbothered stillness.

Quinn Fabray was a statue. Or a shield. Or both.

And yet…

There was something in the way she’d chosen this bench. Not the ones by the front office. Not the rows by the gym. This one. Right outside the choir room. The same place Marley had retreated to. Not by accident.

She wasn’t sure what to do with that.

So she sat staring at her empty notebook. And Quinn read.

One minute passed. Then another.

Finally, Quinn folded the corner of the page she was on, closed the book, turned it over in her hands like she wasn’t quite done letting it go, and extended it sideways without looking up.

“You might like the girl in this one.”

Marley hesitated, staring at the book like it might dissolve in her hands if she touched it.

It was a small paperback. The cover was soft from being read too many times, its corners bent just slightly inward like it had been pressed under too many notebooks or left overnight in the wrong bag. The background was a cold, foggy blue, the kind of color that looked like silence. Across the top, in simple white font, it read:

We Are Okay.

Her throat tightened.

She’d seen it before. Once in a used book bin, maybe. On a list she never had time to finish reading. She hadn’t known what it was about, hadn’t even picked it up. But the title had stayed with her. The kind of title that didn’t ask for attention, just… hoped someone might notice it.

Like her.

She took it from Quinn carefully, like it was something breakable.

Her fingers brushed the worn spine where Quinn’s thumb had probably sat for hours. It was warm. Not recently, not from Quinn’s hand, but the kind of warmth that lingers when something has been held.

“You already read this?” she asked quietly.

“Three times,” Quinn said. Still not looking at her. Her voice wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t soft, either. Just matter-of-fact. Like the sky being gray.

Marley looked back down at the book.

“What’s it about?”

Quinn shrugged, the motion small. Controlled. “Loneliness. Lying to yourself. Surviving things no one talks about.”

Marley let the words settle.

“That sounds… light.”

“Yeah,” Quinn replied. “It’s not.”

There was something in the way she said it, clipped, final, that told Marley not to press further. But it didn’t feel like a door slamming. It felt like someone leaving the window open, just a little.

Quinn shifted beside her and reached into her bag again, pulling out a different book. This one was hardcover, the dust jacket pristine but impersonal, probably something from a class. A yellow ribbon bookmark dangled from its center like a pause button.

She flipped it open, settled it across her knee, and started reading like she hadn’t just handed Marley something that mattered.

Like she hadn’t just given her a map out of whatever this was.

Marley looked back down at We Are Okay.

She hadn’t even opened it yet, but already it felt… different. Heavier in her lap. Like it had gravity.

“I’ll bring it back,” she said quietly. Like a promise she didn’t know how to keep.

“You don’t have to,” Quinn murmured.

And that, somehow, was the most generous part.

Marley didn’t say anything. Didn’t open the book yet. Just sat with it for a minute, her fingers tracing the edge of the front cover. It felt like the kind of thing that might open her if she let it.

She glanced sideways.

Quinn was reading, or pretending to. Her face was unreadable, a perfect, practiced mask. But her posture wasn’t sharp. Her shoulders were relaxed. Not slouched, but… resting.

Like this wasn’t punishment.

Like she wanted to be here.

Marley blinked down at the title again.

Then, slowly, she flipped it open.

The inside of the cover had faint creases, the kind that came from being opened and held and closed and opened again. There was no writing inside. No name. No message.

But on the very first page, someone had underlined a sentence in faint pencil:
| I was okay just a moment ago. I will learn how to be okay again.’

Marley exhaled.

She didn’t know she’d been holding her breath.

Marley didn’t move for a long time after reading the line.
| I was okay just a moment ago. I will learn how to be okay again.

Her thumb traced under the words, as if she could press them into her skin and carry them with her. She’d never underlined in books. It had always felt wrong, too permanent, like she was making a claim she didn’t have the right to make. But this one… this one was already marked.

Light pencil. Soft pressure.

Not for decoration. Not for show. It felt like someone trying to leave a trail back to themselves.

She imagined Quinn reading this in bed, or on a train, or in one of those silent moments she probably never talked about, underlining it not to remember the quote, but to feel a little less alone.

The thought made Marley’s throat ache in a way that wasn’t fear.

Suddenly inspired, she flipped open her notebook, the same one that had been half-empty since the beginning of the year. Pages half-filled with phrases she didn’t believe in. Lyrics that got stuck halfway through a line and collapsed under her own editing before they even had a chance to say anything true.

But this time was different.

She didn’t think. She didn’t plan. She just let her pencil move across the page like it already knew where to go.
| even the silence with her felt louder than the noise.

The words hit the paper like they were always supposed to land there.

She stared at them. Not because she was embarrassed, but because they looked so certain sitting there, like they weren’t waiting for approval.

She read them again. Then again. And then stopped.

There were no metaphors. No overused imagery. Just one clean line, and yet it felt like the most honest thing she’d written in months.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, staring at her own handwriting.

It was Quinn’s voice that brought her back.

“You wrote something,” she said so soft, like a statement she didn’t want to carry too far.

Marley blinked and turned slightly, startled that Quinn had noticed. She thought she’d been quiet. Invisible again.

Quinn still hadn’t moved much. Her book was open across her knees, but her thumb wasn’t turning the page. Her eyes were steady, not quite looking, but definitely watching.

“I guess I did,” Marley murmured.

There was a pause.

Not a heavy one. Not awkward. Just… still.

Then, for the first time since sitting down, Quinn turned her head fully and looked at her.

Really looked.

Not across a room. Not with judgment. Not with that passive, detached curiosity Marley was used to from teachers, or Kitty when she was in a good mood.

No, Quinn looked at her like someone taking stock of a person who had finally stepped into the light.

Marley didn’t look away.

For a second, she thought maybe she should, that she’d been holding Quinn’s gaze too long, that maybe it was presumptuous, or intense, or something she wasn’t supposed to do.

But Quinn didn’t pull back. She didn’t tense.

She stayed.

And then, without changing expression, without softening, she said, just loud enough to be heard:

“Good.”

Marley blinked again. Not because she didn’t understand, but because it landed somewhere unexpected.

It wasn’t praise.

It wasn’t even approval.

It was… recognition. Like Quinn had seen the line, not the words, not the notebook, but the moment Marley chose to write it, and decided it meant something.

Marley nodded once, slowly, and looked back at her page.

She didn’t write anything else. Didn’t need to.

Quinn turned back to her book like nothing had shifted.

But Marley could still feel it in the air between them.

The kind of silence you don’t run from.

The kind you carry with you.

Quinn’s eyes drifted to the notebook still open on Marley’s lap. She didn’t stare, didn’t tilt her head like she was trying to read the line, she respected silence too much for that. But she could see the way the rest of the page was blank.

No other lines. No scribbles. No scratched-out lyrics or rewrites or smudged graphite from hours of second-guessing.

Just one sentence, sitting clean and alone in the middle of the page.

It told her more than a full song ever could.

The rest of the notebook looked the same, edges crisp, pages mostly untouched. There was no weight to it. Not the kind notebooks had when they’d been filled, carried, lived in.

It didn’t look used.

It looked carried.

A shield, not a vessel.

Quinn didn’t comment. She didn’t have to. She just let her gaze settle for a second longer before turning back to her book, eyes tracing the words she wasn’t reading.

Marley didn’t know she’d been seen.

And Quinn didn’t say anything.

But something in her chest, quiet and sharp, folded itself carefully between the lines.

A silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty.

It felt like standing in a doorway with the light still on. Like something had passed between them, not loud, not obvious, just a thread pulled taut and tied at both ends, invisible to anyone else.

Marley didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

She was still looking down at her notebook, her pencil resting against the paper like it might move again if she stayed very, very still.

And Quinn, she hadn’t turned another page in her book. Just sat there, holding it open, eyes somewhere else entirely.

Neither of them moved to leave.

The school around them was winding down, lockers clanging in the distance, muffled announcements echoing from the main office, but it all felt far away.

Quinn closed her book slowly, fingers folding the cover over with the same deliberate care she used when handling glass.

She slipped it back into her bag and stood.

Marley looked up, startled by the motion, like she hadn’t realized they’d been sitting there long enough to notice when it ended.

Quinn didn’t rush.

She didn’t say goodbye.

She just offered the smallest nod, a beat of acknowledgment, and walked off down the hallway.

Marley sat there for another minute, staring at the space Quinn had left behind.

Then, quietly, she wrote another line. Got lost in her own mind, both hopeful for the moment with Quinn and being see and fearful for Kittys lash.

_____________

Quinn sat in her usual spot near the piano. Not in the center of the room, not next to anyone. Just far enough forward to hear everything, and far enough back to not be seen unless she wanted to be.

Her binder was open on her lap. Blank sheet music on one side. A pencil tucked into the coil. She hadn’t touched either in twenty minutes.

Rehearsal had started without ceremony. Mr. Schue was going over vocal stacks with Ryder. Mercedes and Unique were running harmonies along the back wall, their voices threading together in warm, effortless tension. Santana was reclined in her seat like she was posing for a magazine cover, twirling her hair while Kitty sat upright beside her, arms crossed and radiating annoyance.

It was all normal. Exactly how it should be.

Except Marley wasn’t here.

Quinn hadn’t asked about it. Hadn’t brought it up. No one had. No one even seemed to notice.

But Quinn noticed.

She wasn’t… worried. That wasn’t the word. She was just aware.

Hyperaware.

The kind of awareness that curled at the base of her neck and hummed between her ribs. Like something unfinished had followed her into the room and refused to sit down.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

She barely knew Marley. They’d rehearsed once. Spoken in fragments. Shared a bench and a paperback and some kind of tension she didn’t have a name for.

But Quinn had learned to live in rooms like this, full of noise that meant nothing, full of people who’d only ever noticed her when she was burning.

And Marley had noticed her differently.

Not when she was performing. Not when she was being useful. Just… there.

And now she wasn’t.

Quinn’s fingers tapped absently against the edge of her binder. Her breath came shallow and even, but her spine was stiff. Her eyes stayed glued forward, but every second ticked louder.

She wasn’t used to looking for people.

She was used to them looking for her.

The sound of the door creaking open wasn’t loud. But it carved straight through the room.

Quinn didn’t turn. She kept her eyes on the piano. But every muscle in her body went still.

She felt it before she saw it.

The energy in the room shifted, not like when someone walks in late, but like when someone tries not to be seen.

Soft steps. No click of shoes. Quiet fabric brushing against a bag strap. Hesitant pause near the front row. And then the movement, deliberate, rehearsed in its own way.

Marley walked in like someone trying not to make waves.

Same jacket. Sleeves pulled over her hands, fingers curled tight at the cuffs. Her braid was looser than the day before, like she’d done it in a rush, or hadn’t cared enough to fix it. Her eyes stayed low. Not scanning. Not seeking. Avoiding.

Quinn watched her in the periphery, perfectly still.

