Kurt lounges in front of the TV, engrossed in a Project Runway marathon. He looks so at ease, lying back on my cousins couch, and I have to wonder how many times I brought him here in the past. What did we do together, when we were here? Did we pretend that Robs apartment was our own home? The idea is strangely appealing. I let myself imagine the two of us sharing intimate candle-lit dinners together. Are they memories, I wonder, or just daydreams? How can I even tell the difference?

Im sitting at the other end of the living room, methodically going through the pile of salvaged treasures that I took from my parents house. The photographs are easiest to start with, but somehow theyre also the most confusing. Kurt shows up in many of them, and the Warblers, of course, but there are also a ton of faces I just dont know. A tall Asian boy appears often, as does an Asian girl with long hair. (His sister? Oh, never mind, heres one of them kissing...) There are a few shots of girls in cheerleading uniforms, an intense-looking girl with straight brown hair, a bespectacled kid in a wheelchair, a black girl making dramatic poses with Kurt... I dont recognize any of these people. But they clearly meant something to me once, if I tacked their pictures up on my bulletin board.

With a sigh, I move past the photos, and open the Dalton Academy Annual from junior year. Its clear right away why my parents chose to hide it from me; on the third page is a huge picture of Kurt and me sitting on a picnic blanket on the east lawn. He appears to be talking animatedly, and Im gazing at him with the sappiest, most embarrassingly love-struck expression on my face.

Its easy to see why, though. Hes mesmerizing. His eyes are alight with humor, his lips full and pink, his long pale neck just begging to be kissed as I push him further down into the couch–

"Is something wrong?"

Oh. At some point I seem to have stopped staring at the picture, and started staring at Kurt in the flesh. Hes cocking his head at me curiously, and I can feel a blush spreading across my cheeks.

"No, no, everythings fine," I mumble, turning the page quickly and pretending to study a collage of speech and debate candids. Kurt settles back to watch the TV again, though I can tell he keeps glancing my way curiously.

Further into the yearbook, there are the usual full-page pictures and profiles of each graduating senior. I read the goodbye messages from my senior friends with misty eyes; Wes always did have a lovely way with words. The notes from my fellow underclassmen, though, are far less moving – they seem to be waging a battle to see who can make the most inappropriate comments about my relationship with Kurt.

Shaking my head, I flip to the H section, melting when I catch sight of Kurts photo. Hes gorgeous in the Dalton blazer, the dark fabric making his skin look even more luminescent than usual. Not even the graffiti at the bottom that I recognize as Jeffs handwriting ("I said what what, in the butt") can mar the beauty of the picture.

Im nearly finished looking at the yearbook when Kurt stands and stretches. His shirt rides up a little, and I cant help staring at the pale sliver of skin thats exposed.

"Im getting hungry," he says. "You want anything from the kitchen?"

My stomach rumbles in response, and we both smile shyly. "Is there even food here, though?" I wonder aloud.

"Sure. We always kept a bunch of non-perishables in the pantry and freezer, plus Rob restocks when hes in town. I should be able to pull something together." He disappears into the kitchen, and the faint sound of cabinets opening and pots clattering reaches my ears. The moment feels homey and intimate and only a little terrifying.

After the yearbook comes a playbill from a William McKinley High School performance of West Side Story. I skim the cast list and find, to my surprise, that I was not only in the musical, but had the lead role. Kurt apparently played Officer Krupke – I bet he looked hot in the uniform. I peruse the rest of the names, but none of them seem familiar.

Finally nothing is left in the stack but my old journal. I pick it up gingerly. It must hold so many answers, but for some reason Im afraid to open it. What if it exposes even more lies? What if everything that Kurt and my parents admitted to me today wasnt everything after all?

A tantalizing smell is wafting through the air, and I put the journal aside, grateful for the distraction. Kurt is in the midst of setting the table in the kitchen. I lean against the door frame, watching him carefully line up the silverware before folding a couple of cloth napkins into intricate fan shapes. I wonder why hes going to so much trouble.

He stops suddenly, looking up at me and blinking. "Oh, I... I just assumed youd want to sit in here with me. But I can put yours on a tray if youd rather take it into–"

"This is fine," I assure him, grabbing a couple of glasses from the cabinet. "What would you like to drink?"

"Water, please."

I fill two glasses with ice cubes and tap water, then join him at the table. He sets down two plates of food, and I peer at mine curiously. It looks like a combination of roasted vegetables and tuna fish, and smells divine.

"Its your favorite," he tells me, taking a seat. I slip into the chair across from him. "You always said it reminded you of a dish your grandmother used to make."

I taste it tentatively, and while its quite good, I cant say it reminds me of my grandma. Then I get a hint of a familiar flavor. "Because of the coriander?"

"Because of the coriander," he nods.

We eat quietly. The air around us feels thick, heavy with tension. I cant seem to come up with any small talk to break the silence. Emily Post would be appalled at my rudeness – but then Im not sure Emily Post ever had this particular scenario come up. What are you supposed to say to an utter stranger who knows you so completely?

