Dear Kurt,
That’s nice. Cooper was in town. He dragged me to a bar. Some guy tried to kiss me.
`Blaine
He doesn’t talk about the fact that it felt all wrong. That the guy tasted like Vodka and not Mocha and Wrigley’s gum. He doesn’t talk about how he’d always assumed coffee and gum would taste bad together. He doesn’t say that in fact they taste amazing. They taste like what he imagines Heaven would taste like if he could taste it. He couldn’t say that.

Dear Blaine,
Santana took me out last night. I suddenly remember why I don’t drink. Like. At all.
-Kurt
Kurt doesn’t mention that the whole time he’s throwing up he’s wishing it was Blaine there petting his back and not Rachel. He doesn’t say that the only reason he got so drunk is that he suddenly remembered with frightening clarity the way Blaine said Kurt’s name. He doesn’t say that he was lucky Santana dragged him home when she did. He can’t say how dangerously close he’d been to going home with the guy whose hand had been inching itself up his thigh all night. He couldn’t say that.