This is set in the Episode 'Home' from Season 1 of Glee. Just a moment that popped into my head; what I thought Emma must be feeling in that bathroom. Enjoy!
She couldn't breathe.
She was going to give herself to Will Schuester. The outrageousness of her decision stunned her, stole her breath from her lungs. What was she thinking? She was shy, backwards Emma Pillsbury, who couldn't take a step without her hand wipes, and who had once tried to disinfect her food.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Skinny, she saw; underdeveloped, with a dent in her nose and hair that couldn't decide whether it was red or brown, but was a horrible in-between. She had freckles no amount of lemon juice could touch, and her eyes were too big….
Stop. We've worked on this in therapy. Use your method.
Singing. She liked it, even though she'd never told anyone. Had considered risking it all, living life, throwing away her high school diploma to pursue a career. But her mother had put an end to that, poking her head out of her world of intimate soirées and cocktail parties to tell her bluntly that she didn't have the voice for it, and, even if she did, she couldn't have sold it with that face.
So she'd taught.
She liked her job, loved the fulfilment of helping as a career path. On a shallower level, she loved reading the titles of the brochures they sent her.
But the singing hadn't gone away.
It was her showerhead who was her audience now – or her hair curler, or her toaster. She'd signed up to a community group once, trembling at her audacity, but had quit on the spot when she'd walked in and seen the food stains on the sheet music.
She imagined them singing.
Her and Will. She'd found her dress in the town's single antique shop and had fallen in love with it, despite the minor inconvenience of it being pre-owned. Still, it had stood up to her repeated washing, and when she'd screwed up the courage to put it on - and stopped cringing long enough to look in the mirror - she'd looked beautiful, the gossamer cloth falling silently, gracefully, in a soft flounce around the subtle line of her calf.
It made her feel feminine. Delicate, in a good way. Like a flower that, with the right nurturing, could blossom into something breathtaking.
She'd never been breathtaking.
Madonna's Virgin had been playing as she'd left the school on Friday evening. The song echoed in her head now, the opening strains reverberating. Almost unconsciously – it was a habit she'd had, since early childhood – she made up pictures to suit the words.
Will, dashing in a suit, bow tie skewed – Emma could feel her hand itching with the desire to straighten and clenched her fists firmly, this was a daydream – smiling at here, with that adorable dimple she knew Eleanor from the Science department sighed over. Her, in her best dress, for once - shockingly - simultaneously graceful and coordinated. The two of them, dancing, the unusual red of her hair somehow fitting naturally under the strong curve of his neck and shoulder.
She wanted this.
Her brain knew it; her body, however, was not in the habit of listening to her brain, and was evidently not about to start now. She could feel starting to shake, her fingers trembling, teeth chattering. She twisted her hands together, hating herself for being unable to accept something she wanted beyond belief.
The call came, tentative, from outside the bathroom door.
Emma looked at herself in the mirror, noticing the wideness of her eyes, the paleness of her skin, the unevenness of her breath.
She wanted this.
Emma turned, and walked out the door.