Marley approached the row closest to Quinn, slowed for just a breath, then turned one seat too soon and slid into a chair three spots away.

Quinn’s jaw clenched.

Marley didn’t look at her. Not even a glance. Not even that polite little head-tilt people gave each other in passing. She just dropped her bag at her feet, unzipped it, and pulled out her notebook like it was all routine.

But it wasn’t routine. Not after yesterday.

And Quinn knew it.

She recognized retreat when she saw it. She’d lived inside it.

Something about the way Marley sat, back straight, shoulders pinched, was familiar. Too familiar. Like she was ready to run but forcing herself to stay. Like she was trying to pre-shrink before anyone else could do it for her.

Kitty had that effect on people.

So did Quinn, sometimes.

But Marley hadn’t looked afraid yesterday. Not of her.

So what had changed?

Quinn didn’t know why it mattered.

She didn’t even know why she cared. She barely knew this girl. But something in her brain (that quiet, twitchy part that never stopped scanning) filed it away anyway:

• Marley is sitting three seats away.
• Marley is avoiding your eyes.
• Marley is pretending nothing happened.

And that last one hurt in a way Quinn hadn’t prepared for.

Mr. Schue clapped his hands once, cheerful and unaware.

“Alright,” he said. “Solo from our Marley Rose. Let’s give her the room.”

Marley didn’t move right away.

Then she stood, slow, like her body wasn’t fully convinced yet, and walked to the front of the room. Her boots barely made a sound. Her arms were folded over her notebook like a shield. She held it even when she stepped into the center of the risers, the way someone might hold onto something just to remember their shape.

Quinn didn’t look directly at her.

She didn’t need to. Her whole body was tuned to her now. Every footstep. Every breath.

The piano began.

A few soft chords, slow and deliberate.

And then Marley sang.

| Something always brings me back to you... it never takes too long...
| No matter what I say or do... I'll still feel you here 'til the moment I'm gone...

It was different this time.

Fuller. Heavier. Like the words had gained weight overnight. Like she’d found something in them that had been buried the day before and now had no choice but to rise.

| You hold me without touch... you keep me without chains...
| I never wanted anything so much…
| Than to drown in your love and not feel your rain…

She looked at Quinn.

Not past her.

Not near her.

At her.

Her voice didn’t waver. Not once.

There was something terrifying about it, not the power, but the honesty. Marley was singing like she had nothing left to protect. Like she wasn’t just delivering a solo, but offering up something Quinn hadn’t asked for and couldn’t give back.

Quinn didn’t blink.

She couldn’t.

| Set me free, leave me be...
| I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity...
| Here I am, and i stand so tall…
| Just the way I'm supposed to be...

That one landed like a stone.

Quinn’s throat tightened. Her pulse quickened. The air felt thinner.

She wasn’t used to being seen like this.

Not gently. Not vulnerably. Not on purpose.

Marley’s gaze didn’t falter… until the bridge.

That’s when she looked down.

Her voice didn’t change. Her pitch stayed perfect.

But her posture shifted.

Her body turned slightly away. Her arms folded tighter. Her eyes found a spot on the far wall and stayed there.

| I live here on my knees… as I try to make you see...
| That you're everything I think I need here on the ground....
| But you're neither friend nor foe... though i can't seem to let you go...

That was when Quinn felt it.

Not rejection.

Not resentment.

Just distance.

Not the kind you create out of disinterest, the kind you create out of care.

Marley was pulling back. On purpose.

Because she’d let herself be seen. And she wasn’t ready to do it again.

And she wasn’t mad. She wasn’t pretending yesterday hadn’t happened.

She was protecting something.

And Quinn felt that protection like a wall sliding between them, not made of anger, but of caution.

The song ended on a soft, clean note.

Everyone clapped.

Quinn didn’t. Too stunned.

She just sat there, hands tight in her lap, heart louder than it should’ve been.

And thought, She saw me. And she still walked away.

And though, I saw her. And she still walked away.

The room clapped.

Polite. Impressed. Mr. Schue even stood and gave a little whoop, as if applause could reach Marley where Quinn now knew she wouldn’t let anyone near.

Quinn didn’t move.

Her fingers stayed twisted around the edges of her binder, pressing so hard into the paper that the skin under her nails turned white.

Marley stepped off the riser like the floor might break under her, slow, careful, controlled. She didn’t look up. Didn’t glance back. Her body stayed closed in the way it had cracked open during the song. The shift was subtle. Measured. Intentional.

But Quinn felt it like a door closing.

Marley didn’t return to the second row where she’d been sitting before the solo. She moved further back, near the edge of the room, near the wall. Somewhere no one would have reason to look.

She sat with her knees tucked together, notebook returned to her lap, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the cover.

Quinn watched her.

Only for a second.

Only long enough to confirm what she already knew.

That the space between them was no longer empty.

It was full of decision.

Full of knowing.

Marley had looked at her, not through her, not around her, but into her, and then chosen not to stay.

Not because she regretted it.

But because she knew Quinn had seen it, too.

Because she knew what it meant to hand someone that kind of gaze and then need to live with what followed.

Quinn swallowed hard, throat burning.

She tried to shift her focus, to stare at the piano, or the window, or the curve of Mr. Schue’s ridiculous grin.

But her body had already mapped Marley’s position in the room, and every angle felt off-balance now.

She’d been studied. Understood. Offered something.

And now the absence of that offering left her stripped and directionless.

Quinn hated being vulnerable.

She hated needing answers even more.

What had changed?
Was it something she did?
Something she didn’t?
Was it Kitty?
Was it the song?

Or was it just that Marley, sweet, quiet Marley, was stronger than she looked, and already knew when closeness started to cost too much?

Quinn didn’t know. And that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

Because for a girl she barely knew, this shouldn’t have mattered.

And yet, her chest was still tight.

Her binder was still clenched in her hands.

And the seat beside her felt colder than it had yesterday.

The rest of rehearsal blurred like a smudge on glass.

Schue rambled about key changes and ensemble blend while the piano bled soft chords into the air. No one was listening. Not really. Not after Marley’s solo, not after the silence it left behind.

Marley hadn’t said a word since.

She packed slowly. Neatly. Like someone who didn’t want to make noise on her way out.

Quinn watched her in flashes. Not directly. Just… peripherally. The way you track something without wanting to be caught.

She felt her leaving before she even stood.

And when Marley walked out, quiet, head down, notebook hugged to her chest like armor, Quinn felt it in her ribs. That hollow ache like air being pulled from a room that hadn’t even filled all the way yet.

She almost said something.
“Marley-”

But it stayed in her throat, when Marley walked right past the second row, past Quinn’s seat, and right out the door.

No pause.

No hesitation.

No backward glance.

Just… gone.

The hallway swallowed her like a secret.

The door shut behind her like punctuation.

Quinn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

It felt like a sigh, but sharper.

Like regret pretending not to be.

She was still staring at the door when a voice beside her said, “Okay, what the hell was that?”

Santana.

Of course.

Quinn didn’t look at her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And the worlds flat... Spill it, Fabray. What’s up with you and Songbird?”

Quinn exhaled sharply. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” Santana said, flopping into the seat beside her and crossing her legs like she owned the floor. “I’m midway through the script, Fabray. You missed Act One during that performance meltdown you barely survived.”

Quinn stared straight ahead; jaw clenched.

Santana propped her boots on the seat in front of her like she was getting ready to enjoy the show.

“So are we pretending you didn’t just get publicly serenaded by a walking folksy fever dream?”

“It’s Glee club, people sing.”

“She sang at you like you were the ocean, and she was in a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.”

Quinn exhaled tightly. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, please. You were one more harmony away from combusting. I thought we were about to get a confessional, a kiss, and a Netflix deal.”

Quinn didn’t say anything.

“You’ve got that face again.”

Quinn didn’t look at her. “What face.”

“The one that says: ‘I’m emotionally constipated and trying to swallow it down like a protein bar made of shame.’”

Quinn stared ahead. Binder shut. Knuckles white.

“She sang a solo,” she said. “That’s it.”

“Uh-huh. And I slept through Algebra, but I still know what a red flag looks like.”

Quinn said nothing.

Santana leaned in.

“You were holding your breath the whole time, Q.”

Quinn said nothing.

“You didn’t blink.”

Quinn said nothing, jaw clenching.

“She looked at you like you were it. Like you were the person she was singing about. And instead of leaning in, you froze like your spine short-circuited.”

Quinn let out a breath, sharp, like it had been trapped in her chest since Marley started singing.

Quinn said nothing.

Santana raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s your vibe now? Cold noble silence? I liked you better when you were at least breaking down with style.”

“I didn’t expect it..”

“No shit.”

“I didn’t want it.”

“Oh, please.” Santana scoffed, dropping her voice into mock-Quinn register. “I’m just here to help, I’m above it all, I don’t catch feelings, I’m a reformed saint with perfect eyebrows and a tragic past.”

“Santana.”

“I’m not done.”

Quinn clenched her jaw.

“She saw you,” Santana said. “That sweet little choir mouse looked at you like she knew you. Like she saw all the garbage you think you hide and didn’t flinch. And you’re freaking out because you didn’t hate it.”

“We’ve barely even talked.”

“And yet,” Santana said, dragging the word out like taffy, “you look like you just got dumped after a weeklong emotional affair you weren’t aware you were having.”

“I don’t know her,” Quinn muttered.

“But she knows you,” Santana shot back. “And that terrifies the control freak right out of your blonde ass.”

Quinn snapped her head toward her. “Can you not make everything a joke?”

“I’m not joking,” Santana said, eyes suddenly laser-sharp. “You think this is me being funny? “Oh, sweetie. No. This is me being gentle. Do you want me to get mean?”

Quinn turned, finally, eyes narrow. “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re doing that thing again,” Santana said, waving her hand like it stank. “That internal meltdown where you pretend you don’t have feelings unless they’re alphabetized and set to a Celine Dion ballad.”

“I’m not-”

“Spare me. I know that look. It’s your ‘I felt something and now I want to crawl inside my own spine about it’ face.”

Quinn didn’t speak.

Santana leaned in, eyes gleaming.

“She looked at you like you were a secret she wanted to keep. And you looked like someone just read your diary out loud.”

Quinn’s lip twitched.

“I don’t even know her,” she said again, defensive, but smaller.

Santana’s voice dropped, smooth as tequila and twice as dangerous.

“Didn’t stop you from watching her like you wrote the song.”

Quinn’s mouth opened. Closed.

Her grip tightened on her binder.

Santana leaned back, satisfied.

“Admit it.”

Quinn shook her head.

Santana didn’t blink. “Fine. Nod if I’m right.”

A pause.

“We can’t fail her like people failed us.”

It was a deflection, but also the truth.

“I know.”

_____________

Quinn didn’t mean to run into her.

She wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, just walking the hall, headphones in, music off. Noise-canceling reality. Binder clutched tighter than it needed to be. A shield, not a necessity.

She turned a corner, and there she was.

Marley.

Mid-step. Caught in motion. A breath already half-exhaled.

They both froze. Not like strangers bumping into each other, but like people who’d almost said something once and then swallowed it down.

Quinn straightened instinctively.

Marley looked startled. Not scared. Just… uncertain.

“Hey,” Marley said first, voice small but even.

Quinn gave a single nod. “Hey.”

She could feel it already, the wall in her voice. Not ice, not sharp. Just polished. Measured. She hated how natural it felt.

Marley tucked her notebook closer to her chest. “You heading to rehearsal?”

“Eventually.”

“You’re early.”

“So are you.”

The silence between them buzzed.

Marley gave a half-laugh. “Right. I guess… I just didn’t want to be late.”

Quinn’s throat tightened.

She wanted to say something true. Something simple. Like I missed you yesterday. Like I thought you were gone for real.

Instead, she said:

“You listened.”

Marley blinked. “What?”

“You sang like you meant it.”

“Oh… yeah, I-”

“You didn’t do that in rehearsal,” Quinn added, quick. Too quick. “It was good. Glad you took the note.”

Marley flinched. Just barely. But Quinn saw it.

The compliment had been genuine. She just dressed it up in distance so she wouldn’t feel so raw saying it out loud.

“I… yeah. I guess I just stopped thinking.”

Quinn nodded once. “It worked.”

The silence came back. Sharper now. Less warm.

Marley looked at her, really looked, like she was trying to find the version of Quinn she met on the bench. The one who handed her a book and didn’t ask for anything in return.

But that Quinn was tucked away again. Sealed behind clean lines and a well-practiced expression.

“I should go,” Marley said finally, voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” Quinn replied, already shifting her weight like she’d been ready to leave first. “Me too.”

They turned in opposite directions.

Neither of them looked back.

Quinn pushed open the door to the choir room and walked in like it didn’t feel like walking into a memory she couldn’t shake.

The lights were half-on. Mr. Schue’s sweater was draped over a chair. The piano bench was empty. The air smelled like dry erase markers and old sheet music.

No one else was there yet.

She exhaled, just once, and dropped her bag a little too hard on the floor.

It made a thud that echoed more than it should’ve.

Quinn didn’t wince, but her jaw tightened. She ran her hand through her hair, smoothed the crease of her skirt, sat in the front row like she had control over where her body landed.

She opened her binder.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

The music didn’t matter.

She couldn’t even remember the arrangement.

All she could see was Marley standing in the hallway, that flicker of hope in her eyes when she said hey, and the flicker of something else after Quinn responded like a stranger who’d been coached on kindness.

Her chest felt too tight for the room she was in.

And her head wouldn’t shut up.

You didn’t do that in rehearsal. Glad you took the note.
It wasn’t what she meant.
It wasn’t what Marley needed.
And Quinn didn’t know how to fix something that hadn’t even been named yet.

She pressed her fingers to her temple like she could scrub the moment from behind her eyes.

Didn’t work.

The choir room was too loud. Even when it was empty. Which it wasn’t, Quinn was there.

So Marley didn’t go in.

She walked past it with her head down, hands in her sleeves, pulse humming in her ears like a warning she couldn’t shake.

She ducked into the bathroom near the library. The one no one really used after second period. It was quiet. Cold. The lights flickered in that way that made everything feel both real and distant.

She checked the stalls. Empty.

She picked the last one, corner stall, busted latch, just enough room to disappear in.

The floor was cool through her jeans. She sat with her back against the wall and curled her knees close, notebook open across her legs like it might catch her if she started falling again.

She stared at the paper for a long time.

Not blinking.

Not breathing right.

The song she’d started that morning her first real song since transferring to McKinley sat unfinished at the top of the page. Just the first few chords. The hook. The opening line.
| If I show you all the pieces, will you still call it whole?

It hurt. Writing hurt.

Not in the poetic, tortured-artist way she used to romanticize. But in the sickening way that squeezed her chest and made her stomach feel hollow. Too hollow.

She hadn’t eaten much that day.

Half a granola bar at lunch. Water.

Enough to smile if someone asked. Not enough to feel okay.

She told herself it was just the nerves. Just being busy.

But that was a lie.

Kitty had been watching her again. Commenting. Quiet things that sounded like compliments if you didn’t know her.
“You’re lucky your mom lets you eat like that.”

And Quinn…

Quinn had looked at her like none of that was true.

And somehow, that hurt worse.

Marley flipped to the next page in her notebook.

Blank.

She tried to write something negative.

She wanted to.

To say Quinn was cold. Or fake. Or that her voice wasn’t really all that impressive. That the book she gave her didn’t mean anything. That it was all just a weird rehearsal blip she had misread.

She pressed her pencil to the page.

Nothing came out.

She couldn’t lie about her.

She couldn’t write Quinn down in a way that made her smaller.

She exhaled shakily. Wrote anyway.
| She made me feel like I was already enough. And I hate that I miss it.

One tear slid down the side of her face before she could stop it.

She didn’t wipe it away.

She just shut the notebook and leaned back against the wall like maybe it would hold her together.

_____________

The choir room was still empty when Santana walked in — which was unfortunate, because that meant she only had Quinn to terrorize.

Even worse?

Quinn was already sitting like she was waiting to be interrogated.

“Oh God,” Santana said, dropping her bag on the floor like it had personally offended her. “You’ve got your brooding orphan face on. Did someone tell you your eyeliner wasn’t symmetrical or did the Sad Girl Hour playlist hit too hard this morning?”

Quinn didn’t look up. “Can we not do this today?”

“Nope,” Santana said, flopping into the seat next to her like she owned the building. “You don’t get to be emotionally constipated in my line of sight without consequences.”

Quinn exhaled sharply. “Santana-”

“No. I let you mope yesterday, and now you’re sitting here in full tragic heroine cosplay like you didn’t lowkey fall in love with Songbird in two and a half rehearsals.”

Quinn finally turned, slow and lethal. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being a coward, but I’m too good a friend to let you keep doing it in peace.”

Quinn’s jaw flexed. “She pulled away.”

“You gave her nothing to hold onto. What was she supposed to do, Quinn? Write you a sonnet and crawl into your lap during homeroom?”

“I was trying to protect her-”

“From what? Your dormant bisexuality? The intense eye contact? Babe, you looked like you wanted to kiss her and cry about it at the same time.”

“I didn’t know what to do!”

“Congratulations,” Santana snapped. “That makes you officially human.”

Quinn went quiet.

Santana softened, barely. Just enough for the blow to land deeper.

“You wanna pretend you don’t care? Fine. You’re great at pretending. But don’t sit here and act like she didn’t reach for you.”

Quinn didn’t speak. Her fingers curled tighter around her binder.

“And don’t act like you didn’t feel it, either.”

Santana leaned forward, her voice a notch lower. Realer.

“Because I know you, Fabray. I know every version of you. And this one? This tight-lipped, buttoned-up, hiding-behind-classical-music bullshit version? It’s the one you turn into when something actually matters.”

Quinn blinked.

Swallowed.

Didn’t answer.

Santana smirked.

“Good. At least now we’re being honest.”

“Don’t make me slap you again.”

“Don’t pretend I wouldn’t do the same.”

They look at each other.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but something is off with Marley, and we’re her mentors we can’t just let her down.”

“I know Q. We won’t let her down.”

The choir room door swung open with unnecessary confidence.

Kitty Wilde stepped inside, ponytail bouncing, a smile made of gloss and ambition, her cheerio uniform sharp, hair perfect, presence demanding.

“Oh, I hate to interrupt,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “But some of us have been waiting all week to actually talk to Quinn without someone else eating up all her time. No pun intended.”

Santana’s eyes narrowed.

She ignored Santana completely. Bad idea.

Quinn didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“Just figured I’d pop in. Say hi. Maybe remind you that this is Glee Club, not a therapy den for unresolved eye contact.”

Santana slowly, dramatically, stood.

“Oh look,” she said, “the leftover sparkle vomit from the spirit squad grew vocal cords.”

Kitty’s smile faltered. But only for a breath. Then it returned, sharper.

“I didn’t realize conversations were appointment-only now. Last I checked, this room wasn’t reserved.”

“Last I checked,” Santana replied, “you were still trying to cosplay Quinn’s personality like it’s sold on clearance.”

Kitty blinked. The insult landed. Santana saw it. Kept going.

“You’ve got the look down. Now if only you could fake basic emotional stability.”

“I’m just saying,” Kitty said, crossing her arms, “it’s weird that Quinn has time to babysit every breakdown in a five-mile radius but can’t text me back.”

Santana smirked. “Sorry, Blondie. But you know what, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Anyways, Quinn. You’ve been totally off the grid,” she added with a tight laugh, “but I was thinking we could go over that back walkover you used to do during sectionals? You know, the one only you ever made look effortless.”

Santana looked up from her phone like a cat spotting a chew toy.

“Wow. That much sugar in your voice, and your teeth still haven’t rotted out?”

Kitty’s smile didn’t even twitch. She was good at this.

She said lightly, turning to Santana. “Didn’t realize conversations with Quinn required your permission.”

“It’s not about permission, Barbie Noir,” Santana snapped. “It’s about timing. This is a closed session.”

Kitty turned back to Quinn. Tilted her head. Eyes soft, but calculating.

“She always has time for me,” she said, too brightly.

Quinn didn’t respond right away.

Her mind was still echoing with Santana’s words. Her pulse still thrumming with the hallway moment with Marley. And now Kitty, shiny, insistent, hungry for approval, standing right in front of her like a mirror with too much light.

She didn’t hate Kitty.

But she wasn’t in the mood to perform for her.

Quinn looked up. Measured. Calm. Controlled.

“Kitty,” she said, gently. “Now’s not a good time.”

Kitty’s smile froze. Just for a second. Barely a flicker. Then: “Right. Of course. Didn’t mean to interrupt whatever this is.”

Santana rolled her eyes. “She didn’t say she hated you, Psycho Barbie. She just doesn’t want to give you a standing ovation for breathing today.”

Kitty’s chin lifted. The smile returned, but tighter. Sharper. The kind of smile that cuts on its way out.

She pivoted, that cheerio walk a little too perfect, and disappeared through the door like a knife under glitter.

The silence she left behind tasted like blood.

_____________

The light in the bathroom buzzed softly overhead. Marley had stopped shaking, but only because she was too tired to.

She stood at the mirror now, gripping the edge of the sink, eyes a little too glassy, skin a little too pale.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t need to look up.

She knew the rhythm of those heels.

“Wow,” Kitty said, stepping inside, voice honeyed and hollow. “Didn’t think I’d find the lead soprano in a bathroom stall like a rejected Lifetime subplot.”

