Blaine has been running through the same six songs for the past three hours. One bleeds into the next, and Kurt's now heard them enough times, he might have them just as well-memorized as Blaine does. If not better.

He'd be sick of it, but he likes Blaine's music. It's more Top 40 than he usually leans toward, but it's catchy and playful without pandering to the lowest common denominator. Whenever he hears changes in the lyrics over the days and weeks and months that Blaine has played original songs in the midst of Disney classics and an array of pop songs, he's proud for Blaine's progress in a way that he can't reasonably explain, especially considering he knows little else about the man.

He'd figured Blaine was a musician long ago, around the time he realized the absence of fresh melodies left the loft hollow and daunting. The questions of where Blaine goes and what he does, of who he is, recur frequently whenever the music has stopped. It's easy enough to forget they live in Columbus when he never leaves his apartment, and sometimes Kurt pictures himself back in New York, running into a smiling stranger on the street, and carrying on an easy conversation like there's a direct line from his brain to his mouth.

But there is no direct line; there's a circus of channels short-circuiting sentences that fizzle and pop into stutters as they reach his lips.

His life isn't in New York anymore. His life is here, in the cage keeping him safe and, he realizes now with startling clarity, keeping him lonely.

Blaine plays and Kurt tries to focus on drafting illustrations for Puck's story. It doesn't come easy; he feels too out of practice to produce the results that used to come naturally. Still, he puts his pencil to paper and hopes the tangle of lines will soon take shape.

It's not long before Kurt gets lost imagining himself somewhere else. This time, he's across the hall, curled up in an armchair most certainly chosen for comfort over aesthetic value, making art while Blaine makes music.

Sometimes fantasies grow strong enough to sidetrack his from his work, but they never last; always he circles back to the truth of his one and only meeting with the man from 3 West. Back to his racing pulse and unsteady breathing. To suffocating on social interaction. To the frustrated tears he choked back even in the privacy of solitude. To the recurring panic that rises when he imagines the reality of being alone with Blaine again. Of losing the interest that had sparkled in Blaine's eyes once he really gets to know Kurt.

Blaine's not very intimidating, Kurt knows. Well, he assumes, since it's hard to fear a gracious neighbor who is obsessed with Katy Perry and kind to small animals. But Kurt's mind has a way of warping even the simplest logic if he gives it the opportunity. With Blaine's voice the only thing keeping him company most days, it's been impossible not to build up an image of Blaine resting on a pedestal.

Blaine's cute. From what he can tell of their only interaction, Blaine is interested in men however he goes about labeling that interest. He's confident and energetic but soft-spoken. Blaine is nothing Kurt knows how to handle and it's frightening how badly Kurt wants to become an expert.

During the four months before they met, Kurt's mind was a lot nicer when it came to Blaine. Back when Blaine didn't have a name. He was an idea, an image to manipulate at will.

The day 3 West welcomed its new occupant, Kurt wasn't sure at first how many of the crowd that called his attention outside were there to help and how many were there to stay. He stood by the window watching the chatty group sleepily shuffle around one another, unloading box after box from their various cars, waking up as they went. In the grey of a rainy spring morning, joy of camaraderie lit up the block. Kurt's heart ached for that abandon.

In the center of it all, Kurt found himself tracking the movements of who he now knows was Blaine. Blaine with his unkempt hair, wearing a ragged old hoodie and thick-rimmed glasses, toting around one guitar on his back and another in his hand, stole all his attention. Without a second thought, Kurt had grabbed a nearby sketchbook – one of hundreds piled across his apartment – and flipped through for a blank page.

Fingers itching to create built leaden shrines to loose curls and smiling eyes.

Blaine's a performer, that's clear enough from the private shows played to Kurt's hidden audience, and Kurt could see his uncanny ability to pull focus from day one. He saw the way Blaine's motley crew assembled around him. He saw the relaxed posture of a man comfortable in his own skin, witnessed the reactions of others to his playful charm, and grew jealous of the carefree touches of his nomadic hands.

Self-possession is a born talent of Blaine's, as far as Kurt can tell. His fearlessness to be seen and heard is a far cry from Kurt's cowardice as a shut-in. It's a dark thought that comes too easily and too often, but dwelling on the differences between himself and Blaine leads Kurt down paths he's left purposely untrodden for years. He keeps the shadowy thoughts at bay by piling his plate high with responsibilities, even as it cracks under the pressure.

To the tune of Blaine's billionth rehearsal, Kurt finally loses himself in crafting his concepts on canvas with the aid of fresh notes from Puck and the fear his art director will hunt him down if he doesn't send in work sometime soon.

