Kurt drops down onto the couch across from me, his shoulders sagging, head hanging. When he finally looks up, Im surprised that its not shame or guilt I see in his expression; its relief. Like hes been waiting for this moment forever. "Im sorry. I should have told you," he says. "That first day in the coffee shop, I shouldve told you."

"Yeah. You really should have."

"I wanted to. I just wasnt sure how youd react."

The ache of betrayal isnt easing. If anything, its growing. These past few days that Ive spent pining over him, daydreaming about him, finally feeling him in my arms and tasting him on my lips... its all meant nothing to him. "You made me think I was special."

"You are special," he says at once, reaching out for my hand. I pull it back, and he looks as though Ive slapped him.

"Im not interested in being with someone whos still living in the past," I tell him. "I dont want to be a stand-in."

"Im not living in the past."

"Arent you?" I wave the photograph in its frame. "Who do you want to date, Kurt, me or him?"

He shakes his head. "Im not following."

"You mean to tell me its a coincidence that me and your dead boyfriend look–"

"My what?"

"I get it. I do. It was traumatic, and awful, and he was the great love of your life. But Im not him. And its not fair to string me along just because I remind you of him."

He looks at the photo again, then back to me, realization dawning in his eyes. "Blaine... I never said my boyfriend died."

"Yes you did."

"No, I didnt."

"You did too, you said you–" My eyes close briefly. Oh. "You said you lost him."

"You thought–" He gapes at me. "What are... what do you think that picture shows, exactly?"

I swallow past the lump in my throat. "You. Happy."

"Happy with...?"

"Some guy with my coloring and an unfortunate sense of style," I shoot back. He reacts the one way I dont expect; he throws back his head and laughs loudly, sounding delighted. "Im serious," I insist. "Does he not understand that there are solid colored fabrics out there, that he doesnt need to combine plaid with checks and stripes and polka dots all in the same outfit?"

Kurt just laughs louder, his eyes scrunched closed tightly, one palm pressed hard against his chest. Its making me even angrier that hes not seeing my point. Kurt lives for fashion. How could this travesty of a boyfriend – whos apparently still out there somewhere – have made him as ecstatically happy as he looks in the photograph?

"And he must be color-blind," I add savagely. "Because really, neon orange and flamingo pink should not–"

"Its you," he gasps, wiping away tears of hilarity.

"What?"

"Its you, Blaine, its you."

I stare at him dumbly. "Whats me?"

"The photo, you idiot. Its you and me."

His tears are leaking out too fast, now, and the hand against his heart seems to be clutching at something. He draws a series of shuddering breaths, wiping his cheeks with the back of one hand.

And he waits.

And I stare at him blankly.

"Kurt... Im not sure what you..."

He sniffles daintily, then stands and extends a hand. "Just... come with me. I want to show you something." When I dont take his hand, he drops his arm down with a sigh. "Please. I promise things will make more sense when you see it."

He turns and starts to walk away, swiveling his head back to raise one eyebrow at me. Im standing before I realize it, trailing after him like a fool. Why does he hold this power over me? Whats stopping me from turning, running out the door, and just forgetting I ever met this guy?

I follow him down the hallway, past a couple of closed doors and into a small bedroom. Most of the space in here is taken up by a big wooden bed, with crisp white sheets and a red coverlet. It smells like Kurts cologne in here, and fresh linens, and I cant take my eyes off the bed, picturing the two of us in it, defiling the clean sheets with–

"Blaine?"

I finally look at Kurt, whos got one hand raised, gesturing to the wall behind him.

The wall that is absolutely covered with pictures of me and Kurt.

I step toward it, my mouth falling open as I absorb the full magnitude of what Im seeing. Photo after photo of us smiling together, singing together, even dancing together.

"What is this?" Theres a sudden rush of anger surging through my veins. "Kurt, what the hell is this?"

"This is the sixteen months you lost," he replies quietly.

"No."

"You said it yourself, honey. You had a boyfriend before the attack. Before our attack."

I can feel the blood draining from my face. "Our–" He nods, and I look at his scars again, finally noticing how theyve healed just about as much as mine have. "Youre lying."

"I know you dont believe that."

"Yes I do." Im feeling dizzy. "You Photoshopped all those pictures."

"I understand," he says calmly. "Its a lot to take in."

Theres no way. Theres no way hes telling the truth. My parents wouldnt have kept something like this from me. I cant stop looking at the stupid faked photos, with our big dumb smiles and my ugly clothes and our matching promise rings–

I turn away, breathing erratically and steadying myself on his dresser. Theres another framed photograph on top of it, with the two of us in matching tuxes. Kurt is smiling even wider than he did in the living room picture, as he pins a rose boutonnière onto my lapel–

I have to get out of here.

Stumbling out into the hall, I wrap one arm across my stomach, willing myself not to vomit.

"I know youve remembered things," he says behind me. "Things about me and you."

"I have not."

"What did you see when you looked at my bed, then?"

I turn back toward it involuntarily, and the vision is back, of our bodies twisting and writhing against each other beneath the sheets. "Theyre just spells, theyre not real."

"When have you ever heard the word spells used outside of a Jane Austen novel?" he demands. "Your dad is a psychiatrist. If you were hallucinating, hed call it that. But he wont, because he knows whats really going on. Theyre not spells, Blaine, theyre memories."

"They couldnt be. Theyre too insane to be real."

"Try me."

"Did you and I spray foam all over a bunch of prep school girls?"

"Yes."

I roll my eyes. "Come on, we did not."

"We really did."

