So I started this story months ago, with just a little idea in my head and way too much planning considering I wasn't really sure whether anyone was going to read it, let alone like it. But here it is…
I want to point out now, that there are date and POV changes; they're clearly marked and hopefully easy to follow.
So… It's AU Klaine, very much not canon. They're still the same characters. (or at least me trying to imitate those characters. They're also the same age because I started this before Blaine got demoted to a junior, and it messes up my timescales too much to even try to change that) They're still from Ohio, have the same high school friends. The major difference being that they had already been dating for six months when Kurt transferred.
Another major difference being that they broke up at the end of their junior year.
So, this is the story of how they meet again, thousands of miles from home and from the people they once were. This is the story of what happened to tear them apart in the first place, and this is the story of them, hopefully, falling in love all over again.
Friday April 19th 2019
It's unseasonably hot for April.
The unclouded sun is beating down relentlessly as I dash across the road, raising a hand in thanks to the drivers who allow me to cross despite the traffic lights being on green. I loosen the silk scarf wrapped around my neck as I walk, letting the cool breeze skim over the warm exposed skin of my throat as I pop open the buttons of my jacket, allowing it to fall open with the wind. Taking a deep breath I finally begin to feel my body relax after a particularly stressful day at work. My feet move purposely over the ground I know so well, following the journey I take twice a day. I enter the familiar park with a small smile.
There's nowhere I'd rather be right now, I think, than Hyde Park in spring.
The trees hang low and lazy, bursting with pink and white blossom, lining the walkways and edges of the park. Their outer branches swing gently in the breeze, arms reaching out and as if to caress one another. Beneath them in carefully manicured patches are hoards of startlingly purple and white crocus, looking more like large blossom fallen from the trees than individual flowers. Patches of daffodils also decorate the trimmed lawns, all in varying shades of yellow, all open and pointing willingly towards the intensely bright sun.
Outside the confines of the park London continues to hum with life, the constant traffic; busses and bikes and cars, trains rattling underground. And the crowds; the tourists, the business men and women, the everyday people, people rushing, late for work, late for dinner, late for picking up kids from school, always late and always rushing and constantly stressed. Yet in the park the atmosphere is remarkably different, only metres from some of the busiest streets in the world the air is slightly fresher, slightly less polluted and filled with birdsong and the screams of excited children. A particularly loud scream causes my head to snap round, my attention instantly falling on two young girls no older that four running erratically across the grass, both dressed in school uniforms, their coats and bags lying discarded a distance away, their cardigans flying open like wings as they run.
I slow down to watch as the older looking girl chases the other, short light blonde hair tied loosely in a pony tail, small wisps pulling free as she runs. Her eyes are bright blue and her skin's pale, cheeks flushed red from playing, small legs pumping furiously. Her much smaller friend has no chance of escape. The older girl continues to gets closer and closer until eventually she's close enough to throw herself at her friend. A small scream of defeat escapes the captured girls lips as she's knocked face first into the grass, long curly hair splaying out in front of her, body sliding forward with the force of the hit. I can't help but gasp at the impact of her miniature body against the ground, but my worry is unnecessary because within seconds of falling the smaller girl has turned over, laughing manically as her friend violently tickles her, eyes scrunching up with laughter.
The saying 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall' springs to mind and I smile widely, because the laughing girl really is tiny, miniature limbs covered in adorable baby fat, cheeks plump and pinchable. Her friend stops tickling her long enough for her to catch her breath, eye's fluttering open, revealing large hazel eyes. I feel the air in my lungs catch briefly as they take my breath away, my mind filling with long dormant memories of frighteningly similar eyes. I quickly and forcefully push the memories back into the deep recesses of my mind, back where they belong with a tired sigh. I continue to watch, having stopped walking completely now, as both girls scramble up, still grinning at each other and brushing themselves down.
I instantly notice grass stains on the smaller girls knee's and elbows, green against white and grey and I inwardly cringe, scanning the surrounding adults I can't help but wonder which are her parents, sympathising with them and the scrubbing which awaits them this weekend. Only when I really look do I notice that the park is absolutely covered in children; running, chasing, climbing, shouting, screaming, crying, laughing. All beautifully oblivious to the world around them.
