Well, you really screwed up this time, Kurt.

Hopelessness settles heavy in Kurt’s heart as he watches the hands of the clock on the wall slide from 7:48, to 7:49, to 7:50. Another morning, and still no sign of Blaine.

It’s been three days since Kurt held a pen in his shaking hand and carefully wrote out his name and phone number on the side of a paper coffee cup. Three days since he took a leap of courage, expecting to land safely in the arms of a handsome, dark-haired man with exquisite taste in outerwear. But instead he’d fallen flat on his ass, alone.

***

Worry lines had creased Kurt’s forehead the first day Blaine was late for his daily medium drip. “Blaine never showed up this morning,” he murmured to Kasie, the only other barista he’d struck up a friendship with so far at his new job.

“You mean omgthefuckinghottestguyihaveeverseen?” she teased.

“He always comes in at 7:48,” Kurt said, too anxious to acknowledge her good-natured poke at his schoolboy crush. “It’s like...our thing.”

Kasie shrugged in response, bouncing between orders as if she was on a permanent caffeine buzz from inhaling the sweet scent of lattes eight hours a day. “I don’t know, Kurt. Maybe he got hit by a bus or something.”

Kurt shot a wide-eyed glance her way. “Not helping!” he yelped.

“Sorry!”

Kurt checked his phone no less than a dozen times that day for news reports of fatal pedestrian bus accidents in Hell’s Kitchen.

On the second day, Kurt’s nostrils flared with annoyance as he denounced Blaine’s name in between macchiatos and white mochas. “I gave him a fucking free coffee. The least he could do is call and say, ‘Gee, thanks, let me buy you dinner for being so kind and thoughtful.’” And maybe we can fuck afterwards because we’re both clearly attracted to one another. “I mean, what was I, his morning flirting practice? Oh, god. He was flirting, wasn’t he? What if he’s not even gay?”

“Oh, he’s definitely gay,” Kasie assured him, chuckling lightly. “His whole freaking face lit up when he saw you every morning. And he looked like he wanted to jump over the counter and devour your neck that one time.”

“Ugh. What the hell? I bet he thinks he’s too good to date a barista.”

Kasie held up a finger to silence Kurt’s grumbles. “Hey – we are not baristas, remember? We’re–”

“I know, I know.” Kurt sighed. “We’re actors filling our abundant free time with an income-boosting social activity.”

Kasie smiled and nodded, reaching out to rub his shoulder affectionately. “Don’t blame yourself, Kurt. It has nothing to do with you. I promise.”

“Yeah,” Kurt muttered weakly, entirely unconvinced.

***

Kurt’s used to rejection. Eight years of trying out for plays and musicals and concerts have bulked up the thick skin that high school bullies helped him paint on in layers. He’s learned that landing stage roles is a matter of unchangeable, hard and fast characteristics: Is your voice in the right range? Do you look too young, or too old? Do you fit the abstract, dream-like vision the director has held in his head for weeks, months, years?

His logic allows him to be rational when he doesn’t get callbacks, or when his only paychecks for months on end come from whipping up espressos for the nine-to-five crowd. It’s the only way he’s been able to hold on to his dreams of an acting career, while watching others around him slowly let theirs slip away under the weight of disappointment and self-doubt.

But his personal life isn’t nearly as cut and dry. He can’t go into relationships the way he does auditions: like a battle, with the heavy shield of a character protecting his heart. He can only be Kurt.

Life’s harsher that way. Life leaves him reeling when the people he’s opened himself up to spear him in his most vulnerable spots. Life leaves him wondering why he feels like a round peg in a world full of square holes.

He’s still stumbling his way out of a sudden whirlwind of change that swooped in on New Year’s – just three short weeks ago – and swallowed him whole.

“This year is all about new experiences,” he’d declared as he, Finn and Rachel clinked champagne flutes at midnight, in time with confetti and cheers on their tiny television.