Marley didn’t answer.

Kitty clicked closer, pausing just behind her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. Hers sparkled.

“You okay?” she asked sweetly. “You look kind of… flushed.”

Marley reached for her bag.

Kitty tilted her head, watching.

“I was gonna say.. you’ve been looking so good lately. Sharp. Lighter.” She smiled wider. “Like you were finally getting things under control. But today?”

She made a face. Subtle. Calculated.

“You’re looking a little… puffy.”

Marley’s fingers clenched around the strap of her bag.

“I didn’t eat lunch,” she said.

Kitty gasped, performed surprise like it was an audition.

“You didn’t? Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I just assumed. I mean…” She stepped closer, voice lower. “It kinda looks like you did. Maybe breakfast caught up to you? Or something salty? It happens.”

She leaned in, a breath behind Marley’s ear.

“It’s just… you were looking so good before.”

Marley looked down.

Kitty didn’t stop.

“I was just talking to Quinn actually,” she said, casually applying lip gloss in the mirror. “She’s so sweet. She always gives people the benefit of the doubt. Like, she sees the best in everyone. Even in, like, little projects.”

Marley blinked. “Projects?”

“Yeah,” Kitty said, smiling. “Like when someone’s clearly… struggling. And Quinn steps in to make it better. She loves doing that.”

“I’m not a project,” Marley said, barely audible.

“Oh, totally,” Kitty said quickly. “Of course not.”

She paused. Just long enough.

“I mean… you know she’d never actually go for someone like you, right? Not officially.”

Marley looked up.

Kitty’s smile didn’t crack.

“She’s, like… legacy. Sectionals. Cheerio royalty. The girl has literally been on fire in a music video. You write sad lyrics and have soup for lunch. No offense.”

And then, as if that hadn’t gutted her on purpose-

“I’m just saying,” Kitty added, lightly brushing a strand of hair behind Marley’s ear, “don’t mistake a charity duet for something real. That’s how people get hurt.”

Marley froze.

Kitty leaned in. Whispers now.

“And if you did say something to her? That’d be kind of… desperate, don’t you think?”

She winked.

“Anyway. You’ve got mascara under your eye. Might wanna clean that up before rehearsal.”

And with that, she spun on her heel and walked out, her perfume lingering like poison.

Marley stared at the mirror.

And hated the girl looking back at her.

The mirror didn’t move.

But Marley kept staring like it might crack if she looked long enough.

Kitty’s voice still clung to her skin.
You were looking so good before.
Quinn loves a project.
She’d never go for someone like you.
I’m just looking out for you.

She almost believed it.

She almost wanted to.

Because believing it meant she could stop hoping.

Her hand hovered over her bag.

The familiar pull was there, the same one she thought she’d outrun months ago. The one that whispered she’d feel better if she just had control over something.

Calories. Size. Hunger.

She gripped the strap tighter.

But something in her body revolted. Not her stomach. Her chest.

Tight. Breathless.

Like she’d swallowed glass.

She shoved the bag away.

And punched the stall wall.

The sound echoed. So did the pain.

Her knuckles split.

It grounded her.

She crumpled to the floor, holding her hand like it betrayed her.

She pulled out her notebook.

And started tearing.

Not the one with the song. She paused at that one.

Kept it. Tucked it under her leg. Protected it.

But the others?

The pages where she’d written Quinn’s name

The way Quinn looked at her

The bench

The book

The hope

She ripped them out, one by one, until her lap was covered in soft, frayed edges and things she couldn’t afford to feel.

And then-

“Whoa. Damn.”

Marley flinched.

Santana.

She stood in the doorway, eyes sweeping over the scene: bloodied knuckles, ripped paper, body curled in on itself like shame.

For a second?

Santana didn’t say anything.

Then she stepped in. Let the door shut behind her with a click.

“Did the wall start it, or…?”

Marley wiped her face. “I’m fine.”

Santana crouched beside her, eyebrows raised. “Mmm. Yeah. Totally screams ‘fine.’”

Marley looked away.

Santana leaned her arms on her knees.

“What’d she say to you?”

Marley blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. I’m fluent in trauma spirals. What did Kitty say to you?”

“She wasn’t here.”

Santana snorted. “And I’m straight.”

Marley forced a laugh. “Seriously. It’s nothing.”

“Babe, you punched a wall. What is this, Glee Club Fight Club?”

“I tripped.”

“You tripped and hit the wall. With your fist. Five times?”

Marley stared at the floor.

“She didn’t say anything. It’s not about her.”

Santana exhaled. Sat down fully beside her.

“You know Unique’s been asking about you, right?”

Marley tensed.

“She says you haven’t texted her back. She thinks you’re overwhelmed. I think you’re drowning.”

“I’m not-”

“I’m not here to pry,” Santana said, for once not sarcastic. “I’m just here because I’ve been the girl bleeding in a bathroom, saying it’s not about the girl who just left.”

A long silence.

Marley didn’t reply.

Santana didn’t leave.

The paper towel rustled as Santana tore off another sheet.

“Give me your hand.”

Marley hesitated.

“Now, Porcelain.”

Marley gave it to her. Slowly. Fingers curled, knuckles blooming red.

Santana didn’t flinch at the blood. She’d seen worse. She’d been worse.

She dabbed gently. No jokes. No jabs.

“Next time you want to break something,” she muttered, “try a water bottle. Softer on the self-destruction.”

Marley didn’t respond.

Santana kept wrapping, layer after layer of soft silence until the blood stopped showing through.

_____________

Quinn was leaving the choir room, water bottle tucked under her arm, binder clutched to her side.

She looked up.

Kitty stood by the lockers, talking to Sugar. Laughing. Smiling too wide.

That smile. That smile.

It hit Quinn in the chest like a muscle memory.

The one she used to wear in tenth grade. After Beth. After Lucy.
That perfectly polished smile you wear when you’ve just destroyed something and need the world to love you anyway.

And suddenly Quinn knew.

She didn’t know what Kitty said to Marley.

But she knew the look.

Because she’d given it before.

And hated herself for it.

Quinn turned the corner just as Marley came out of the bathroom.

She had been heading toward the choir room. Sheet music in one hand. Water bottle in the other. Eyes tired. Mouth set. The usual armor.

Until she saw Marley.

She stopped short.

And she saw the hand.

The towels. The blood. The way Marley looked away immediately like it burned.

And something shifted.

Inside Quinn, something sharp and hot and terrified that she didn’t know how to name.

Her fingers twitched around the music. Her throat locked.

“Did something happen?” she asked. Too fast. Too sharp.

Marley blinked like she’d forgotten how to answer.

Quinn took a step forward. “You’re bleeding.”

Marley glanced down, like she hadn’t even noticed.

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m clumsy. Ran into the stall door. It’s fine.”

Santana didn’t say anything, but Quinn caught it, the tiny shake of her head behind Marley.

Marley stepped into the choir room like she didn’t feel the heat of their eyes on her.

She dropped her bag. Went straight for the back row.

Quinn turned to Santana, voice low but fierce. “What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” Santana said. “She didn’t give me anything.”

“You were with her.”

“And you weren’t,” Santana snapped.

That shut Quinn up.

They both stared into the choir room, Marley moving like she was made of paper, like if she bent the wrong way she’d split in two.

Santana exhaled.

“She shouldn’t be bleeding.”

“No one said she should be,” Santana muttered.

Quinn opened her mouth to say something else-

Santana put a hand on her arm, firm.

“Later.”

She nodded toward Marley, who was just about to sit down.

They both watched in silence.

Marley was halfway into her seat when she heard it.

“Not so fast.”

She blinked.

Looked up.

Santana stood in the choir room doorway, arms crossed, eyes locked on Marley’s wrapped hand like it had personally offended her.

Marley tried to play it off, shifted her bag, reached for a folder, avoided eye contact.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Nope,” Santana replied instantly. “Try again.”

“I’m going to class.”

“You’re going to the nurse.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“You’re literally bleeding through a paper towel. This isn’t a baking show, it’s your hand.”

“I already-”

“Marley.” Quinn’s voice cut through the air like a switchblade.

Marley froze.

“You don’t get to sit there and act like that’s normal,” Santana said. “You don’t get to pretend everything’s fine with a limp and a DIY gauze job.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were. You are. And we’re leaving.”

Santana didn’t wait.

She stepped across the room, grabbed Marley’s bag without breaking stride, and threw it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing.

Marley stood slowly. Not because she wanted to, but because there was no room not to.

“You’re not in trouble,” Santana added, voice dropping. “You’re just not invisible. Not while I’m here. And certainly not while Quinn is either.”

Marley swallowed hard. Her throat ached.

She nodded once.

Didn’t speak.

As they crossed the threshold, Quinn turned her head, barely, just enough to catch them leaving.

She saw Marley’s hand again.

But she looked at Santana.

And something flickered between them, not blame, not confusion, just shared recognition, shared protection.

The kind that says: You see her. I didn’t. But now I do.

And then she was gone.

Leading Marley away. Leaving Quinn in the silence.

And Kitty?

Still smiling down the hall like nothing had happened.

_____________

The hallway was quieter than it should’ve been, just the scuff of shoes and the hum of old ceiling lights.

Santana walked beside Marley, shoulder-to-shoulder, not saying anything at first.

Letting her simmer.

Letting her think she might get away with not talking.

Then-

“So. You wanna tell me what the hell that was back there?”

Marley kept her eyes on the floor.

Santana gave her two beats of silence.

“Cool. Let me rephrase. You wanna tell me why your hand looked like a crime scene and your energy said dead girl walking?”

“I told you,” Marley muttered. “I’m clumsy.”

“Right. And I’m Miss Ohio.”

Marley’s mouth twitched. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“You think this is funny?” Santana asked, smirking. “You’ve got the main character arc of a CW drama, and you’re walking around like you’re an extra.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that,” Santana said. “And the blood on your sleeve keeps disagreeing.”

They passed a row of lockers. Marley shifted her bandaged hand behind her bag.

Santana saw it.

“Don’t hide it,” she said.

“I’m not-”

“Don’t,” Santana repeated, firmer. “Not with me.”

A beat.

Marley’s voice cracked just a little. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“You punched a wall.”

“I didn’t say it was smart.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

Silence.

Santana slowed her pace.

“You know Unique texted me this morning?” she said casually.

Marley’s spine straightened slightly.

“She said she misses you. Said she’s worried. Said she’d rip the face off anyone making your life hell.”

“I’m not-”

“You’re not being honest,” Santana interrupted. “That’s what you’re not being.”

They reached the end of the corridor.

Marley finally looked at her.

Her eyes said I want to say it.

Her mouth didn’t move.

And that’s when she turned her head-

And saw Kitty standing by the water fountain, just ahead.

Smiling.

Talking to a freshman like nothing had happened.

But her eyes flicked up the second she noticed them.