I scan the adults again, searching for exhaustion or annoyance but seeing nothing but small smiles and delicate laughter. It's while searching the faces of these unknown people that my eyes skim over the head of a man sat on a bench with his back to me. I overlook him and then do a double take, instantly recognising him. But it can't be him. My initial shock drifts away as I put the recognition down to the fact that I've just been hit so unexpectedly with memories of him, and I have to consciously stop my mind from going into overdrive at the simple idea of him being so near.
I almost laugh at the ridiculous implausibility before my mind wanders, and suddenly I'm crossing of startling similarities; dark hair, cut to just above the ears but long enough to have a noticeable curl in it. Broad shoulders and the way he sits, right leg bent and tucked beneath him. The angle of his neck as if he's reading something on his lap, the way his hand runs lazily through his hair before making a movement as if to push glasses further up his nose. Those likenesses I can ignore. It's shocking but completely possible for two people to look so alike, I tell myself. And for the most part I believe that, at least until my eyes come to rest on his only visible shoe, and I just can't ignore how the laces are tied; wrongly. The exact same way he always tied them because he never bothered to learn properly.
It has to be him; it's just unbelievable that two people could be so extraordinarily alike. Yet the possibility of it being him is miniscule, non existent, it's absolutely impossible, I tell myself. But my heart argues; there's no way itcan'tbe him, it screams. He has the same hair, sits in the same way, ties his shoe laces in such a unique way, has similar style and, as much as I hate to admit it, I can feel it's him.
I can feel it in my heart and my mind, and deep in the pit of my stomach as a crushing, whirring, spiralling sensation has been set in motion. My heart's thumping and my 'fight or flight' response has kicked in, sending my senses into overdrive, every sound becomes louder, every touch more sensitive, every sight more focused. But in spite of my bodies extreme reaction I can't help but notice how little he's grown since high school and I smile, remembering just how self conscious he'd always been of his height.
It's upsetting how quickly I recognise him, literally in the blink of an eye. Even after years apart, I can still pick him out of a crowd it seems. But now I have to acknowledge that he's here, in Hyde Park, in London, in England. MyEngland. This is meant to be my safe haven, far enough away from Ohio to not fear bumping into people from my past, specifically him. And yet 4000 miles from 'home' and here he sits, practically on my door step, less than a mile from my home. The last person I ever expected to lay eyes on again.
I stand staring at the back of his head for what feels like days, but is only really a matter of seconds as I allow shock to overwhelm me, followed foolishly by happiness, and then fear hits me like a tsunami, washing over me again and again as I remember the last time we spoke; the abundance of tears and shouting, screaming, cruel words batted between us endlessly, apologies and excuses, threats and accusations all mingling together. The last time we saw each other our faces were tear stained and our eyes red and puffy, frustration and betrayal written across both our faces, and the painfully loud slamming of a door finally crumbling any possibility of reconciliation.
Realisation and fear hit me quickly and momentarily stun me, and before I even so much as think about the consequences of what I'm about to do, to imagine how he might react, or even how I will react; I speak his name. Questioningly and barely louder than a whisper, but it travels on the wind and within a second his head shoots up. He slowly turns to face me as my heart pounds rapidly. I can feel the blood coursing through my veins, fuelled by adrenaline, my fingers tingling with sensation and my ears humming with the beat of my own heart. My throat feels constricted as I wait and although it takes all of three seconds for eye contact to be established, it feels like an eternity. His face is a maelstrom of emotions, first shock and sadness, followed by distrust, a hint of happiness and eventually settling on confusion as he stares into my eyes for the first time in nearly eight years.
He stands up from the bench slowly, hesitantly before turning to face me. He discards his newspaper on the bench, brow furrowing slightly as he pulls his glasses from his face. We stand for a moment in silence. Only ten feet stand between us and yet miles separate us. So we just stare at one other, both wide eyed and mouths gaping an inch. I'm relieved to see he's just as confused as I am, and just as overwhelmed, I tell myself. I want to say something, anything, but nothing comes to mind. Where do you start when the man you promised to love forever is stood in front of you after eight years of nothing? Eight years of planning and promises, shared dreams and wishes and hopes, whispered in the dead of night at the tender age of 17, all to no avail because here we stand, as separate and as alone as if we're strangers.
