“Kurt.”

                Kurt swung his head around. That voice. So familiar.

                “Kurt.”

                Again. The warm, lilting undertones made him shiver. The voice that flowed deep and smooth reminding him of melted chocolate, that could make him feel molten lava run slow and deliberate beneath his skin. He spun around desperately, trying to find the source of it, because if he knew where it was coming from, he knew what he would find, and maybe, finally, his fears would be put to rest. Quest ended, questions answered. But nothing. Everything was white, edges blurred. It was very bright… or was it? Was there anything here at all? The only things he could sense were the sound of his heart pounding, his heavy breathing, and a frantic need to search for answers. His eyes hurt but didn’t hurt, and he registered the feeling of panic but somehow everything felt slippery and unreal and not-quite-there. It occurred to him that it was hard to breathe.

                “Kurt.” Once more, louder and more insistent than before.  

                “Where are you?” Kurt cried desperately. There was no answer. Now it was very dark, and maybe even a little cold (he couldn’t feel properly, he didn’t know). He took a few running steps forward, then stopped. It was all wrong. He whipped around to his left and started walking quickly, his footsteps echoing loudly in the silence. The more he walked, the more he became convinced that he was moving in circles, but he couldn’t stop, because he had to find.

                “Kurt Kurt Kurt Kurt…” His name was repeated, over and over again, faster and in a steady stream. The voice was so familiar, but yet so different, so cold. Gradually, it got louder, rising to a crescendo, and as it did, it became harsher and harsher, until it was almost a scream of accusation. Soon it was no longer a balm to his ears, but a torturous cry.

                “Stop,” Kurt whimpered. “Stop!” He stopped moving and clamped his hands to his ears like a child, trying to block out the noise. He twisted on the spot, eyes darting around frantically, trying to find the source of the voice. It was everywhere. “Kurt Kurt Kurt Kurt…” It didn’t stop. He fell to his knees and screamed, his whole body trembling. The voice reverberated through his head, shrieking his name in sync with the crazed pounding of his heart.

                “Stop, please just stop!” he repeated over and over and over again, until his voice was hoarse and tears were streaming down his cheeks and pooling onto the ground, forming a salty moat around his crouched form.

                Then, suddenly, it did. It was silent, but with an eerie emptiness filling the air. When he looked up in the quiet, breathless and terrified, he saw him. A blurred, pale silhouette standing ramrod straight, looking down at Kurt from afar.

                “No,” Kurt whispered.

                He scrambled unsteadily to his feet and ran towards it as fast as he could on his wobbly legs, determined this time to catch him, make sure he didn’t leave. He got closer and closer; despite this, the figure remained blurry, as if there were a screen of rippling air wrapped around it. He could just make out the familiar breadth of shoulders, the dark shade of hair. Almost… But just as he reached out, the figure disappeared and his fingers grasped at thin air, and suddenly he was

                falling, down down down down and he felt too tired, too weary to scream for help. He closed his eyes and let himself fall through the darkness, somehow enjoying the sense of weightlessness falling gave him. Somehow, without the ground hard beneath his feet, the tedious ordeals of real life (real life?) didn’t feel as oppressive.

                Then he hit the ground, and his skull and his body and his entire being shattered split cracked open, and there was blinding pain but no pain, and he screamed once, then whispered the name that stilled rolled from his tongue like a gentle caress.

                Kurt woke up with a strangled cry, gasping loudly. He felt sweat soaking through his pyjamas, the silky material clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He sat up slowly, breathing heavily through his nose. There was a horrible weight in his stomach, and his head hurt. He was still shaking. He hadn’t had that nightmare in months.  It’s over, he told himself, knowing full well that it wasn’t. You have drawn a veil over all that, and he almost laughed, because he would forever conjure up images of the past, and mourn over what could have been. No, not mourn, that was too depressing a word. He would wonder. He would wonder with regret. Forget him, and when he thought this his heart ached, because how could he ever?

                By the time his heartbeat settled to a more leisurely pace, his mind was still whirling and his stomach roiling unpleasantly. He didn’t think he could sleep that night. Shoving the blanket off his legs, he slipped off the bed and padded quietly out of the room to the tiny kitchen he and Rachel had shared for the past (roughly) three and a half years. It was 3am, the gently ticking wooden clock said when he squinted at it through the darkness. Outside the window, the sky was lit up dimly with the glow of city lights and the New York City nightlife. Kurt imagined the thousands of people partying and getting drunk or stoned or laid in bars right now, and felt very alone.

