She wandered through the throng, examining the faces around her. Anyone looking particularly harassed, unfriendly, she moved closer. She uncurled her finger and trailed the tip of it lightly across the back of their hand as they moved past, a barely-there touch that wouldn’t be noticed on a New York street. The shiver of feeling that passed through her thrilled her, filling her up for those few brief seconds. The pain that came after was almost better, in her opinion. This was what it was to be alive: loving, losing, all within the space of a moment. She was connected to all these people, a web of human life. There was a network of unnamed, faceless people that she loved, perhaps spread across the world by now. She wanted to laugh at the thought. These people would never know. They never even noticed her.

The pain was addictive. She didn’t know when she had become dependent on the harsh snap of heartbreak, the rush that came from touching someone and the ache that followed when they were lost forever. She could cry herself to sleep every night, mourning all the lost friends and loves, and delight in the perfect tragedy of her life. She didn’t know when it started, but she knew now that she couldn’t stop. She thought of herself as a love junkie, but if she was honest, she was more of a pain, suffering and heartbreak junkie. She had never taken drugs – she didn’t need to. This was so much better.

A businessman rushed past her and she reached out a hand, running her fingertips along the back of his wrist. She shuddered. He was warmer than the last one, the sensation bubbling through her faster, more violently. This wasn’t a friend, this was a love. She adored those: they brought the best aftershock.

She climbed the steps out of the subway at a quick pace, her heart already cracking in two for the man with the briefcase stepping onto one of the trains, feet below her. She spotted two boys ahead of her, hands clasped together. Perfect. Two boys, totally unattainable in normal circumstances. She could have both of them and lose them just as quickly. Today was a good day.

She didn’t just take anyone. She wasn’t some cheap harlot of a faerie, connecting to everyone who walked the Earth. She preferred those who looked lonely, stressed, or just a little bit lost. She could see from the way their heads were tilted to the tops of the buildings that these boys were new to the city. She supposed that made them like her on some level, but she dispelled that thought quickly. They weren’t like her. Neither of them would ever understand. They probably thought keeping a faerie in captivity was an acceptable thing to do. They probably believed the Lust Theory. They had no idea the number of people she had connected with, had no idea the way her emotions were stretched across the country, the continents, who knew where.

They were new to the city. She needed to welcome them. She should give them something suitably ridiculous. Perhaps Wicked would ring a bell with them, add a little to their ideal view of New York. She ran up behind them, pulling their hands apart, tugging them towards the thrum with her. She released them, the buzz running from both palms, up her arms, across her body and right into her heart. She let it fill her as she sang a couple of lines. She threw her name in. Why not? These were good ones. These connections were strong, hot like fire, but not tainted with that air of lust she had had with The Businessman. She threw her arms out as she reached the climax of her small extract. This, this was her stage. She was an unknown performer giving the show of her life to two unwitting boys. She was feeling almost drunk on the love in her veins. She had thought these two would be fun to brush skin with; she had no idea they would be this potent a drug. There was something about the taller one, whose bright blue eyes she avoided – she had a rule about eye contact. His connection was unlike any other she had felt before. It wasn’t necessarily stronger, but it felt different, as if he wasn’t built the same way as the rest. She felt an odd sense of familiarity in the rush of emotions he gave her.

She couldn’t let herself think too much on it. Thinking made the drug wear off: she would be crying for reality, not for tragedy, if she let herself carry on. She span away from the pair, quickly losing herself in the crowd. She slipped her gloves out of her pocket, garish as her striped coat: she’d had her fill for today.

She almost looked back.

Later on, she would wish she had. She would see the face of the broken boy she left behind. Perhaps she would have recognised something there; perhaps she would have seen a similar being. She may have realised that this boy knew exactly what she was feeling. He understood more than anyone she had ever met and all she had done was hold his hand.

But she didn’t look back. She kept her gaze fixed steadily ahead of her, using her tiny shoulders to push through the people. Rachel Berry never looked back, because Rachel Berry was afraid of love.