The silence stretches on until I can't take it anymore, I have to say something, I have to make sure that this is real, that he's real. "I-Is this… I mean, are you…" I stammer through numb lips, so lost for words because suddenly there are no words. How can this be real? How after nearly eight years of nothing, of me consciously avoiding anything I even so much as associate with him, can we suddenly be thrown together like this? Not only are we thousands of miles from where we were both born, where we both grew up, where we fell in love, but also thousands of miles from where either of us had ever even considered spending our lives. And yet here we are, not only in the same country, but the same city, the same park, on the same day, at the same time. Never until this moment have I given a shred of thought to the idea of fate or destiny, but this just seems too huge a coincidence to be justa twist of fate, because in a city of almost eight million people, it's him I end up wandering by.
I clear my throat; swallowing dryly and moistening my lips before finally asking, "Is it really you?" I take a few tentative steps closer and immediately realise how idiotic I sound, but there's no other way I can be sure. I have to hear him confirm it. Or I have to at least hearhim, because his is a voice I'm sure I'll never forget. His face quickly morphs from complete shock into one of the most genuine smiles I've ever seen. My heart continues to race as I gingerly smile back, moving slightly closer, pleased that he seems just as speechless as I am. I'm also relieved that he hasn't shouted or ignored me, he even seems somewhat happy, considering all the smiling he's doing.
"It's me," he confirms simply, still grinning and staring into my eye. But there's not a shred of doubt in my mind now I'm facing him properly. And despite my best efforts I can't help but recognise more and more things about him, things that I thought I'd've long forgotten; the way he stands, awkwardly with his hands in his pocket, the exact colour and shape of his hazel eyes. I recognise his small delicate ears, the shape of his eyebrows, the five o'clock shadow creeping along his chin and neck, pink lips and the gentle curve of his neck to where it meets his clavicle. I'm not surprised by how much I remember, all things considered, and yet the small but obvious changes feel like a stab to my heart. He's definitely grown very slightly since high school and filled out, his shoulders are noticeably broader, his arms thicker. And in the corners of his eyes when he smiles I see the whisper of wrinkles, laughter lines, and I can't help but wonder whose made him smile enough to leave permanent creases in his skin.
"I can't believe it's you… here- in London," I say feebly with a nervous shake of my head, unable to hold back the thoughts racing and rushing through my mind, "after all this time I mean, I don't understand how… or why…" I trail off again, cocking my head to the side quizzically. I have no idea what to say because there is far too much I don't understand, can't even begin to understand, and far too many questions to be answered. And there's a large part of me that's scared of what I might hear.
"I live here Kurt," the way my name rolls off his tongue makes my breath catch slightly, "in London I mean, about 20 minutes that way by car," he continues simply, pointing over the park but not taking his eyes off me, "in Wandsworth." I look towards where he's pointing, deep in thought, how long has he been living here? I wonder. I can feel his eyes on me as I glance subconsciously in the direction of my own home in the opposite direction, less than a ten minute walk from where we're stood. My mind stalls and quickly calculates that about five miles separate our homes. I can't help but be struck by the irony. We spent six months of our relationship driving the almost two hour trip to see each other before I transferred, and yet here we are, eight years later and within a 30 minute drive of one other. We hadn't even known we're living in the same country, let alone within so few miles of each other.
"Kurt?" he questions after a few seconds of me staring into the distance, eyes glazed. I snap my head back to look at him, hoping he saw only surprise in my expression, not how upset the fact we live so close and yet have no reason to see each other has made me. "What brings you to London then?" he asks cheerfully, still smiling up at me and I can't help but notice a similar expression of surprise in his eyes as what I can feel swirling in my stomach. I know him well enough even now to see the cogs in his mind churning as he tries to figure out how this is possible, obviously understanding this no more than I do. Which destroys the small, fleeting thought I had that he might've come here looking for me, even after all this time. But as soon as this thought crosses my mind I hate myself for it, because I don't want him to have come looking for me, I don't needhim to have come looking for me.
"Oh, I err, live here too, just off Bayswater Road," I point in the direction of my home as I speak, noticing the same realisation flit across his face as he too grasps just how close we live. He glances in the direction I'm pointed, the same direction where the two girls who initially caused me to stop are still playing, occasional fits of giggles filling the air.