His resolution, tinged with hope and optimism, proved prophetic: minutes later, Kurt would learn that Rachel’s glass was full of sparkling cider instead of Moët.

“We’re going to need your bedroom for the nursery…”

Kurt knew the day would come when Finn and Rachel would want the apartment to themselves. He just never expected the announcement to be delivered via stork.

That week, he’d found a new apartment, a new job; he’d packed up all his belongings – an astounding collection of clothes and shoes, mostly – and moved himself out of the place he’d called home for the past eight years. He hadn’t lost his two closest friends, of course, but he wasn’t fool enough to think things would ever be the same again.

Now he was alone – torn out by the roots from the only consistent support network he’d had since he came to New York as a bright-eyed eighteen year old. He was a little wilted, but still alive, searching for a ray of light to help him thrive.

Blaine had been the first burst of sun to shine on his new world. Kurt’s sure he saw his own interest reflected back in Blaine’s bashful smile and warm, eager eyes, always tinged with a hint of nerves. Which was the only reason he’d drummed up all his courage and put himself out there for the taking – or breaking.

As had become customary with Kurt’s personal relationships, his great risk came not with great reward, but with complete and utter despair. He’d invited Blaine in, only to receive another painful lance to the spindly shoots he was trying to sprout.

Oh well, Kurt thinks glumly as he slogs through another mindless morning of work. There’s other things he can look forward to, like his audition next week. Victor/Victoria, the Broadway revival. A role he was dying to play.

There had to be more sunshine out there. Maybe it was just blocked by clouds now, hidden from view, waiting for him to find it.

***

On the evenings he’s not catering to the whims of the caffeine addicted, Kurt wanders his new neighborhood, tasting bagels and cheeses or perusing the aisles of shops and stores in his search to belong. He floats among the throngs, an anonymous face in a sea of people seemingly more fulfilled than him.

Tonight, his iPhone leads him to a charming bookstore with paperbacks stacked in neat rows from floor to ceiling. He wants that part – he can get that part, he knows it. He just needs a little inspiration.

Kurt skips over the theatre books at first, instead idling by the travel section. His fingertips skim over smooth book spines before settling on a photo guide to Paris. He’s still never been to the City of Light; the closest he ever got was an ultimately futile attempt to persuade his father to let him study abroad for a semester in college.

Kurt forgets about rejection from best friends and casting directors and cute guys in coffee shops, and lets himself get lost in a faraway fantasy. Maybe I’ll move to Paris, he thinks as he flips through pictures of the Eiffel Tower, of Notre Dame, of the Champs-Élysées. Maybe that’s where he’s meant to be. Maybe in Paris he’d land leading roles, or meet men who actually called him when he gifted them his number. 

Just like you thought you’d find in New York, he reminds himself with a scowl. Sighing quietly, he slides the book back into its slot on the shelf. Twenty-four ninety-five was too high a price to pay for something that would only make his heart long for possibilities he should be looking for in the place he’s already standing – not to mention for someone whose rent just increased by a thousand dollars a month.

As Kurt makes his way to the section of plays and monologues, a tiny chill creeps along the back of his neck as the unmistakable feeling of being watched invades his consciousness. He snaps his head back to glare behind his shoulder, but everyone he sees is engrossed in books or conversation, oblivious to his existence.

When he faces forward again, his eyes catch a short, dark-headed man stepping out into the night. The man’s expensive black overcoat and thick, shiny hair, gelled and styled into submission, bear an uncanny resemblance to Kurt’s memories of Blaine’s retreating figure.

Jesus, would you stop thinking about him? Kurt rolls his eyes, admonishing himself for hanging on to threads when the brilliant tapestry of New York lay at his feet. Move on, already.

Kurt strolls home in the frosty darkness, clutching his new book of monologues to his chest as he watches his breath come out in thick, golden clouds under the harsh streetlights. He climbs long flights of stairs to his fifth floor apartment – god, he’s already dreading the heat of summer living in a walkup – and commences his nightly skincare routine, the long-practiced ritual now startlingly lonesome without his perky best friend fighting him for space at the sink.

