You don't even know why you came here.

Sitting in the church, watching Brittany fidget at the altar, you feel bile rising in your throat. It's disgusting, and takes everything you have to swallow it down without gagging.

You feel a strong hate towards the girl standing there, in her simple white dress, bright blue eyes shining. She's whispering something to the minister, probably nonsense about unicorns or ducks, or maybe even storks, and you just want to hit her, make her cry and bleed and writhe on the floor in agony.

Which is sick and twisted, and you know it's wrong, but the jealousy burning in your soul does not care for being rational. You still your shaking hands. Kurt isn't paying attention, thank god. He's talking to Blaine, smiling and laughing. They got married a year ago. They are still so happy and lovestruck, the perfect couple.

You flinch when you hear the music begin to play. Like everyone else, you rise, waiting for the doors to open. They do, of course, slowly until the soft clacking of heels are heard on the ground. You feel your throat constrict.

And then you see her. Dark eyes, highlighted by the smoky eyeshadow and red lipstick she's wearing. A breathtaking smile. Beautiful, dark hair flowing past her shoulders. The end curled slightly into half ringlets. And her dress is gorgeous. Very detailed around the waist, the bottom flaring out. You recognize it as one of Kurt's design immediately. You know it is when he smiles proudly, giving her a thumbs up.

When she turns to grin at him, her eye catches yours. You offer a small smile, and she returns it, with her lips curling to make it a half smirk. You just shake your head as she moves on.

She grabs Brittany's hand, lacing their pinkies together. They hold hands more now, but it's like their trademark stamp. The pinky lock thing that you heard they've been doing since they were five.

"If there are any objections now, state them, or forever hold your peace." You don't trust yourself to speak. Instead, you keep your eyes trained on her, watching as she scans the crowd. No one says a word, and a satisfied smile spreads across her face, lighting it up.

This is all wrong to you. Watching them kiss, sealing their marriage. A life long commitment. You feel your heart squeeze, pain shooting through your veins at the thought.

You barely comprehend the reception, a glass of wine in your hand. Your aren't really drinking it. Just stirring it around the glass, watching the red liquid slosh back and forth. Like the acid in your stomach.

When they reach you, grinning, you only have eyes for her. The pure joy and love in her eyes makes you smile, for only a second, because you realize that it's not for you. It's for the girl standing by her side, staring at the streamers hanging from the ceiling.

"Hey, 'Tana. Brittany." You feel your heart pound against your ribcage when she lights up with the use of your nickname for her. Her wife, you internally cringe at the word, ignores you, fascinated by the party around you.

"Hey, Q. Thanks for coming. I know your busy."

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world." The lie rolls off your tongue. She cocks her head, seeing through you, but doesn't question. It's a silent agreement between the two of you. You don't talk unless your both ready to.

"Thanks. I'm surprised Finn didn't show up." You know she is a little hurt by the fact, even though it doesn't show at all in her posture or smile. "Considering he stalked me through high school, I figured he'd want to send me off for good, you know?"

You don't say how the same could be said for you. You just nod, forcing a light smile. "Well, his divorce with Rachel could be part of it. He probably didn't want to be around her." You had watched their relationship fall. Just like Rory and Sugar's, just like Mercedes and Sam's.

"Whatever. Hey, we better go greet everyone else. Britt's parents want to take as many pictures as possible." You know what she really wants to say: I can't wait to take all these pictures so I can preserve this memory and share it with my family.

"Of course." She tugs on her wife's hand, and you feel the little green monster flare up again, but it's not little, it's huge, threatening to take over your entire being.

"Come on, Britt-Britt. Got to go say hey to everyone." You watch as the girl looks to Santana with wide eyes.

"Can we hang streamers on our ceiling?" It's a stupid question, and you feel like tearing her vocal chords out so she can;t say anything like it ever again, but you refrain.

"Anything you want, babe." Brittany smiles and you gag, hiding it in your glass of wine. Neither of them notice, to busy staring at each other as they walk away. But Brittany turns and waves.

"Bye, Quinn!"

You lick your lips, and don't respond, or even acknowledge you heard her. The wine burns down your throat. It's not as good as whiskey or tequila, but it'll have to do until you get home. Then, you can drown your sorrows in alcohol and weed, maybe even going out for a few quick fucks. You don't really care anymore.

You stopped caring when you got the cream invitation made of crisp paper. You stopped caring when you read the announcement. You stopped caring when the letter fell from your hands and you let your tears flow freely in your empty kitchen.

And when they have their first dance, you are mesmerized, just like everyone else, at how in sync they are. They move gracefully. Brittany is a dancer, but Santana leads like a pro, gliding her around the room like a princess.

The empty glasses pile up beside you. Your eyes glass over. Your buzzed, extremely so, but not nearly drunk enough yet. You aren't even surprised when you see the cake is in the shape of a duck. You eat it, but spit it out when you realize it's Brittany's favorite flavor. Chocolate. Santana always liked butter pecan cake the best.

It's sad that you've held onto these facts. Stupid things about her that could matter less to anyone else. Her favorite color is blue, even though she looks best in red. She loves kid movies. She always cries even Nemo's mom dies. She sleeps on the left side of the bed. She never eats peanut butter without a glass of milk. She loves blondes.

But you're not the right blonde. Your hair is too light. It's too short, and the bangs are all wrong. Your eyes are not a clear ocean blue, but a green-brown color. Your not nearly tall enough, and can't dance to save your life.

In short, your not Brittany.

And it's a curse, really. You weren't there at the beginning. You didn't defend her, be nice, make sure that she knew that she wasn't really a bitch and that it's okay to be who you are.

When it all comes crumbling down around you, you understand. You weren't meant for her the way Brittany was, is.

But knowing the truth doesn't make it hurt any less.