"This is so strange…" he whispers in the direction of my home, deep in thought and talking more to himself than me. A few seconds of silence pass, "d'you wanna sit… and chat?" he finally asks, nervousness wrapping gently around his words as he glances back at me, motioning towards the vacant bench. "I mean, only if you've got time, I don't want to keep you from any plans you've got," he rushes to add. But I just smile and nod in response, slightly lost for words as we sit, him once again bending his right leg beneath himself so he can face me, his right arm resting upon the back of the bench while I sit with one leg crossed over the other, angled towards him. We just stare at each other for a second, complete disbelief racing through our confused minds before we both laugh gently, averting our eyes and shaking our heads at our own nerves.
"How long've you been living here then, if you don't mind me asking?" he asks politely, shaking me from my reverie. "I mean, I never even heard you left Lima… not that I thought you'd stay there long," he smiles a frighteningly familiar smile, obviously remembering my Broadway dreams. He never heard I left Lima, I think. Well of course he never heard, who would he have spoken to who would've known to tell him? As soon as we broke up all ties were severed. I never tried to contact his friends and they never tried to contact me. I forced my friends to delete his number, and he never contacted them anyway. So how could he possibly have heard what I've been doing for the last eight years? I can see curiosity burning in his eyes as he watches me, waiting tensely for my response. Maybe he thinks I came to London to find him… I'll soon destroy that idea.
"Uhm" I mumble, mentally counting back the years, staring into the distance as I do so. "Seven years in September" I finally say with a sad smile when my eyes fall on Blaine. I hadn't realised it'd been so long, not having thought about it in a while. London has become my home, the place where all my dreams will come true, and as foolish as it sounds sometimes I forget there are people in the world who know this hasn't always been home, that my dreams were at one time going to be lived out in a different city with Blaine by my side.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "That's ages!" he says shocked, "I've only been here two years, three in November," he shrugs, scratching at the wood of the bench beneath his palm. "How come you moved here anyway, I mean you must've been only what, 18? Surely Burt didn't let you just fly off to England?" He rambles slightly; words jumbling but leaving smiling lips. I smile back, pleased that he remembers my dads name and how over protective he's always been.
"I went university here, Central St. Martins" I say proudly, nodding in the direction of the university, "Fashion," I say simply, knowing he'll understand. And he does, his grin widening by a noticeable degree. "Once I finished, well… I was so in love with London, I had more reason to stay than to leave," I say with a hint of sadness, failing to mention that I couldn't bare the thought of going back to Ohio. I guess some places just hold far too many memories to ever truly be called home again.
"I should've guessed it was fashion that brought you here," he smirks as his eyes wander very blatantly over my body, and suddenly I feel ridiculously self conscious. I straighten my back in an attempt to un-crease my clothes, wrapping a protective arm around my waist. I'm dressed really quite plainly compared to my teenage years, having veered more towards the tailored yet casual look. I'm mostly covered in a dark grey suit; underneath which you can just see the hint of a thin, faded blue t-shirt with carefully cut rips along the hem. My feet are covered in highly polished black boots with artfully loose laces. "You really haven't changed much at all" he finally says, eyes locking forcefully on mine, noticeably more intense than seconds ago as I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
"I don't know whether that's a compliment or not, but I'm going to take it as one" I grin at him teasingly.
"Of course it's a compliment!" he laughs, feigning shock and knowing me well enough even now to know I'm teasing him. Does this mean he's glad I haven't changed? Does he still think I'm beautiful like he used to tell me?
"Well in that case you haven't changed all that much either," I say nervously looking away. I'm not lying; almost everything about him is exactly the same. We sit in silence for a moment and I can see him out of the corner of my eye still smiling, looking down at his own lap. Eventually he breaks the silence.
"How is your dad anyway? And Carole of course, how're they both?" He asks graciously, always respectful and well mannered. A 'real gentleman' as my step mum Carole always called him. When I look round I'm surprised to see he's genuinely interested, asking because he wants to know and not because asking about each others parents it just what you do in these situations. Actually I'm not sure what kind of situation this is, and I'm pretty sure he's just as clueless. This causes me to smile at both our nervousness and the palpable awkwardness of the conversation.
"They're both great thanks," I say, adding "I'm sure if they knew I'd bumped into you they'd both send their regards." I can't help but smirk as I say it because I'm sure if I was to tell my dad I've bumped into Blaine he'd be a lot more likely to send his shotgun first class than his regards after everything that'd happened. Blaine seems to be thinking along the same lines as he nods, a knowing smile flashing across his face. "How are your parents?" I ask then, more out of politeness than anything else. I know of course that he's never had an easy relationship with his parents, and I can't help but wonder whether they've got anything to do with him moving so far away.