He’s leafing through the pages of his book, letting the drowsy hum of traffic and red wine slowly lull him to sleep, when his phone chirps happily on the nightstand beside him. He jolts upright in bed at the sudden, piercing sound that slices through the peaceful stillness of his apartment.

Kurt puffs out a quick, calming breath, willing his pulse to stop pattering in his throat. But it only pounds harder when he reads the cryptic text message he’s received from a number he doesn’t recognize.

9175558474 (7:48pm): Are you planning a trip to Paris?

Me (7:50pm): What?
(7:51pm): Who’s this?

9175558474 (7:53pm): Paris is beautiful. Just like you
(7:55pm): You remind me of Paris. Your grace, and the way your eyes sparkle
(7:56pm): You would look perfect there. Although I hope you stay here in New York

Me (7:57pm): Forgive me for being bitchy like Paris too, but could you please tell me who the hell this is?

9175558474 (7:59pm): It’s Blaine. From the coffee shop

Blaine. Ohmygod. Way to go, Kurt, he thinks, cursing his own stupidity. But how does he know about...oh! Kurt startles again, this time at the memory of the anonymous, yet familiar man at the bookstore.

Me (8:00pm): Oh, Blaine! Hi! Sorry about that.
(8:01pm): So that *was* you at the bookstore tonight :)

Blaine (8:03pm): I guess you caught me this time

You caught me this time. Kurt shudders as Blaine’s words crawl up his spine. Had there been other times Kurt hadn’t noticed him lurking in the shadows?

Great. First he snubs me, and now he’s stalking me?

Kurt’s gaze shoots up to the black, rectangular void of his bare windows. Without thinking, he gets up and quickly shutters the blinds, double checking the bolt on his door before curling back under the safety of his blankets. No one’s here, he assures himself, even as goosebumps linger over his skin.

He turns back to his phone, keeping his tone light, like the pretty green and white bubbles encapsulating their back-and-forth messages. 

Me (8:06pm): How come you didn’t say hi? I’ve missed talking to you. My mornings are so lonely now

Blaine (8:09pm): I’m sorry. I can’t go there anymore
(8:10pm): I have a hard time staying in control when I’m around you

Me (8:11pm): No one said you have to stay in control around me, Blaine. If you know what I mean...

Blaine (8:12pm): You don’t understand

Oh. The realization – Blaine’s not out – smacks Kurt across the face, swift and painful. His mind suddenly floods with memories of vicious slurs and dirty catcalls as he walked past rows of lockers in his backwards hometown high school. Kurt’s pushed those scars aside for so long now, they’ve practically ceased to exist – not here in his safe, blessed universe of musicals and coffee houses.

Me (8:14pm): Is this something you’re trying to keep a secret?

Blaine (8:15pm): I have to

Me (8:16pm): Can I ask why? Work? Family?

Blaine (8:20pm): Kurt...
(8:22pm): There’s so many things I want to tell you. So many things I want to try
(8:23pm): You could show me so much

Curiosity and raw desire weave among the nerves and bitter memories still making Kurt’s heart race. It’s as if Blaine had wormed his way into Kurt’s thoughts during their casual morning chats, discovering fantasies hidden so deep that Kurt didn’t even realize they existed until Blaine presented them in the form of furtive text messages sent in the dark of night.

This year is all about new experiences, right?

Me (8:25pm): I’ll show you whatever you want to see, Blaine

Blaine (8:27pm): God, Kurt. You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel good
(8:27pm): I always feel so bad

Me (8:28pm): I can definitely make you feel good
(8:29pm): Your secret’s safe with me, Blaine

Kurt squirms in his bed, auditions and monologues long forgotten; he wonders whether the dark, gnarled path he’s abruptly turned down will lead him to the light he so desperately seeks.

Blaine (8:31pm): I’ll see you tomorrow, Kurt

Me (8:32pm): But will I see you?

Blaine (8:33pm): No