She made me breakfast before she left this morning. The kitchen still smells of waffles and bacon and the faintest hint of her perfume. Like she left a trace of herself on everything she touched. On the chair, where she laid her jacket; on the table, where she set her briefcase; on my neck, where she placed her lips before gathering her things and heading out the door.

I can still feel them there, lingering with a warm tingle that I equate with happiness. She is comfortable and solid, and I am consistent with her. Words are still difficult, but she calls it dyslexia and smiles warmly when I say something wrong. She reads to me from her law books, tells me about her cases. I tell her about the children at the studio, and she smiles warmly at the notion of little blonde girls in pink tights. I know it's because she imagines them as ours, those hypothetical children I've told her I'm not sure that I want. But she takes my hand and walks me to our bed and makes love to me like I am the last woman in the world and we are both about to die, and I think that maybe I might be able to give her what she wants after all.

She tells me that she loves me in the dark, her arms around my waist and her lips at my ear. I don't hesitate to reply that, yes, I love her, too. With everything I have, I do. The small breath she exhales lets me know that even if I didn't, she would say it anyway.

She is, in short, almost perfect.

When will I see you again?

You left with no goodbye, not a single word was said

No final kiss to seal any seams

I had no idea of the state we were in

The kitchen table is littered with things. Binders of swatches, boxes of envelopes, piles of save-the-dates with our photo embossed in the expensive linen paper. It is my job to sort through these things, make the arrangements, plan for months for a single moment in what will be the rest of our shared lives.

We're getting married, she and I. In the summer, in the mountains, overlooking the Colorado River. I'll wear a white dress, she a black suit cut to the curves of her body. Our families and friends will fly in from all over the country to see us vow to love and cherish one another, to honor and obey in sickness and in health. She wants this, more than anything. A display, a public event. I just want the promise it contains. And her. Of course, always. Her.

I did not expect this when I met her. I did not expect to be sitting here two years later surrounded by linen samples and bridal magazines. Because I had written this off. Romance and love and commitment. But she came up to me in a bar and offered to buy me a drink and it had turned into four and suddenly we were in her apartment and my clothes were missing. And for the first time in three years, I didn't feel like running. So here I am, drowning in Chantilly lace and copies of Modern Bride. I am not scared.

I swear.

I know you have a fickle heart and bitterness

And a wandering eye, and a heaviness in your head

But don't you remember?

Don't you remember?

The reason you loved me before

Baby, please remember me once more

I clear a space at the table and sit down. There is a to-do list amongst the piles in her neat cursive, a gentle reminder that there are things to be done while she is away. Pick a color scheme, call the florist, address the envelopes. Things I wish we could do together, so they seem less daunting. In another time, another world, I would have insisted on it. But I am grown now, and I am not so dependent on the help of others. I can do this, and she trusts me. So I pick up our guest list and address book, and begin.

Mr. Blaine Anderson

Mses. Rachel and Quinn Berry-Fabray

My hand burns by the time I reach the K's. The muscle along the side is tight from controlling the curve of my writing, making the names line up and my sizes consistent. The pen is heavy and my fingers curl automatically into a fist as I set it down, unwilling to stretch out painfully. I let my hand go limp and shake it out, then press on.

Mr. and Mrs. Glen Klein

Ms. Angela Krueger

I had imagined something different when I was a child. Someone different. I had thought that the hand in mine as I bind myself would be smaller, the hair darker, the eyes more cautious. She is none of the things I pictured for myself when I was five and in my mother's heels, a bouquet of hydrangeas illicitly plucked from the garden in hand. The girl standing next to me in my father's suit coat as we acted out the scene was my prince. She rescued me from the dragons disguised as bullies and offered me her pinky instead of her hand and smiled at me like mine was the only face she ever needed to see again.

Ms. Diana Larson

Mr. and Mrs. Antonio Lopez

I made this list. I know whose name is next: that girl, my prince. I stop, set down the pen, and rest my head in my hands.

When was the last time you thought of me?

Or have you completely erased me from your memory?

I often think about where I went wrong

The more I do, the less I know

I'm happy. Here in Denver, with the woman I love, I am happy. I'm planning our wedding and addressing envelopes and letting the scent of waffles and Chanel No. 5 linger on my skin because I'm happy.