And locked with Marley’s.

Bright. Cheerful.

Deadly.

Marley flinched. Just slightly.

Santana saw it.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stared at Kitty like she was lining up her next kill.

_____________

The nurse’s office was too bright.

Too white. Too clean.

It smelled like antiseptic and cheap hand lotion, the kind that clung to your skin long after you washed it off.

Marley sat on the edge of the cot with her knees pressed together, one shoulder slumped to the side like she didn’t quite belong in her own body. Her hand lay open on the paper sheet, palm up, quiet, waiting.

The blood had already soaked through the towel by the time they got there.

The nurse looked unimpressed, not unkind. Just clinical.

“Wall?” she asked, without judgment.

Marley nodded.

“Anyone punch it with you?”

Santana didn’t laugh.

Marley sat on the cot without speaking.

Santana watched from the corner, arms folded, not bothering to hide how much she hated this.

After a few minutes, the nurse left to grab more supplies.

And that’s when Santana pounced.

“You gonna tell me why you shut down the second you saw her?”

Marley didn’t look up. “Who?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. Ponytail. Perfume. Pathologically polite with a side of sociopath?”

Marley sighed. “It’s not about her.”

“Then why’d your whole body turn into a statue the second Kitty showed up?”

Marley didn’t answer.

Santana stepped closer.

“Marley. If that wasn’t nothing, why are you lying like it is?”

“I’m not.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“No, you told me a story you wished was true and hoped I’d be too bored to question.”

Marley turned away. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I’m fine.”

Santana’s voice dropped. Not angry. Just quiet.

“You’re bleeding through your bandaid and flinching like someone’s gonna slap you for breathing. You’re not fine.”

A pause.

Marley looked at the floor.

“I can’t tell you something that didn’t happen,” she whispered.

And that?

That shut Santana up.

Because she knew what it meant.

It didn’t mean Kitty was innocent.

It meant Marley had decided not to be the girl who breaks the silence.

And Santana?

She’d been her too.

The nurse returned with a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of gauze. “You’re staying here,” she said, matter-of-fact, as she cleaned Marley’s hand. “You’ve lost more blood than a girl your size should. Not letting you faint in second period.”

“I’m fine,” Marley murmured.

“You’re pale,” the nurse replied. “And I know what shock looks like.”

She reached into a drawer, pulled out a granola bar, and placed it on the counter like a challenge.

“Eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Santana’s arms crossed tighter. She watched the words drop from Marley’s mouth like reflex.

“I already had lunch,” Marley added, soft. Too fast.

The nurse didn’t press. She just stepped back, tied off the gauze with sharp, practiced hands.

Santana?

She was a statue.

But her eyes?

Fire.

Her jaw worked silently, like she was chewing on words too dangerous to spit out in front of a mandated reporter.

The granola bar stayed untouched.

The room felt like it was shrinking around them.

Marley stared at the corner of the room, not at the nurse, not at Santana. Her shoulders rose with every breath, but not all the way. Like even her ribs didn’t believe in her.

Santana spoke only once, voice low, dark.

“I’ve seen this movie.”

Marley didn’t blink.

“I know how it ends.”

Still nothing.

Santana stood.

“And I’m not watching it again.”

Then she left.

And Marley stayed.

Alone with the silence.

And the food she wouldn’t touch.

_____________

The choir room was quieter than usual. Too quiet.

Quinn sat alone in the front row, sheet music in her lap, untouched. Her hands lay still against the pages, like she was waiting for them to tell her what to do.

 The silence throbbed.

She didn’t know what she was doing, sitting here.
She just knew she couldn’t sit there.
Not next to Marley.
Not after the blood.
Not after the look.

She wasn’t looking at anything in particular, but the image in her head was sharp.
Marley’s hand.
Wrapped.
Red still showing through.
Eyes lowered. Voice small.

“I’m clumsy.”

It echoed. Again. And again.

The silence broke with the sound of a door swinging open.

Santana stepped in, slower than usual. No storm. Just steady.

She wasn’t smirking. Not this time.

“You wanna explain why your mentee’s bleeding in the nurse’s office?”

Quinn looked up. “You think I planned it?”

“No. I think you ignored it.”

“Oh, thank you, moral compass of Lima Heights.”

Santana folded her arms. “Don’t deflect. You saw her hand.”

“I saw her lie about it.”

“And what did you do? Let her sit alone and bleed through it?”

“I didn’t know!” Quinn stood, finally. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You’re Quinn Fabray,” Santana snapped. “You always know what to do.”

“Not when it counts.”

The words echoed between them.

Quinn looked up.

“She’s not okay,” Santana said. Quiet. No preamble.

“I figured.”

“She didn’t eat.”

Quinn’s jaw clenched. “She said she did.”

“She said a lot of things,” Santana murmured. “But she flinched when the nurse offered her a granola bar. Wouldn’t touch it.”

Quinn didn’t respond.

Santana crossed her arms.

“She’s still sitting in there. Pretending she’s fine. Bleeding. Starving. Smiling when people check in like she’s not two seconds from shattering.”

“I didn’t know,” Quinn said. It came out too fast. Too defensive.

Santana nodded. “I believe you.”

A pause.

“I didn’t know either,” she added. “Not with Brittany. Not with myself. Not until someone said it out loud and I couldn’t pretend anymore.”

They both went still.

It was quiet, but not empty.

“She doesn’t trust me,” Quinn finally whispered.

“She doesn’t trust anyone,” Santana said. “That’s the problem.”

Quinn leaned forward, fingers threading together. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought we were just supposed to be there. Mentor. Watch. Guide.”

“Yeah, well,” Santana said, voice quieter now. “Turns out we suck at it.”

Quinn laughed once. It sounded like something breaking.

“She’s just a kid.”

“She’s a kid being poisoned by someone who wants to wear your skin,” Santana snapped. “And she thinks Quinn Fabray doesn’t give a damn.”

Quinn looked at her.

Santana met her gaze, steady. Real.

“I didn’t come in here to blame you,” she said. “I came in here because I think if either of us had heard what she’s hearing now? Back then?”

A long pause.

Quinn nodded.

“She wouldn’t be bleeding.”

Santana blinked. The edge dulled just slightly.

“She didn’t tell me anything,” Quinn added. “She doesn’t talk. She doesn’t open up. What do you want me to do??? Drag it out of her?”

“I want you to stop acting like she’s just some broken project in a damn mentorship brochure.”

Quinn’s eyes flared. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Santana said, stepping closer. “You’ve been watching her like she’s a reflection of all your worst regrets. That’s not helping her, it’s terrifying her.”

“She’s terrified because of Kitty,” Quinn shot back. “Not me.”

“Oh, and you just figured that out now?”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re not trying hard enough.”

“Neither are you!” Quinn barked. “You’re so busy judging me, you’re not doing anything either.”

“I went with her. I stayed. I wrapped her hand when it wouldn’t stop bleeding.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Because you need to see what she’s not saying!”

A pause.

Both girls breathing hard.

Then softer, Santana said:

“You think I’m doing this for Marley?”

Quinn blinked.

“I’m doing it because if this goes how I think it’s going… you’re not gonna forgive yourself. Again.”

She let that settle.

Quinn swallowed. Her voice quieter.

“She looked at me like I could fix something.”

“Yeah,” Santana said. “She still does.”

A longer pause.

Santana leaned against the piano, still sharp, still solid.

“And don’t act like this is just about being a mentor. You’re in deeper than that.”

“I’m not-”

“Oh my God, you’re such a liar,” Santana said, half-laughing now. “You’ve been mentoring half the room but you only flinch when it’s her.”

Quinn turned away.

“That girl breaks in your direction and suddenly you’re three steps behind your own heartbeat.”

“I don’t feel-”

“You feel everything.”

Another pause.

Santana let it hang.

Then, calmly:

“I’ve seen you destroy girls like her, Quinn.
And I’ve seen you fall for them too.”

Quinn’s voice cracked. “She’s not Rachel.”

Santana blinked. “What?”

“She’s not Rachel,” Quinn hissed, whipping around. Her hands shook. “Everyone says she’s the new Rachel “the new star” but she’s not. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t perform. She doesn’t fight for the solo. She doesn’t need to be worshipped.”

Santana went still.

“She’s soft,” Quinn said, quieter now. “She listens. She lets everyone have space. She doesn’t think she’s better; she just wants to be enough.”

A breath.

“And she never will be if you keep comparing her to Rachel Berry.”

Silence.

“I wasn’t.” Santana’s voice was measured now. Almost tired.

“But everyone else does,” Quinn snapped. “The new girl. The “next Rachel”. The next disappointment. She doesn’t even get to be her own person, just a version of someone I was supposed to hate and maybe-”

She stopped.

Santana raised a brow. “And maybe what?”

Quinn didn’t answer.

Santana stepped forward.

“You’re not mad that she reminds you of Rachel. You’re mad that she doesn’t, and you still can’t stop thinking about her.”

That was the strike.

And Quinn broke.

“I don’t want her to break because of me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be what tips her over.”

“You’re not,” Santana said. “That’s Kitty.”

“Then why can’t I fix it?”

“Because you haven’t tried.”

That shut her up, she sat down.

Santana softened, just barely.

“Whether you have something with her or not, and I’m not asking, you’re the only one she’ll hear right now.”
“Not me. Not the nurse. Not even Unique.
You.”

Quinn’s eyes welled. Just a little.

Santana stepped closer, and this time, no edge.

“I wouldn’t have listened to me back then either.
But I might’ve listened to you.”

And that?

That was the moment Quinn stopped pretending she could stay seated.

The choir room door opened with a casual swing, like nothing was wrong.

Kitty Wilde stepped in, full gloss, fake energy dialed to eleven, as if the air hadn’t already changed.

“Okay! Found you. I figured you’d both be in here. We have to talk about the setlist before Schue ruins it with another Journey medley—”

Santana rolled her eyes before she even finished.

“Ugh. I knew it smelled like Sephora and self-destruction in here.”

Kitty paused, blinked, completely caught off guard for the first time all day.

She opened her mouth.

“Not now,” Quinn said, not looking up.

But her voice?
Ice.

Everyone in the room, the kids filtering in for rehearsal, Blaine, Sugar, Unique, Jake, Ryder, they froze, they all felt it.

Kitty laughed. A touch too bright. “Okay, wow. You two having, like, a moment?”

Quinn looked up.

Her eyes weren’t furious. They were worse. Calm. Cold. Clear.

The room stilled.

“Let me guess,” Quinn said. “You want to pitch another number Marley doesn’t deserve to sing in, right?”

Kitty’s smile twitched. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Kitty’s gaze flicked around the room. “Quinn-”

Quinn stood.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

“You wanted to be me so badly, Kitty. And I get it. Really. I do. It’s flattering, in a pathetic, single-white-female kind of way.”