                He poured himself a glass of water, swearing softly when his night vision didn’t prove as good as he hoped and spilled water all over the kitchen counter. The water made an obscenely loud sloshing sound as it splashed onto the countertop, and then dripped onto the floor in a steady rivulet. He stared at the droplets of water falling onto the whitewashed tiles, and felt strangely like either sinking to the ground and crying or screaming expletives at the offending puddle of water pooling placidly on the floor. He was alone here. Taking a deep breath and telling himself you can do this Kurt Hummel you’ve survived the last two-and-a-half years and you can surely live through an episode of spilled water he shakily mopped up the water, carefully poured himself another glass and walked back to his room.

                As he sat on the edge of the bed and sipped at the water – it felt cool and good and refreshing on his parched throat, and made him feel just a teeny bit better – he thought about the word living and how he hadn’t been doing just that for the last two-and-a-half years. He hadn’t lived After, to put it simply. His chest squeezed tightly. He thought about the last time he had gone out to a party or gotten drunk and realized he couldn’t remember when that was. Not that he particularly enjoyed either of those things; they were just kind of representative of the high points in his life. Because on any of those occasions, in the midst of disorienting strobe lights and warm, sweaty bodies and obnoxious pounding music, he had always been happily accompanied by the memory of someone he loved. Reassured by the unfailingly comforting thought of someone who loved him back.

                He lay back on the bed, and stared up at the ceiling.

                When he twisted his head around to check, the clock read 4:17am. So he stood up and got out of bed for the second time that night, and made his way to Rachel’s room. He let himself in quietly, making sure not to wake her. She was curled up into a ball at the edge of the bed, tucked snugly under the bright pink covers, snoring softly. She looked very peaceful, her hair falling over the side of her face and her lips turned up slightly at the corners into a small smile. He loathed himself for dragging her into his problems, but he just really needed someone right now. He sat himself down on the other side of the bed, and waited for Rachel to wake up and realize he was there.

                It didn’t take long; Rachel was a light sleeper.

                “Kurt?” she mumbled groggily, rolling around to face him. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, and pushed herself up, yawning. Her hair was wild and mussed, but her eyes were bright.

                “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. His voice sounded choked, even to him.  

                Rachel stared at him for a few moments, and Kurt sat silently, letting her register what was going on. He didn’t feel much like talking.

                “Oh, Kurt,” she said sadly.

                That was enough to let the tears finally come, and he leaned into Rachel’s arms and sobbed for the first time in a long while as she held him and rocked him from side to side slowly, humming a soothing melody. He felt safer, less messed-up in her embrace, but he was also more too aware that the arms around him were not the right ones. They were too slender to hold him up, too cold to warm his insides. The voice singing to him was too high, not quite the melted chocolate tones he missed with a passion.

                When his sobs had subsided to pathetic hiccups, Rachel spoke again. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Kurt,” she told him, and she sounded like she had cried a little too. “You’ve been so strong all this while, and I really admire you for that. You’ve lasted all this while.”

                He was silent for a long moment before he replied. “I thought I was better.”

                She laughed, but it was a sad laugh. “It takes a long time,” she murmured, and Kurt thought about how maybe she was still broken, too.

                “We’ll get through this together, alright?” she said, smiling encouragingly at him.

                “Okay,” he replied automatically, accepting the tissue she brandished at his face, knowing that this was his battle to fight. He dabbed gently at his eyes, and thought about how he didn’t care how terrible his eyes would look tomorrow morning.

                “Now sleep,” Rachel commanded, and he nodded mutely and sank lower onto the bed. She lay back down by his side and entwined her hand with his, squeezing it comfortingly.

                “It’s going to get better, I’m sure of it.”

                “Okay,” he repeated tiredly.

-

                Kurt had been right. Staring into the bathroom mirror, his eyes were puffy and still slightly red around the edges in the morning. His skin was splotchy, and his body somehow ached everywhere. Groaning, he splashed his face with cold water to hopefully reduce the swelling, and decided to use the Kiehl’s face mask he had been saving for a special occasion. Everything was put into a little more perspective in the light of morning, and he cursed himself for not calming down properly last night before going to bed.

                Rachel was curled up on the couch, staring off into the distance and munching on a bowl of salad, still dressed in her pyjamas. She started when he walked into the living area with a black mud mask smeared on his face, but her expression softened almost instantly.