"Eurgh. Same as ever I guess… I'd rather not talk about them, you know more than most what they're like" he says quickly, slightly deflated compared to how he'd been just seconds before, looking down as his grin shifts into more of a grimace. But it only lasts a fleeting moment before he's looking back up at me, eyes sparkling with a familiar faint smile, and I can't help but think of how honestly pleased to see me he seems. However this part of him seems unchanged; still brushing his problems under an imaginary carpet rather than dealing with them. Or maybe he has changed and does deal with them, just with someone else, the possibility of which sends a jolt of jealously right up my spine.
I move on swiftly, more interested in keeping that smile on his face than hearing about his parents. "What made you move here anyway?" I ask casually, looking round at him quizzically, just in time to see his head drop to look at his lap again, his facial expression changing from a lazy smile to something completely different, something I can't quite name; lost between sadness and regret before finally settling on happiness. But just when I think he isn't going to answer he raises his head, familiar eyes far older and more tired than they had just minutes ago, he opens his mouth to speak, and just as he does the noise of Big Ben chimes over London, noting the passing of another hour.
Blaine glances from me towards the direction of Big Ben, his eyebrows furrowing slightly in confusion. He raises his wrist to look at his watch, "Shit!" he exclaims jumping up.
"What?" I ask, baffled by the sudden change, and slightly annoyed that he seems to have forgot that we're mid way through a conversation, and more importantly that he was about to answer a question I am very curious about, one of the only questions I'm curious about.
"I'm really sorry Kurt but I've gotta run!" he say frantically, shoving his paper into his worn satchel, "I'll see you around hopefully," he says with a genuine smile, meeting my eyes briefly as panic swells inside of me. Will I never see him again? We haven't so much as exchanged phone numbers, or addresses, or emails, or any way of contacting each other, just rough estimations of where we live.
So I sit there, shocked as I watch him grab his coat from the bench, hurriedly shoving his arms through it, shrugging it onto his shoulders. He smiles at me again and turns to hurry away. "Can-I-have-your-number?" I blurt out as he walks away, the words practically flying from my lips before my mind has had a chance to catch up. Because what do I have to lose? He's going to walk away now and the chances are I'll never see him again, and if he says no, well the situation's exactly the same, but with a dash of rejection. He stops stock still, turning to face me, a look of anguish on his face, contrasting heavily with the smile that'd been there only moments ago.
"I don't have my phone on me, and… I don't know my number…" he says a little coldly, and I instantly realise it's an excuse. I look into his eyes and don't see anguish. I see pity. He pities me because he thinks I haven't let go of our past. Well, I let our past go eight years ago and moved 4000 miles to make sure of it. I uprooted my entire life and changed every plan I ever made to get away from him, and yet here he is, stood in front of me in the one place I thought I'd managed to escape him, and he's still managing to upset me.
"Oh, okay, no worries," I say simply, standing to leave, brushing myself down and pulling my bag onto my shoulder as I refuse to make eye contact.
"No Kurt, it's not like that… I mean, I would, but I genuinely don't know my number," he says pleadingly, stepping closer to me, lifting a hand momentarily as if to touch my chin and tilt my face to meet his, like he had years ago when I'd been upset. But he stops himself, arm dropping limply to his side. It upsets me even more that he knows me so well, even after all these years, even after I believe I've changed into a completely different person, even after I've done everything in my power to not show him my sadness, he still knows me better than almost anyone. "Give me your number…?" he says, and I'm not sure whether it was a command or a question but I look up at him, eyes searching his for any sign of deception. "Please?" he pleads, "I really would like to see you again, but I seriously have to get going, like, now!" he says hurriedly, glancing quickly at his watch again, and back up at me hopefully.
I can't help but be suspicious, is he just humouring me? I grimace at the thought of giving him my number and then waiting feverishly for a phone call, but I won't do that, if I never hear from him again then my life's no different. I sigh, knowing deep down I'd give him anything in a heartbeat, yet on the surface I hold onto the indignation I feel. "You got a pen?" I ask moodily, knowing he won't.