Santana chuckled darkly from the risers. “Tell her, Fabelline.”

Quinn kept going.

“You copied the look. The tone. The walk. You tried to recreate a myth. But here’s the thing…”

She stepped forward, every syllable a scalpel.

“I never broke someone just to prove I could.”

Kitty blinked. “I didn’t-”

“You did. And everyone knows.”

Whispers fluttered. The room shifted.

Kitty straightened. “I didn’t do anything.”

Quinn tilted her head.

“See, that’s your problem. You think cruelty is invisible if you deliver it in a compliment.”

A pause.

“But I see you.”

Kitty swallowed hard.

“And here’s the worst part,” Quinn said. “You actually think I’d be proud of you.”

She walked closer.

Everyone else held their breath.

“You think I’d clap while you ruin girls who haven’t even figured out how to love themselves yet.”

Kitty opened her mouth.

“No. Let me guess your next line,” Quinn said, voice dropping lower. “You always had time for me.”

The room held still.

Quinn smiled, but there was nothing kind in it.

“And now I don’t.”

Kitty’s scrambled in her poise, “I have no idea what lies Marley told you but this is a misunderstanding, Marley’s my frien-”

“Friend?” Quinn echoed. “Kitty, I was brutal. I made girls cry in bathrooms and smile in hallways. But I didn’t erase them. I didn’t destroy them. I didn’t starve them.”

Kitty’s lip trembled. “This isn’t fair-”

“Life isn’t fair” Quinn echoed. “One day you grow up and learn that taking accountability for your actions is much louder than silencing those who matter, much louder than anything else you could do.”

“Life isn’t fair mini-Sue, get used to it.”

Dead silence.

Quinn didn’t blink.

“You didn’t become Quinn Fabray.
You became what I used to be on my worst day.
But cheaper. Louder.”

Kitty shook her head. “You’re just-”

“You’re done,” Quinn said, turning.

Kitty reached forward. “Quinn-”

Santana stepped between them like a blade.

“Don’t touch her.”

The rest of the room watched Kitty, the “it girl,” the mini-Quinn, the head Cheerio, get reduced to silence.

Not by screaming.

But by precision.

Quinn walked to her seat, calm, spine straight.

Santana followed.

Kitty didn’t.

She stood there, no followers, no lines, no script.

And everyone saw her for what she was.

Alone.

_____________

The nurse had stepped out again, paperwork, or maybe just air.

Marley sat on the cot, knees pulled up, fingers idly touching the edge of the fresh gauze. The bleeding had stopped. The ache hadn’t.

She stared at the opposite wall. Not thinking. Just floating.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t look up.

She figured it was the nurse.

“Hey.”

Not the nurse.

Quinn.

Marley froze.

She didn’t know why, the voice was soft. Barely above a whisper.

Quinn stepped inside, slow like she was entering a memory.

She didn’t say anything else.

She just walked over and sat down in the rolling chair beside the cot.

Not close enough to crowd her.

Not far enough to feel like she wasn’t there.

Just… beside.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward.

It felt like a room holding its breath.

Marley shifted. Just enough to glance over.

Quinn wasn’t looking at her. She was staring at her own hands, fingers knotted in her lap like she was waiting for permission to unfold.

“I used to sit in my old schools nurse office too,” Quinn said, finally.

Marley didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

“Not for broken hands. For the weight stuff. Blood pressure. Counseling referrals. I used to come in here just to get out of class because my pants didn’t fit and I didn’t want to walk the halls.”

Marley looked down at her lap.

Quinn’s voice stayed steady.

“I starved myself. I binged. I worked out until I couldn’t stand. I passed out once during cheer practice, and I still said I was fine.”

“And then someone brought me a sandwich and didn’t say a word.”

Marley blinked.

“I ate it. Because they didn’t make me explain.”

She looked at Marley now. Soft. Present.

“So I’m not asking you for answers. I just didn’t want you to be in here alone.”

Marley’s eyes burned. But nothing fell.

She nodded. Once.

And then the door opened again.

Santana.

“Okay, tragic lunch ladies,” she said, holding up a chocolate chip granola bar and a juice box, “someone tell me which one of you has the emotional maturity to eat a damn snack.”

Neither girl moved.

Santana narrowed her eyes.

“Because if I have to start a musical number about blood sugar, I will.”

Marley let out a tiny, involuntary laugh.

Quinn smiled.

Santana smirked, victorious.

“Now,” she said, sitting on the edge of the nurse’s desk. “One of you eats this, and the other tells me I’m amazing.”

She tossed the bar gently to Marley.

Marley caught it.

Hesitated.

And unwrapped it.

The silence after the first bite felt like a wound beginning to close.

Quinn “I’m not telling you you’re amazing, your head is already big enough.”

_____________

The air outside was cold enough to sting but not cold enough to hurt.

Marley stepped out of the school doors, her bag slung over one shoulder, hand tucked carefully into the sleeve of her coat. The bandages itched.

Quinn was already waiting on the steps.

Santana leaned against the railing, scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t tracking every move Marley made.

“Wow,” she said, flicking her eyes up. “She lives. Didn’t think you’d survive the granola bar.”

Marley gave her a weak look. “It was oatmeal chocolate chip.”

“So dramatic,” Santana muttered. “Quinn, hold her hand before she faints from flavor.”

Quinn ignored her.

“Do you want us to walk you home?” she asked, voice soft.

Marley hesitated.

“I-yeah. If you want.”

Quinn gave a small smile. “We wouldn’t offer if we didn’t.”

And just like that, they started walking.

The silence was… comfortable.

Not heavy. Just full. Like the kind that only exists between people who have already said the hard thing.

Marley stayed in the middle.

She didn’t realize until halfway down the block that she felt safe.

Not distracted. Not guarded.

Just… safe.

“So,” Santana said, after a few minutes, “you gonna give us a sneak peek of the tragic acoustic ballad you’re writing about this week’s emotional collapse? Or do we wait for iTunes?”

Marley rolled her eyes. “It’s not about this.”

“Oh, so it’s about the other blood-soaked meltdown you had this week. My bad.”

Quinn snorted.

Marley smiled. Just a little.

No one pushed. No one asked.

But neither of them drifted more than a few feet away from her the entire walk.

When they reached her front step, Quinn slowed.

“Do you want us to come in?”

Marley hesitated.

“Maybe for a bit.”

She unlocked the door.

They stepped into the warmth.

Marley tossed her bag down. Kicked off her shoes. Quinn followed, quiet. Present.

Santana stayed in the doorway like a statue.

Then she turned.

“Not staying. You two have enough emotional subtext to script an indie film. I’m out.”

The door shut behind her before anyone could speak.

“Ignore her, she doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.”

Quinn took the chair near the bookshelf, and took out her book.

Marley disappeared into her room, came back with her notebook.

No words. No explanations.

She sat on the far end of the couch, curled up, legs tucked under her. Opened the pages.

Quinn didn’t ask.

She just stayed.

Marley wrote slowly. Carefully.

No scratching. No frustration.

Just clean strokes on the page.
| she came to me and she stayed, silent  
| she didn't push, didn't prod
| she didn't ask how it went
| she let me get away with just a nod  
| 
| just sat there where the air was heavy
| just giving the space to be
|
| no weight, no pressure, no demand  
| just quiet warmth, an open hand  
| she made the air feel light and wide  
| like maybe i could stay inside  
|
| i didn’t know that someone could  
| just show up… and be understood  

She stopped.

Tore the page out.

Folded it once.

Slipped it into the back pocket of her notebook.

She didn’t look up.

But Quinn smiled anyway.

_____________

It was the next afternoon.

Marley had stayed after class longer than usual. She said she was reorganizing her music folder. Really, she just didn’t want to walk into choir with everyone else.

When she finally made it to the music hallway, the door was already cracked open.

She paused.

Inside, she could hear voices, not sharp, not yelling, but still buzzing with the energy of something unfinished.

“I’m just saying,” Sugar’s voice carried. “I’ve never seen Kitty that quiet before. She looked like someone cancelled her skincare subscription and her soul.”

“Girl got verbally dismantled,” Jake said. “Like… poetic justice level.”

“Did she really call her worse than herself?” Ryder asked, breathless.

“Oh, she did,” Unique said. “I was there. Quinn looked her dead in the eye and said she became the version of herself she hated most.”

Marley froze.

Quinn?

“And Santana didn’t even have to help,” Sugar added. “She just stood there like ‘yeah, my bestie is delivering the sermon of the century.’”

Marley’s breath hitched.

Her stomach flipped.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But now?

She needed to know.

She pushed the door the rest of the way open.

“Wait… what happened?”

Every head turned.

The room stilled.

Marley stood in the doorway, heart pounding, wrapped hand still tucked in the sleeve of her jacket, trying not to look as small as she felt.

Unique blinked. “Marley-”

“No, seriously. What happened?” Marley asked, stepping inside. “Did Quinn… say something to Kitty?”

The group exchanged glances.

Sugar looked like she wanted to crawl into the piano.

Jake opened his mouth, closed it.

Unique stood.

And nodded.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, stepping closer. “You didn’t hear?”

Marley shook her head. “No one told me.”

Unique smiled. Gently. But with that spark in her eye like she was so ready to tell it now.

“Quinn walked into rehearsal yesterday like she was in an Oscar-nominated courtroom drama, and just absolutely annihilated Kitty. In front of everyone.”

Marley’s eyes widened. “But… why?”

“She didn’t say your name,” Sugar piped in. “Not once.”

“Didn’t have to,” Unique said. “Every word she said was for you. She said Kitty was worse than the girl she used to be. That she never starved someone to feel powerful.”

Marley blinked. Her chest tightened.

“She said Kitty didn’t become her, she became the worst version Quinn used to hate.”

“She said all that?” Marley whispered.

Unique stepped closer. Her voice softened.

“She said she never picked targets who already looked afraid of their own shadow.”

Marley sat down. Quietly. Like her body forgot how to hold the weight of it.

“Kitty didn’t even try to fight back,” Jake added. “I think she realized she’d lost before Quinn finished the second sentence.”

“And she never said my name?”

“No,” Unique said. “Honestly not sure girl, but she put her in her place no holds back and no other people included.”

Marley stared at her bandaged hand.

And then?

She smiled.

Just barely.

But real.

_____________

The sun was setting when Marley found her.

The light outside had dimmed into that dusky gold that made everything feel softer, more delicate, like the world was trying to take a breath. Quinn was sitting alone in the courtyard just beyond the old gym doors, back resting against the brick wall, legs stretched out, fingers absently spinning a pen between them. She looked peaceful, almost out of place in the quiet stillness, but Marley knew better.

She hesitated at the edge of the path, hands buried in the sleeves of her hoodie, heart tight. It wasn’t fear that made her pause. It was everything else. The weight of what she’d overheard. The stories she hadn’t been told. The words Quinn had said—not to her, but for her.