                “How are you?” she asked concernedly.

                He paused for a while before replying with a sigh. “I’ve been better. And I think this morning is a considerable improvement from last night.” He walked over to the couch and sat down heavily beside Rachel, crossing his legs beneath him. “But I just never know when it’s going to end, you know?”

                Rachel placed a hand on his leg comfortingly. “I get the sentiment. You always tell yourself that one day you’ll finally manage to get over it, because that’s what’s supposed to happen. People forget, and move on. But every day you just wait and wait and wait until you realize that it’s not that easy.” She met his eyes steadfastly.

                Kurt placed his hand over hers and squeezed gently. Sometimes he was amazed that the annoying, self-obsessed, selfish girl from 5 years ago had grown up to be someone so wise. If you had asked him then, he would have cringed at the thought that Rachel Berry would one day become his best friend, probably not even believed them. Because that’s what she was. When he had gone through hell after his first year of college, she was the one who pulled him out of bed every day and forced him to shower, the one who made sure he ate at least three (most of the time she had only managed with two, to be honest) square meals a day and didn’t spend the whole time cooped up in his room. She was the one who stayed up every night to hold him while he cried, or listened to him talk when he needed it. It had lasted for more than one awful year, and she had stayed faithfully by his side, never once complaining. Rachel was the only person who was close to understanding. Because however close Kurt was to his dad, Burt would never be able to get over the protective father instinct in him to truly empathize.

                Before, Kurt hadn’t treasured Rachel as much as he did now.

                “I really don’t know how you got so smart, Rachel Berry,” he told her fondly. Her face crinkled up as if she were trying not to cry.

                “Plus you’re the only person who can still look at me so normally with this black horror mask I have plastered across my face.”

                “Come here, you,” she laughed, balancing her bowl of salad on the armrest and reaching up to pull him into a tight hug. Kurt’s arms wound around her; she was so small. Small like Blaine, he thought with a pang.

                “Be strong, okay?” she whispered into his shoulder.

                “Okay.”

                They stayed there hugging for a few long seconds, and when they drew apart Rachel had tears in her eyes.

                “Oh god, I’m sorry!” she half laughed, voice catching as she rubbed her eyes vigorously with the back of her hand. “I honestly don’t know what’s come over me.” Kurt smiled at her indulgently and gently nudged her hands away from her face, instead using a hastily grabbed tissue to dab at her tears.

                “Don’t cry,” he warned teasingly, “or you’ll make me cry too.” Rachel giggled at this, shaking her head as if to clear it and standing up briskly, her crisp demeanor returning all of a sudden. She dusted off her pyjama pants, and looked to Kurt expectantly, a wide smile on her face.

                “Shall I make breakfast?”

                “If I should impose such a chore on you, then yes please, thank you very much.”

                He followed a grinning Rachel into the kitchen, finally letting the small smile slip from his face when she wasn’t looking. It was tiring on his cheeks to force a perpetual grin. But anything to stop Rachel from worrying excessively. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a few deep breaths before pasting a cheery expression back on his face and walking after her. He didn’t understand why his mind was dredging up these memories right now, when life had been going smoothly for such a long time that he almost believed everything was alright again, that he was alright again. That he was beginning to forget. He hadn’t consciously though about Blaine in such a long while. But that was just wishful thinking, wasn’t it? If he was very honest, he had to admit that Blaine was always lurking somewhere at the back of his mind.

                When he saw flyers for the revival of West Side Story, whenever he passed by a Brooks Brothers store, when the customer in front of him at his favourite coffee shop ordered a Medium Drip, he would have to suppress a flicker of sadness. When he caught reruns of Jersey Shore or The Bachelorette on the television, he would calmly switch channels as if nothing had happened, fully aware of the slight tremble of his thumb as he pressed on the remote. Once, ages ago, when he heard Blackbird on the radio, he had stopped the car at the roadside and gotten out, standing on the sidewalk aimlessly for a full five minutes just to make sure.

                But those were just the little things. Whenever he spotted relatively better looking guys in his lectures, he would unconsciously size them up, seeing them not for how they were but how they differed from Blaine. How their hair was a shade lighter than midnight, how their eyes were more green than shifting green-gray-amber. When he talked to any of the aforementioned cute guys, he would note how the lilt of their voices wasn’t the cheerful, warm tone he had loved, how their behaviour was far from the way of dapper, prep school boys. He always found them lacking. And sometimes when he woke up, he would lie in bed for a while, unable to move, feeling horribly alone but not willing to acknowledge the reason why.