To my surprise he pulls one instantly from his bag, along with a scrap of paper ripped from a writing pad. He holds them out to me with a cocky grin, knowing exactly what I'd been thinking. I snatch the pen from him, "you'll lose the paper," I mutter, looking him dead in the eye. Looking away from him as he continues to grin, I grab his still outstretched hand, surprisingly warm and fragile feeling in my own. He gasps slightly at the contact of my cold skin as I uncurl his fingers to reveal his palm. Smiling I scribble my number along the part where his thumb meets his hand. Subconsciously I notice still calloused fingers and that small scar on his palm from when he got some glass stuck in it as a child. I resist the urge to lean down and place a gentle kiss on it like I used to.
I push the lid back on the pen with a satisfying pop and hold it out to him; he stares at the number scribbled in messy, spiky hand writing on his palm, smiling slightly wistfully before glancing up at me and the pen in my outstretched hand. "Keep it" he says with a grin, "I'll err, talk to you soon I guess," he says, slightly nervously but still smiling. He then makes no move to walk away, and I'm confused for what felt like the thousandth time in the last ten minutes, because wasn't he just desperate to leave?
"M'kay," I say, elongating the syllables, not sure what to do. Eventually I turn to leave, still with my eyes locked on his but angled away from him slightly. He smiles reassuringly, as if indicating I should trust him, so I do. "Bye then," I smile a little before walking diagonally past him, striding slightly, wanting to appear confident. As I walk I can feel his eyes on me, burning into my back, my skin prickling with the sensation.
I'm about 40 feet away when I hear his voice, slightly muffled as if he doesn't want me to hear. I turn and immediately realise he's not talking to me; facing slightly away and gesturing with his hands to someone. I follow his line of sight and see the two young girls who originally caused me to stop and have been playing noisily nearby throughout our short conversation. They both glance up from where they're lying on their backs, pointing at the clouds in the sky, jumping to their feet they run over to him. How does he know them? He then moves toward where their coats and bags are discarded, throwing them each their coat when they reach him. He leans down to help the smaller curly haired girl zip hers up, and then I remember her eyes. Caramel eyes which reminded me instantly of his, surrounded in an identical fan of thick black eyelashes, she also has his dark hair, his curls and his smile.
As he zips up her coat he notices the grass stains on her knees and frowns, and I remember wondering earlier who'd be cleaning them for Monday, surely not him? But he smiles at her, and kisses her gently on the nose. My heart begins to pound in my chest again as confusion washes over me for a second time, surely they aren't his children? How could they be? But he kissed her, my mind screams as my heart lodges in my throat. They could be a friends kids, I tell myself, maybe he's just doing them a favour and taking them home after school? But I knew this isn't true, they have to be his, no two people can look so much alike just by coincidence.
Suddenly I feel physically sick. My stomach churns and my eyes fall shut as the earth moves beneath me. He has children, which means he must have a boyfriend, actually it's more likely he has a husband.Someone he loves enough to have a family with, and he's only 24!
My mind's whirling, spinning out of control as I try to make sense of what's just happened. Glancing towards the three of them again, I see him sling their two bags over his back, one a Dora the Explorer bag, and the other Toy Story, both looking ridiculously out of place against his navy blue tailored jacket. He drops his hands to his sides and begins to walk, the two girls catching up either side, each slipping a tiny hand into his. They're getting gradually further away, walking in the opposite direction to me, but I watch with a drumming heart as the hand with my scribbled phone number on is squeezed by the older, blonde haired girl. She doesn't look like him at all, and I can't help but wonder if she's his partner's biological child or maybe they adopted her. My heart breaks at the thought of him getting home to a husband, who'll probably be wonderful and perfect and everything he deserves. Everything I could never be.
I hate myself for hating what they have. But it's everything I want, and more so than that it's Blaine. The person I used to imagine dedicating the rest of my life to, the person who late at night I would whisper how much I loved him into the night, hoping in his dreams he'd hear and feel the same. The person I would have given everything I had for, and had, only for it to crumble and break and fall apart. I gave up all my hopes and dreams of Broadway to do what he asked of me, because when I heard rumours Blaine was going NYU I applied as far away as I dared; London. Sticking to my unspoken promise of staying as far away from him as possible. With Blaine, being in love had felt easy and simple, essential to my survival. And I know people are cynical, and think 'well, everything about love seems perfect when you're 17' but with us, everything truly was perfect. Everything apart from me.