When he arrived back at his apartment in Brooklyn, he let his suitcase loudly drop on the floor beside his door. He began to unpack but he decided against it pretty quickly, and walked into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, horrified by what he had become over the years. A broken, sad, lonely man. He couldn't stop his hands from moving as he reached for the nearest shaving razor and cream and spent the next fifteen minutes shaving his face clean. Even with just his scruffy beard gone, he seemed like a new person. However he still didn't want to face his reflection in the mirror - the image of someone who wasn't worthy of love.

He spent the following week in a daze; getting up, going to work and coming home. Barely eating, only speaking when he would have to; at work or while socializing with coworkers, but once he was at home he would just collapse into his bed. Trying his hardest to let life pass him by. What he found after that endless week was just himself, wondering what in the world was wrong with him. What did he have back in high school that made Kurt love him so much that he didn't have any more. After lots of sitting around thinking about everything, it finally hit him; the music was gone. He hardly ever sang anymore and because of this the light had gone out of his eyes. And Kurt could see that in him.

Blaine stood up and went over to his closet and pulled out his old guitar case, he hadn't pulled it out for so long that there was a layer of dust covering it. He rested the body on his knee and let his fingers painfully get used to the strings once again; let them cut ridges into his skin. It stung but it was a feeling that he didn't realize that he was missing in his life. He looked down at the guitar and realized how much he had missed everything. The weight of it. The chill. He was meant to sing about his feelings, express himself through song; something that he was always natural about. It was like a spark had reignited in his chest and he felt the music in his veins. He decided right then and there that he was going to get back into music. He was going to start small, write some new songs and start playing them at local coffee houses and bars that offered an open mic night.

It took nearly a month's time for Blaine to have some completely new and original material on the guitar and the piano. After all of that he was finally ready for his debut gig at the local coffee house about five minutes from his apartment. He paced the perimeter of his apartment nervously waiting for when it was appropriate to leave for the gig when he got a genius stroke of an idea. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and propped it up on his night stand; camera facing towards him as he began to record himself.

"Kurt -- maybe you don't want to hear this but... I hope you listen." He said to the camera and then began to strum his guitar and sing.

He finished the song and looked into the camera for a quick moment before he shut it off. He sent the video to Kurt's cell before he could change his mind. He wasn't going to chicken out, not this time. He packed his guitar up in its case, threw on his jacket and left his apartment. Ready to get back to what he longed for, closer through music.