But then I see Santana's name on a guest list and everything else in my life becomes small and insignificant in comparison to the memory of the freckle on her shoulder, or the curve of her upper lip, or the way her pupils disappeared into dark irises.

And how angry I am. Still.

Five years. It's been five years and her name on a list brings acid up from my stomach. Just a name and I am left white-knuckled and seething. Not because of the cheating or the sex. Not because of the lying or the ingratitude or being neglected. It's because, when I ran, she didn't chase me.

It's because I gave her everything I had, knowing that one day she would break it. But I always thought she'd fix me when it happened, like she did before. She would swallow her pride or her shame and find the scattered bits of me and glue them back together. But she didn't. I've forgiven her for everything but that. I forgave her and I moved on, knowing that I could never love anyone the same way again.

But I am happy. I swear.

But I know you have a fickle heart and bitterness

And a wandering eye, and a heaviness in your head

But don't you remember?

Don't you remember?

The reason you loved me before,

Baby, please remember me once more

I write to her. I can't stop myself most of the time, because when you spend as much time with a person as she and I did, it's not possible to sever the tie without a sense of withdrawal. She is a drug, strong and addictive and hot in my veins, even now. So I write to her, getting a fix with the scrawl of her handwriting. This girl, who made me need her and then ripped me in half and didn't even have the courage to pick up the pieces.

I write to her, even though she broke me, because I can't not write to her. Because leaving was hard, but staying away is harder. And even though I'm happy, I'm not whole. I love my fiancé. She's almost perfect.

But she's not Santana.

It's been five years since I got into my car and left the only woman I'd ever loved. Five years away from that girl that pressed her lips to mine when I was five and Reverend Teddy Bear said, "You may now kiss the bride." The girl that spent seventeen years as my best friend, seven as my lover, five as my partner, and a single moment as the person I hated most in the entire world.

Is it so wrong that I still expect her to come for me? To show up on my doorstep and say, "Let me fix you"? I'm selfish for wanting it. Selfish for not seeing what I have in front of me, and self-absorbed for thinking that she would still want me after all this time. I can't help it. I wish to God that I could make it go away. But her name on a list reminds me and it's as though it's been five minutes, not five years.

How can I possibly send someone like her a wedding invitation?

Gave you the space so you could breathe

I kept my distance so you would be free

And hope that you find the missing piece

To bring you back to me

She doesn't even know that I met someone. Two years worth of letters signed, "Your friend, Britt" and I couldn't even tell her that. It shouldn't be something I hide, but from Santana, it was a guarded secret. To protect her, to protect me… I don't know. I just couldn't tell her. And now, with her name on this list, I have to. I have to tell her that I'm getting married.

I have to tell her that this is her last chance.

Her last-chance warning can't come in the form of a save-the-date, with a picture of a woman she's never met kissing the woman she let go. She needs to think she has a shot without me begging her to come save me. Save me from settling, from a life without passion, from letting go of need and replacing it with want. Because as much as I want to be happy, I need her more. I need to her tell me she needs me, too. That she's willing to stop being sorry and start being mine. I was always hers. Always.

And I'd rather be miserable with Santana than happy with anyone else.

I would wait for her until my dying breath. I would go on living knowing that she was out there, and I would wait for her to come find me. I would marry this woman, have children with her, have a life and a family and if Santana showed up on my door I would drop it all and let her fix me, even if I wasn't broken.

Because I'm selfish, and I miss it. I miss her.

Why don't you remember?

Don't you remember?

The reason you loved me before

Baby, please remember me once more

I began every previous letter with just her name. Informal, but friendly. I told her about the weather, how the passing seasons left me in awe of how different the mountains are from the flat, shapeless terrain of Ohio. I told her about my job, my friends, that my mother was well and my sister had graduated college.

Things are dire now, and I can't afford to waste time with pleasantries. I have things that need saying, things that will change lives.

I miss you, Santana.

I need you, Santana.

Save me, Santana.


I push aside the envelopes, the list, the lace and the swatches. I lift that heavy pen, the muscle in my hand straining as I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger. I take a deep breath, and write.

"My dearest Santana..."

When will I see you again?