Kurt glances up at me halfway through the meal, hesitating briefly before asking, "Your parents told you the truth?"

I swallow a bite of tuna. "Yeah."

"Howd that go?"

I shrug. It went terribly, of course, but I dont feel comfortable admitting that.

"At least its out now," he says.

I move some broccoli on my plate, suddenly not hungry anymore. "I guess."

"You guess?"

"Its just that... I dont know. I have more questions than ever now. Some things dont make any sense."

"Like what?"

"Like you and me." I lay my fork down. "We dated for a long time. I assume we loved each other?"

Kurt nods, his eyes wide.

"And we even exchanged custom-made promise rings," I finish. "Ones that said Yours always. That implies a pretty deep level of commitment between us. So after all of the promises and all of the plans we made together... how could you just abandon me like that?"

He flinches slightly, looking hurt. "I told you. Your dad said I couldnt see you."

"No, I get that. I do. But–" I let out a low noise of frustration. "You had to have thought that my parents were doing the wrong thing by keeping us apart. So whyd you go along with it?"

"What was I supposed to do, kidnap you?" he asks, folding his arms defensively. "Storm into the hospital and drag you to my house? My family nearly went bankrupt from my own bills; how could we have paid yours too?"

"Im not saying that. But you could have at least come to the hospital and told me the truth."

"You were in a coma for months. Your parents never updated any of us on your recovery. By the time we found out youd woken up, you were already back at home."

"Then you could have come to the house and–"

"And said what, exactly? Hi, I know you dont remember me, but we planned to spend the rest of our lives together? Your parents would have made you choose between us, Blaine, and you would have chosen them over a complete stranger. You know you would have."

I shake my head stubbornly. "But–"

"What should I have done?" he asks shrilly. "What would you want me to have done?"

"Something!" I burst out. "Anything! Not just sit around sipping coffee at the Lima Bean every day on the off chance that Ill show up–"

"Oh, yeah, because my lifes been a goddamn piece of cake this past year, Blaine. Yeah, I just put off going to college and went to work in the auto shop for kicks. Because it seemed like a fun thing to do. Not because I was holding out desperate hope that your memory would finally come back or anything–"

"Why is it all on me?" Im shouting now, my fingers braced against the edge of the table. "Im the one with the broken head. How about you put in a little effort?"

"What the hell should–"

"You should have fought for me!"

"He said I couldnt see–"

"Thats bullshit and we both know it," I say furiously. "Im tired of the lies. Tell me the real reason."

Were both breathing hard, staring at each other. His mouth remains resolutely closed.

Finally I spring up from the table, gathering my stack of mementos and storming off to the guest room. I dump them on the desk before slamming the door shut and kicking it for good measure. I stop to collect myself, squeezing my eyes shut and forcing myself to breathe deeply.

Its only once I turn around that I realize this isnt the guest room anymore. From the looks of things, it stopped being the guest room some time ago.

The oak twin bed is gone, replaced with a metal queen-sized bed covered with a down comforter. The walls have been painted a robins egg shade of blue, and instead of the old Mondrian prints on the wall, there are several framed black-and-white photographs of me and Kurt. I spin around slowly, taking it all in.

The new furniture that isnt Robs taste.

The two matching nightstands on either side of the bed.

The lighted vanity with bottles of my favorite hair gel and an unfamiliar brand of hairspray sitting side by side.

This was our room. Rob gave me and Kurt our own room here.

The anger drains from me slowly, until I sink down onto the bed, cradling my head in my hands. I can hear the faint sound of dishes clinking, and realize Kurt is cleaning up the remnants of our dinner. Feeling guilty, I open the door and shuffle down the hall toward the kitchen.

Hes loading the rinsed glasses into the dishwasher, but he straightens up when he senses my presence.

"Hi," I murmur.

"Hi."

"Look, I–"

I break off as his cell phone starts to ring. He holds up a finger, pulling it out of his pocket. "One second, its probably just my–" He blinks, looking at the display. "Its you."

"Me?" He turns the phone to show me. Blaine Anderson is on the screen, with my cell phone number underneath. "Im not calling you," I tell him stupidly; obviously Im not calling. I dont even have my phone with me. I left it back at my parents house when I–

Oh.

"Dont answer it," I yelp, just as he holds the cell up to his ear.

"Hello?" he says, then pauses. "Hi, Mr. Anderson... You guessed right, Im the Caffeine Fiend on his contact list... Yes sir, hes here with me now." Hes rubbing his elbow absently as he talks, and I cant quite figure out whats happening. Shouldnt he and my father be screaming at each other right about now? Why are they being so cordial? "I can ask, but Im not sure he wants to talk to–" I shake my head quickly, and he nods. "Yes, Im sorry, Mr. Anderson, hes not up for a conversation right now. But hes fine. I promise." He listens for several seconds, then sighs. "Youre welcome. Have a good night."