Marley stepped forward.

Quinn looked up at the sound of gravel shifting.

“Hey,” Marley said.

Quinn blinked, then smiled softly. Not a performative smile. Not the kind she wore in high school. Just something real. “Hey.”

Marley sat down beside her. Not close. But close enough.

They were quiet for a long moment. The wind moved through the trees. A bird chirped somewhere nearby. Someone’s footsteps echoed down the hallway inside and faded.

Then Marley asked it.

Simple. Soft. Direct.

“Why did you do it?”

She didn’t have to say what she meant.

Quinn’s smile faded, but not in a way that shut down. She let the silence settle for a beat, then said:

“I didn’t think you’d find out.”

Marley’s breath caught a little. Quinn didn’t look at her, just down at her hands, thumb brushing over the cap of her pen.

“I didn’t do it so you’d know.”

A pause.

“I did it because… I have a lot of regrets. Things I didn’t stop. Things I became. I’ve lived a lot of mistakes.”

Marley looked over at her, quiet but present. She didn’t push.

Quinn continued, voice low. Measured.

“She said I was her idol. Kitty. She said she wanted to be me. She used my name to justify what she was doing. To you.”

She turned then. Just enough to meet Marley’s eyes.

“And I needed her to know, that version of me? The one she thought was powerful, admired, untouchable? That girl would’ve hated what she became.”

Marley swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I couldn’t let it go on,” Quinn said. “Not when she was using my name to hurt someone like you.”

Marley blinked. “Someone like me?”

Quinn nodded. Her voice was softer now. Unsteady around the edges.

“Someone so pure.”

It didn’t sound like a compliment. It sounded like a truth Quinn had been trying to say for a long time.

Marley didn’t know what to say. She looked down at her hands. One was still wrapped, clean gauze now, not the blood-streaked kind from days ago.

“I’m not,” she whispered. “I’m not that pure.”

“You are,” Quinn said.

Marley shook her head. “I’ve thought ugly things. I’ve done things I’m ashamed of.”

“So have I,” Quinn said. “That’s not what I meant.”

Marley looked at her again.

“You didn’t ask for any of it,” Quinn said. “You didn’t play games. You didn’t try to earn a spotlight. You just… existed. Gently. And that scared people like Kitty.”

Marley bit her lip.

“Sometimes softness terrifies people who’ve forgotten how to feel it.”

They fell silent again.

But something had shifted.

And neither of them moved away.

Quinn’s eyes dropped again, and Marley took a quiet breath.

"But if you meant it," she asked, her voice barely audible, "why didn’t you want me to know?"

That caught Quinn off guard. Not harshly. But fully.

She exhaled, long and slow.

"Because it wasn’t about recognition. Or proving something. Or earning points. I didn’t want you to carry the weight of it. I didn’t want you to feel responsible for what I did."

Marley frowned, eyes searching her face.

Quinn continued. "I didn’t want to make this about me. Or about what I used to be. I didn’t want you to look at me and see the girl who broke others so she wouldn’t break herself."

Marley was still. The golden light traced Quinn’s jawline, catching on the sharp softness of her expression, making her green eyes sparkle with life.

"I’ve already been too many things to too many people," Quinn said. "For once, I just wanted to protect someone… without them having to see the worst of me."

Marley didn’t look away.

And Quinn… she didn’t hide.

Not anymore.

Marley’s voice wavered. “But I see you.”

Quinn’s breath caught.

“I’ve always seen you,” Marley whispered. “From the first day. Even when you wouldn’t look at me. Even when you looked past me.”

Quinn didn’t move. Her hands clenched around the pen like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment.

“You think I don’t notice things,” Marley said, voice gaining quiet strength. “But I notice everything. The way you hold yourself like armor. The way you speak like you’re not allowed to mess up anymore. The way you looked at me like I was already breaking, and it scared you.”

Tears burned the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

Quinn stared at her. Unblinking. Unsure.

“I’m not fragile,” Marley whispered.

“I know,” Quinn said. And the words sounded like a confession.

“I just want to matter,” Marley added.

“You do.”

“To you?”

Quinn hesitated. A breath. Two.

“More than you should,” she admitted.

The silence between them cracked.

Marley turned fully toward her, eyes wide. Searching. “What does that mean?”

Quinn dropped her gaze. “It means I don’t know how to just mentor you anymore.”

And that? That opened the rest of the door.

“I’ve tried to stay where I’m supposed to be,” Quinn said, voice low and shaking. “But I keep catching myself looking for you. Waiting for you to look at me. And when you do… it’s like solidifying that I’m not the worst version of myself anymore.”

Marley’s heart was thundering in her chest.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Quinn looked up again, eyes filled with something raw and alive.

And Marley leaned in.

Not all the way.

But close enough.

The moment between them hung like mist, close, clinging, and not quite solid enough to hold, yet impossible to ignore. Marley’s breath slowed, and she barely dared blink, afraid to break whatever thread had been spun between their closeness.

Quinn looked away first.

She shifted back slightly, not far, just enough to pull her hands into her lap and hide the way they trembled. She let out a soft, shaky breath and attempted a smile, one of those measured ones that said she was trying to be rational again.

"This is ridiculous," Quinn said quietly. "It’s been three days."

Marley’s eyes flickered. "Maybe for you."

Quinn looked up, surprised.

Marley’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. It just settled into the air, steady and sure. "You started mentoring everyone a week ago. But I’ve been watching you since the first day you walked in."

Quinn blinked. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

"You don’t know me," she finally said. "You may see me, but that’s not the same."

"That’s funny," Marley replied. "Because the same could be said for you."

Quinn froze.

Marley’s gaze didn’t waver. "You’ve been watching me. Worrying. Showing up. Sitting with me when you didn’t have to. Saying more with silence than I’ve heard in months. Don’t tell me that doesn’t mean something."

"It’s not supposed to," Quinn whispered. "That’s the point."

"But it does."

Quinn stood abruptly, pacing two steps like her body needed movement to escape what her heart couldn’t.

"You think this is easy for me?" she said, voice just above a whisper. "You think I don’t ask myself every time I look at you if I’m projecting? If I’m trying to rewrite something that already burned me?"

"Rachel," Marley said softly.

Quinn flinched.

"I’m not her," Marley added, voice sharper now. "And I’m done pretending like I’m going to turn into her just because you keep looking for her ghost in me."

There was no hesitation in Quinn’s reply, “I’m not, you’re not her and I’ve never thought you were. Despite all the people trying to cast you in her shadow, I've only ever seen you.. and you deserve better than...” Quinn turned sharply, eyes burning with something more than tears. Regret. Shame. Longing. "I’m… just trying to protect you."

"From what? Me, or yourself?"

"From both. From being another thing I ruined."

Marley shook her head, backing away a step. "Then you don’t trust me."

"No-" Quinn reached forward instinctively, then pulled her hand back like it burned. "No, I just... I don’t trust me."

"You said I was pure. Like that made me something delicate." Marley’s eyes shimmered. "But maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just tired of people deciding how breakable I am before I even get the chance to prove them wrong."

Quinn’s jaw tightened. "You deserve better than someone who barely trusts herself to hold a good thing without crushing it."

"And you deserve more than living in fear of breaking something that hasn’t even been touched."

They stared at each other-tension sharp, stretched between them like wire.

Marley turned. Took two steps toward the path.

"Maybe this is too much," she said, voice cracking.

Quinn’s voice followed. "Maybe it’s just enough."

Marley stopped. Her shoulders rose with a breath she didn’t release.

Quinn stepped forward again.

"Every time you pull away," she said, quieter now, "I want to chase you. And every time I do, I ask myself if it’s fair to want that."

"It’s not," Marley whispered.

"Then why do you wait for me to catch up?"

Marley turned back to her, breathing uneven.

"Because I want you to," she said.

Quinn closed the distance slowly. Her hand hovered just inches from Marley’s.

"You really think three days is enough to know what this is?"

Marley nodded, eyes locked on hers. "No. But it’s enough to know I don’t want it to end, that I want to know more."

Their hands brushed.

Quinn reached, just barely, curling her pinky against Marley’s like a question.

And Marley didn’t let go.

Not this time.

The wind shifted around them, carrying the sharp scent of leaves and dusk. The sky was growing darker by the second, the kind of blue that made everything feel both infinite and closing in.

Marley let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh, only it was hollow. Bitter. Tired.

"How am I the one fighting for this?" she said suddenly.

Quinn blinked. "What?"

"You’re the one who’s supposed to be sure. Steady. Collected. But I’m standing here telling you how I feel and all I get back is… logic. Boundaries. Fear."

"Because I’m trying not to mess this up."

"No," Marley said, eyes fierce now. "You’re trying not to feel it. That’s different."

Quinn stepped back like the words struck her physically. Marley advanced.

"I’ve watched you be everything to everyone: mentor, model student, queen of composure, but not once have you let yourself want something without apologizing for it."

"I’m not apologizing," Quinn said.

"Then stop hesitating."

Quinn’s eyes narrowed, voice tighter. "And what if I do? What if I stop pretending and let it happen?"

Marley’s voice cracked. "Then maybe I’d stop wondering if I’m going to be just another name on your list of regrets."

That hurt. Quinn showed it. Her breath caught.

"You think I’d regret you?"

"I think I’m already scared of what happens after. When you realize I’m not perfect. When you look back and wonder why you even let this happen."

Quinn took a step forward. "You think I don’t wonder that every time I wake up? About myself? About what I’ve done? You think I don’t already feel like I don’t deserve to want anything real?"

"Then why am I the only one saying it?" Marley snapped. Her hands shook. "Why am I the one laying myself bare when I don’t even know if you’re going to stay tomorrow?"

Quinn’s mouth opened. Closed. And then she laughed, low, incredulous, disbelieving.

"You think I’m out of your league?"

Marley flushed, lips parting like she’d just realized how much she gave away.

Quinn stepped closer, closing the last inch of space between them. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Debatable."

Marley’s breath caught. Her heart was thudding so loud she could hear it in her ears.

"That’s not what I-"

"You think I don’t wake up every day terrified that someone’s going to realize I’ve never been half as whole as they thought I was?"

Quinn’s voice cracked then, just slightly, but it hit like thunder.

"I’ve spent years trying to be less. Quieter. Easier to love. I don’t even know how to hold something real without shaking."

Marley took a half-step forward. “I’m not asking you to be perfect.”

"You don’t have to," Quinn said. "I’m already trying to be. And failing."

"Then fail with me."

Quinn’s breath caught. She looked like she was about to say something else, something rational, measured, painful-

But Marley cut her off.

"Because I don’t want perfect. I want this. The mess. The confusion. The intensity."

Quinn stepped closer.

"Then take it."

"I am."

Their hands reached, collided. Not gently. Like gravity had snapped the cord.