It's not exciting in the same way it was once. It feels like a job more than ever, more formal than shooting the shit with Puck, catching what lands, and calling it art. Of course, it was never that simple, but it felt that way, and now it doesn't.

At least it's not the same as New York, when he'd been alone in a city that swallowed him whole and drowned him in its belly. Puck is nearby now, as are Beth and Quinn. As is his dad.

It's been a long time since New York. Columbus moves a little slower, not that he sees much of it, and he almost misses the hustle and bustle sometimes. The constant option of stimulation, the museums, the theater, even just the multitude of 24-hour restaurants and corner stores. If not for the crowds necessitating such ease of access, New York would be Kurt's wonderland. But as with many things in Kurt's life, the fantasy far surpasses the reality.

He couldn't hack it in New York, and he's got no desire to try again just to fail again.

Still, he wonders.

Maybe he could have been someone different if life had been less unkind. Someone stronger. Or maybe it's always been his lot in life to be lonely. Maybe he holds on too tightly to the unpleasant things, to the feelings and memories that leave him quaking.

Maybe he's damaged and that's all he was ever meant to be.

He recognizes the signs of an oncoming wave of depression before it hits. There's not much he can do about it. It's crushing in its weight, the heaviness of all his sad moments coming together to ram down any happiness he's built up since the last bout. The thought of testing out therapy again crosses his mind, but his mind is also telling him he's no better than he's ever been, so what's the point if nothing has changed? It didn't work before. The last two years spent in virtual isolation is proof enough of that.

In part, at least, it's this story driving him mad. It's Kieron and his plucky can-do, if also a tad rough, attitude in the face of seemingly insurmountable adversity. He loses his wings, mourns their loss, and holds onto that feeling so he can fight to never feel it fresh. Kieron is resilient and yet Kurt sees himself in the character. Is that how Puck sees him or it is just how Kurt wants to see himself? Am I just reading too far into this?

There were times when Kurt could gather his strength and push past the blazing jolt of his heart slamming against his ribcage. Times when he wanted to be strong. He doesn't feel that urge so sharply anymore, doesn't wish in anything more than fleeting thoughts for his feet not to falter when the shadows say no. Life outside these walls is for those willing and able to face it. Kurt resents his lack of resilience, but that fiery hatred fueling his dark thoughts can't begin to compare to the comforting warmth of a controlled environment.

Puck can wait. At least, for a little while.

Kurt pushes himself back from the desk and leaves behind the pages of scribbles.

Humming along to music in his head, too far away to hear Blaine in the kitchen, Kurt throws all his focus into preparing lunch. Recipes, steps laid out is clear order, the uncomplicated calm of following directions helps bring the firestorm in his veins down to a simmer.

He eats, he cleans up, and he gets back to work. If staring at his own hands and fruitlessly willing them to move can be called work, that is.

This is what's meant to be his area of expertise and he feels like a novice. He's uninspired, beaten down by his own insecurities because what if he tries and it's no good? What if it's all been no good? If he tells Puck he can't do this, how soon will he have to face that he's replaceable? And what comes of the next project – will Puck even come to him first or bypass him altogether?

Creation, offering something beautiful to the world that he hides himself from is the only way he feels a part of it, sometimes. But does he want to be a part of it? The world that provokes an indefinable fear that closes him off, that cages him, drenches his skin and bones, and leaves him feeling sick with it. Because yes, he does. And he can't; just the thought turns him inside out.

It always happens so quickly, these spells of sadness. Of the overwhelming urge to lose himself in darkness again, to tear down his curtains and paint the windows black. To set fire to the half-drawn images that remind him he's a failure. To destroy all of his efforts at healing and hope that maybe he can start over again some other time. To give up. To give into his weaknesses, let them own him.

The fear of becoming weaker rivals his fear of being courageous.

He's stuck, and it's maddening to consider all the ways his life won't change if he's stays on this very clearly laid track. He wants to go to Beth's birthday parties, visit his dad, visit his mother and lay flowers by her grave, wants more than Puck's word that the bagels he brings are from the best shop in the neighborhood – wants to see for himself. He wants to go jogging, go shopping, go find out where Blaine takes his songs when he's not playing them for Kurt.

He wants more. And it's terrifying. So he busies himself with his boring crafts, with his regimented designs for jewelry and scarves and home décor, with toys and costumes and tiaras. He works until he's falling out of his chair, and then drags himself up and over to his bed, though he tosses and turns in a fitful sleep.

When he wakes in the morning, the sick feeling has passed, oozed back in to the nasty place it came from. Blaine is singing along to the radio, it sounds like, and Kurt borrows some of Blaine's cheeriness to combat the shadows still lurking.

Kurt doesn't want any more days like the one before. If he can't have the life he wants, he can at least try taking joy where he can find it in the life he has.