I stare at him as he ends the call. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Are you friends with them now?"

He sets the phone on the counter. "You dont know what it was like, Blaine, after the attack. Seeing you lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to all those machines. We almost lost you."

"What does that have to do with–"

"Your parents have endured enough. They shouldnt have to spend tonight worrying that youre lying dead in a ditch somewhere." He pauses and sighs. "I dont like what they did to you – to both of us. But it would be cruel to let them worry." He turns and finishes loading the dishwasher, as I shake my head.

Every time I think Im starting to understand who Kurt Hummel is, he throws me another curveball.

"Kurt?" I murmur, and he turns around again. "Look, I... Im sorry about the things I said to you before."

"No youre not." Hes quiet as he leans back against the counter. "But thats okay."

"I am," I insist weakly.

"Youre allowed to be angry, Blaine. You got beaten within an inch of your life, and you lost over a year of your memory, and everyone you love has been lying to you about it. Thats a lot for you to process."

"Okay, fine, Im still angry. But Im also sorry for some of the things I said." I lean against the door frame miserably. "I was trying to hurt you."

He smiles mirthlessly at the floor. "Its okay. I deserve it."

I want to argue with him again, but Im too exhausted. Between driving in a blizzard twice, confronting my parents, and fighting with Kurt, its been an emotional roller coaster of a day. "I think Im just going to head to bed."

"Its still snowing pretty hard out there," he says. "Is it okay if–"

"Of course you should stay here. Stay as long as you want."

"Thanks. Ill take the couch."

"Dont be silly, I–"

"I actually prefer the couch."

"No, I can sleep in Robs room, and you–"

"Im not trying to be noble," he interrupts. "Ever since the attack, Ive had trouble sleeping, and for some reason Im only able to sleep when Im lying on a couch." I must still look unsure, because he adds, "Really. You should sleep in our room."

A strange feeling warms my chest when he says our room, and its with some difficulty that I nod in acceptance. He turns to put the little canisters of spices back in the cabinet when a thought occurs to me. "Youll be here when I wake up, right?"

His hand stills, but he doesnt turn around. "Do you want me to be?"

"Yes."

Theres a long pause, and I hold my breath. "Okay," he says finally.

"Thank you," I whisper.

I get ready for bed, using the guest bathroom and pausing when I hear the telltale sounds of Kurt turning on the shower in the master bathroom. There are spare sets of pajamas in the dresser, and I pull on a familiar pair. Then I grab a silky royal blue set that are decidedly not my style, and lay them out on the couch for Kurt before returning to the bedroom.

My journal is still on the desk. I lie in bed, staring across the room at it, conflicted. The temptation is there, certainly. It would hold so many answers. But the thing is... that journal holds answers to another Blaines life. Not mine. Why should I read a Cliffs Notes version of my forgotten year? It still wont have happened to me. It happened to that other Blaine – the one with the devoted boyfriend, and the courage to transfer to public school, and the row of dried roses in his closet.

I settle under the comforter uneasily, turning off the light and closing my eyes.

Sleep wont come.

The bed is wonderfully soft, the pillows plump and downy just like I like them, but I cant seem to fall asleep. I toss and turn for a long time, before deciding to get a glass of water from the kitchen.

The living room is dark, so I tiptoe down the hall, trying not to wake Kurt. A glance at the digital clock on the microwave tells me that its been almost two hours since I got into bed. Insomnia has been one of the lasting side effects of my head trauma. I fill a glass with water from the tap, draining it in a big gulp. A faint rustling sound comes from the living room, and I set my glass in the sink quietly before creeping over to peek in on Kurt. My brow furrows in confusion when I see him.

Hes dressed in the pajamas I set out, with his back pressed up against the back of the couch. Id expected him to be covered in the thick throw that Rob keeps folded on the side, but hes done something weird with the blanket instead – twisted it into a tight roll and wrapped it around his waist. Hes shivering in his sleep, and I pad over to the linen closet to pull out a spare quilt. Kurt murmurs a little in his sleep when I drape it over him, but then he grows quiet.

I tiptoe back into the bedroom without turning on any lights. I misjudge the distance, though, and my hip bumps into the desk, knocking several items onto the floor. Freezing, I listen for any signs that Kurt has awoken, but its just as silent. I shut the door softly before turning on the light and picking up the fallen items.

My journal is lying open, and as I reach for it, a passage jumps out at me:

Ever since our first night together, I cant sleep properly when Kurts not in bed with me. My arms feels empty when they arent holding him.

I look up, startled, thinking of the blanket roll wrapped around Kurts waist, his spine pressed up against the couch back. Is that why he needs to sleep on a couch now – because it makes him feel like Im spooning him?

Sighing pensively, I set the journal back on the desk before getting into bed. A flick of the switch restores the room to darkness.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my mind is jumbled with thoughts of Kurt. Its only when I grab the spare pillow, holding it tight against my chest, that I can finally drift off to sleep.