Quinn raised a hand, slow, careful, and cupped Marley’s jaw with the kind of reverence reserved for something fragile you want to hold but fear you’ll break.

Marley’s breath stuttered. Her hands slid up Quinn’s arms, fingers curling into her sleeves.

"You terrify me," Quinn said. "Because when I look at you, I don’t feel like I’m pretending."

Marley’s eyes flooded. But she didn’t cry.

"Then stop pretending," she whispered.

And Quinn did.

She leaned in, just far enough for the tension to snap.

And kissed her.

The moment their lips met, everything else fell away.

The wind. The chill. The ache in Marley’s chest. The weight on Quinn’s shoulders. Gone. Just pressure and breath and the burning need for something to hold onto that wasn’t breaking.

Quinn pulled her closer like it was instinct, her hand sliding to the back of Marley’s neck, fingers shaking despite the surety of the kiss. Marley leaned in, not tentative now, not hesitant, like she’d been holding this inside her ribs for so long and finally had permission to let it out.

It wasn’t gentle. It was reverent. Desperate. Quietly devastating. Lips parting, breath tangling, mouths meeting like they were trying to remember what it meant to be alive.

And then, slowly, like gravity gave them back to the world, they parted.

Just an inch.

Just enough to look at each other.

Marley’s eyes were wide, pupils blown. Her lips trembled. Not from fear. From release. From having leapt into something she didn’t know could hold her.

Quinn’s forehead rested against hers.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t heavy now. It was full. Sacred. Alive.

Marley was the first to exhale, like she was just remembering how.

Quinn closed her eyes. Her fingers brushed down from Marley’s neck to her collarbone, over the edge of her jacket, grounding herself in the warmth beneath it.

Her chest rose and fell like she’d just surfaced from underwater.

"That wasn’t supposed to happen," Quinn whispered.

"It was always going to," Marley replied, barely a breath.

A pause.

Quinn opened her eyes, searching Marley’s face like it held the answer to every question she hadn’t dared ask.

There were so many thoughts in her head she couldn’t name, so many kisses she’d had that had never once felt like this.

This hadn’t been her first.

But it was the first time she didn’t want it to stop.

The first time she wasn’t kissing someone to prove something, to reclaim something, to forget something.

It was the first time she was kissing someone just to feel it.

And that realization hit her so hard she had to close her eyes again. And yet she found herself asking:

"Are you okay?"

Marley almost laughed. It came out more like a disbelieving sigh. "No. Yes. I don’t know. I just know I don’t want it to stop."

Quinn admitted "I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed like that before."

Marley pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, with the softest pink blooming across her cheeks, she murmured, "That was my first."

Quinn froze. Her lips parted, breath catching.

"Marley-"

"Don’t apologize," Marley whispered quickly, reading the panic in her eyes. "Don’t ruin it by turning it into something fragile."

Quinn blinked hard.

"I’m not fragile," Marley said again, steadier this time. "I told you that."

Quinn nodded, but her eyes flickered with something else. Guilt. Fear. Desire. All colliding in the space between them. "I know. It’s just..." Quinn shook her head. "You make me feel like I’ve never done this before either."

"You don’t owe me anything," Marley said, catching it. "Not explanations. Not promises."

"That’s not what I’m afraid of."

"Then what?"

Quinn swallowed. "I’m afraid I won’t know how to stay."

Marley looked at her for a long moment.

Then she reached up, gently brushing Quinn’s hair back behind her ear.

"Then stay one day at a time."

Quinn’s throat tightened. Her eyes shimmered.

"You make it sound so easy."

"It’s not. But you don’t have to do it alone."

Quinn leaned into the touch, closing her eyes again. Her body felt like it was still humming, like the kiss had carved something open inside her that couldn’t be closed again.

Their hands found each other again, fingers tangling like roots in soft soil.

Marley stepped forward, and Quinn didn’t resist.

She let her in. All the way.

This time, when their bodies met, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t an explosion. It was a collapse, like finally giving in to gravity, like finally falling somewhere safe.

Marley rested her head against Quinn’s shoulder.

Quinn wrapped her arms around her and held on like it mattered. Like it meant something.

The world could’ve ended in that moment, and they wouldn’t have noticed.

Marley’s breath hitched once before evening out.

"Is it bad," Marley said into the silence, "that I’m scared of what comes next?"

Quinn shook her head, nose brushing her temple.

"No," Quinn said. "I think it means we’re doing something real."

Marley nodded, cheek still against her shoulder. "So what now?"

Quinn smiled, small, soft, but real. "Now we breathe. And then we figure it out."

Marley pulled back just enough to look at her and brushed her thumb over the edge of Quinn’s jaw.

"And you’ll stay?"

Quinn’s answer wasn’t words.

It came a second kiss.

Softer. Slower.

United.

No longer born of desperation.

But of choice.

And maybe, for the first time in either of their lives: hope.

_____________

Marley lingered after rehearsal ended. Everyone else had filtered out of the choir room in pairs or laughter, footsteps and music trailing out into the hallways. Quinn had left already, offering her a parting glance that felt like a tether, soft but unspoken.

She wasn’t sure why she stayed behind. Not at first.

But as Mr. Schuester packed up his papers and straightened a stack of lyric sheets near the piano, Marley stood and approached.

“Mr. Schue?”

He looked up, startled slightly but smiling. “Hey, Marley. Great job today. That harmony you added in the bridge? Really subtle. Really beautiful.”

She gave a half-smile. "Thanks. Uh, can I ask you something?"

“Sure,” he said, slipping his folder into his bag and giving her his full attention. “What’s up?”

Marley hesitated. Her fingers curled into the hem of her sleeve. “Why… why did you pair me with Quinn for Legacy Week?”

Schue blinked. “Oh. That.”

He chuckled softly. “Well, originally, I put the pairs together myself. Tried to line up personalities and strengths. Santana and Kitty seemed like a natural combo both sharp, intense, high-energy, and since you reminded me a little of Rachel, and Quinn had history there, I figured it might be grounding. For both of you.”

Marley’s stomach twisted a little at the mention. “Oh.”

“But,” Schue continued, “after that first rehearsal, Kitty asked to switch, again. Said she thought she and Quinn would have better synergy. That you and Santana would mesh better, she’s not exactly wrong though.”

Marley raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“Yeah. She framed it like she was doing everyone a favor.”

Marley waited. “And you let her?”

“I offered,” Schue corrected. “I told Quinn there’d be a switch if she wanted it. Gave her the option.”

He paused, smile faint. "And she said no."

Marley’s breath stilled. “Why?”

“She didn’t say much,” he said. “Just that she’d handle it. That she was already invested.”

Marley looked down, heart tight in her chest.

“So she didn’t choose me,” she whispered.

Schue gave a thoughtful look. “You choose to see it the way you want, in my eyes she refused to give up on you, was adamant on sticking there. There’s a difference.”

Marley didn’t answer. Not right away. She felt something sharp and warm twist through her chest like a secret coming into light.

“She never told me,” she murmured.

“She wasn’t supposed to,” Schue said. “Mentorship’s not about being owed. It’s about showing up.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder and glanced at the clock. “Anyway, I’ve got a department meeting. You good?”

She nodded.

Leaving Marley alone in the choir room.

Not chosen.

But kept.

And maybe that meant more.

_____________

The air was soft with evening chill, the kind that lingered on the edge of October and clung to skin like a whisper. Marley didn’t say anything as she stepped out of the school, but her steps were slower, more deliberate. Each breath she took felt heavier and lighter at once, like something had settled just beneath her ribs and refused to leave.

Quinn was waiting at the edge of the walkway, exactly where Marley expected her to be.

She wasn’t looking at her phone. She wasn’t fidgeting. She was just standing there, jacket pulled close, arms crossed in that quiet way she did when she wasn’t sure whether to stay or go.

Marley approached, and Quinn’s eyes lifted the moment she was close.

"Hey," Marley said softly.

Quinn smiled, the corner of her mouth twitching up like a reflex she didn’t quite control. “Hey.”

They didn’t speak again for the first few blocks.

Their footsteps found rhythm naturally, side by side, but not quite touching. But making the effort to brush hands every so often.

The occasional sound of leaves beneath their feet broke the silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was expectant. Something lived inside the quiet now, something unfolding.

Marley tilted her head up toward the sky. The stars were just starting to blink into view, barely visible through the streetlights.

"Did you stay to talk to Schue?" Quinn asked, finally.

Marley nodded. "Yeah."

Quinn’s lips parted. Then shut. She didn’t press.

They walked another block. Marley caught the way Quinn’s thumb kept brushing the inside of her palm, like she was trying to work through something without saying it out loud.

"He told me Kitty asked to switch partners after the first rehearsal," Marley said.

Quinn nodded, eyes on the sidewalk.

"And he told me you said no."

Quinn’s breath hitched, just slightly, but she didn’t deny it.

Marley glanced sideways at her. “Why?”

Quinn slowed her pace.

Marley stopped, too. The wind curled around them, rustling the hem of Marley’s coat.

Quinn looked at her, not away. Not past her. At her.

“I didn’t know what this was going to be,” she said. “But I knew it wasn’t something I could walk away from.”

Marley’s chest tightened.

Quinn gave a half-shrug, almost embarrassed. "You scared me. You still do."

"Why?"

"Because you made me want to stay."

Marley’s eyes burned. Not with tears, just pressure. Emotion building from the center outward.

"You didn’t know me."

"No," Quinn agreed. “But I saw you. And I wanted to keep seeing you.”

Marley took a breath that barely reached her lungs.

They began walking again, slower this time. Closer.

By the time they reached Marley’s house, the sky was fully dark, porch light casting golden shadows across the steps.

Quinn hesitated at the gate.

Marley opened it, stepping through, then turned and looked back.

Quinn lingered outside the line of light, her expression unreadable.

And Marley, quietly, asked the question she’d been holding since she left the choir room:

"So... why did you choose me?"

Quinn stood just outside the halo of light spilling from Marley’s porch. It painted the front step in soft gold, catching the edges of Marley’s hair like a frame.

Quinn didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Marley didn’t press. She just waited, still, open.

"The truth is… I didn’t." Quinn said finally, her voice barely above the wind.

She stepped forward, into the light.

Marley’s breath caught.

Quinn’s gaze stayed steady. "At least not at first. I didn’t walk into that choir room and point to your name. I didn’t know you. I didn’t even know what I needed."

A beat.

"But then you happened."

Marley’s throat tightened.

"And suddenly," Quinn continued, "I started hearing your voice more clearly than my own thoughts. I started staying behind when I didn’t have to. I started remembering who I used to be, and thinking maybe I didn’t have to stay in her shadow forever."

Quinn’s voice cracked, just faintly.

"You were the one I didn’t choose."

She stepped closer, closing the distance.

"But you were exactly who I needed."