"In some huge empty warehouse? How would we even get a foam machine? And how would we get it up on a scaffolding?"

"The Warblers Senior Council arranged it."

"Fine, then, did I perform a bunch of songs in an outdoor amphitheater with instrumentalists spontaneously joining in and a purple piano bursting into flames behind me?"

"Yup."

"Youre just saying yes to anything I say." I throw my hands up in frustration. "Did you and I ride across rainbows on the back of a unicorn? Because I saw that, too."

He sighs. "Yeah. That was on one of the old campaign posters Brittany made for me." He leans back into the bedroom, opening his bottom dresser drawer and pulling out a large sheet of cardstock. "One of the few I kept."

I take it from him and stare at it dumbly. Its a pink poster, with "Taste the Rainbow!" in bubbly letters on the top, and "Kurt 4 Prez!" at the bottom. In the middle is a picture of the two of us, riding a pink unicorn together and eating Skittles.

"She only made one print of this particular design," he says. "You always tried to take it from me whenever you came over. Id been planning to give you a copy for your birthday, so that you could pin it up on the ceiling of your closet." At my startled look, he explains, "You said you wanted to lie on your shelf and either look up at the poster, or over to the wall, at the rose boutonnières I gave you. That way, no matter where you turned, Id be there with you."

"How do you know about my shelf?" I ask him hoarsely. "How do you know about the roses?" Kurt doesnt answer. He just watches me with that same expression, a mixture of pity and longing. "Even my parents dont know theyre up there."

"Thats why we put them on the inside wall. So they wouldnt be able to see them."

"I dont understand."

"Yes, you do. You just need some time to process, thats all." He takes the poster back, and its with difficulty that I relinquish it. The idea of lying on my shelf and gazing up at it really does seem appealing. "Its a lot to take in all at once."

My head falls back against the wall with a thud. "I live in Westerville. Thats nowhere near Lima."

"I know."

"You and I met by chance, at a random coffee shop."

"It wasnt random, Blaine. We went to the Lima Bean together almost every day." He squints at me. "What do you think made you drive all the way there, anyway?"

"I was..." looking for something, I dont say. But he nods as though I spoke the words aloud. "But Westerville and Lima are over an hour apart. How would you and I have even met?"

He leans against the doorframe, one hand running along the grain of the wood. "I was in the glee club at McKinley, and we were up against the Warblers for Sectionals. So the other kids sent me to Dalton to spy on you." He smiles a little wistfully, and I have an urge to climb into his mind so I can see what hes seeing. "The Warblers caught on right away, but you were all really nice about it. And you and I became friends. I transferred to Dalton after the bullying got too bad, and after a while we started dating."

"Then what?" I ask, dubious and curious.

"I ended up going back to McKinley, and you transferred there for our senior year. Because you said you couldnt stand to be apart from me." I can hear the echo of my fathers voice, saying You were in love. My knees feel unsteady.

"This doesnt make any sense," I protest weakly. "My parents wouldnt have lied to me all this time. They love me."

"They do love you. But they also lied to you."

"They wouldnt."

"They did." Kurts eyes are blazing. "You think I would have just abandoned you? After everything wed been through together, all the plans wed made for our future together? They wouldnt let me near you, Blaine. They wouldnt even let your Dalton friends near you. They told us you didnt remember us, and that they were going to keep it that way."

"I dont even know you!" I burst out. "This is insane. I have no reason to believe you." His fingers are stroking the chain around his neck again. I think about the ring dangling from the end of it. I think about promises. "I need to get out of here."

He looks up, alarmed. "Theres a snowstorm outside."

"I dont care. I cant stay here with you."

"Then let me leave. You can wait inside until it lets up and the snowplows come through."

I ignore him, striding down the hallway and into the kitchen, grabbing my coat off the hook.

"I dont want you driving in this," he says, hurrying after me. "Its too dangerous."

"You dont get a say."

"Blaine, please."

Not looking back, I open the front door and slam it behind me. The snow is almost up to my knees as I march out to my car. I start the engine and pull out onto the road, trying to remember how we got here. Eventually I find my way back to the highway and head toward home, my head spinning.

It doesnt make any sense.

But at the same time, it would explain so much. My strong connection to Kurt. Our matching, fading scars. The missing Dalton yearbook from junior year, that would have had pictures of Kurt in it. My strange, persistent visions. The absence of my old Dalton friends. The damned roses.

I drive and drive, the thick snowfall making it hard to see very far ahead of me. Sometimes the road gets slick, and my cars tires begin to drift. I clench my jaw tight, lowering my speed a bit. When my house finally comes into view, I let out a sigh of relief. Both of my parents cars are in the driveway, so I pull in behind them, parking and pulling the hand brake.

I can do this. Ive known them my whole life. Weve always been able to talk about anything. Ill just go in, tell them whats been going on, and theyll explain that its all just a big misunderstanding.

The cold air bites at my cheeks as I climb out of the car. Snowflakes drift down to stick to my eyelashes, and I blink hard to clear them. When theyre gone, my vision adjusts and I notice a car idling at the curb, just beyond our driveway. I close my car door, hitting the automatic lock.

I should be angry.

But I cant even say what it is that Im feeling right now.

I trudge over to his car slowly, and Kurt rolls down the passenger side window. He looks miserable.

"I wanted to make sure you got here okay," he says. "I couldnt bear to worry about you more than I already do." He slides his fingertips along the steering wheel. "Ill go now."

I nod, torn, and he pulls away from the curb. My heart twists as I watch him go.