                The direct thought of Blaine still sent a sharp frisson of pain through his chest. Sometimes he imagined a hairline crack running through his heart, one that gaped open a little, painfully, with each pulsation whenever he thought of Blaine. A thin scar mapping the surface of his heart, seemingly knitted back together, but would tear at the seams even more forcefully than before when triggered. Heartbroken, he told himself bitterly. That’s what you are.

-

                That night, after a solitary dinner of Chinese take-out (Rachel was out with some friends she had met a few weeks ago at some kind of mixer for aspiring Broadway stars from schools all over New York State – he had no idea what that was about; it sounded highly suspicious to him, but she had been so excited), Kurt went into his room, locked the door behind him and took a deep breath. He was feeling slightly worn out after all the research (reading up on fashion in early nineteenth century Britain) he had done that afternoon for the current school project that would take up most of his time in the next couple of months. It was a fun assignment, with lots of space given to the students to allow for them to “unleash their pent up creativity”, but it became more than a little dreary when he had it on his mind for a full eight hours a day.

                He slid the frosted glass door of his cupboard open with some difficulty. There were so many pieces of clothing jammed inside, fabric pressed against fabric haphazardly, that he winced and promised himself to sort through all his clothes one day. Or maybe buy a new cupboard; there was space for a new one between the bedside table and the windows.

                He knelt down in front of the few drawers at the base of the cupboard. Drawing a small key from the back pocket of his jeans, he slotted the teeth slowly into the lock of the bottom right drawer. He had retrieved the key buried deep in the drawer of his bedside table some time ago, and it still felt cool to the touch against his warm fingers, which were now damp and trembling infinitesimally. With a turn of the key, the lock slid out of place with a small click.

                He wondered whether the drawer would creak at all, be hard to pull out after remaining closed for so long. He hadn’t touched it in months, after all. He stared at it for a while, as if the intensity of his gaze could will it to slide out, unattended. It was an unremarkable drawer like all others, and if you looked at all of them as a whole, you wouldn’t be able to tell its significance. He felt sad to think that so much history, so much of the past could be compressed and simply stowed away in this small, nondescript compartment, left to be forgotten. The edges of the drawer were un-scuffed though, he noted, as compared to those of the others which appeared slightly bruised after being unceremoniously slammed shut whenever he was in a hurry. No, this one had been treated with the utmost care. He felt an unexplainable small twinge of satisfaction, that maybe this drawer was a tad special after all. That it could be identified as more important among the rest, as it should.

                Without full control of his movements, he saw his hands reach out and tug the drawer open. There was no creak; it slid open smoothly on rollers, gliding easily along with the pull of his hands. His breath caught as he beheld its contents. Right on top, front and centre, was a yellowing envelope, with tattered edges. Smack in the centre, printed in black ink and small, cramped handwriting was his name: KURT HUMMEL. The writing was achingly familiar, and he was reminded dizzyingly of a scattering of words in similar print, scribbled quickly across the back of his palm. Little things like Come over? and I wish I could kiss you right now and Missed me? Followed by My house at 8 and You are so beautiful and I did. Then I love you and I love you and I love you.

                He felt dampness at the back of his eyes and sniffed to hold them back. Gently, almost with a sort of reverence, he picked up the topmost envelope. It was small but stuffed tight. The corners were worn out and furry in the way of often handled paper. He drifted his thumb across his name; it was smooth under his touch, not that he had expected anything else. Flipping the envelope around, he lifted the flap and pulled out the sheets of folded letter paper, feeling a bolt of déjà vu. He unfolded them with shaking hands, as he had done countless times before, breathing shallowly.

                This was it. The turning point. He didn’t know for sure that he would be pulled back into the vortex as before, be engaged in another downward spiral, but he was sure there would be at least some kind of side effects of recalling all this to memory. But you want that, his mind whispered unexpectedly. With a shudder, he realized that was true. He had gone too long without unpicking that past that he felt emptied. Too caught up in the harried reality of real life that he had forgotten what it felt like to really feel. He wanted that back, regardless of the fact that it would be less than pleasant. He felt a sort of calm settle about him. Was he being unnecessarily masochistic? After all, some would say he had gone through enough heartbreak at his age than most people would ever experience in their lifetime.

                But scratch that. He needed this. Letting out a heavy breath at the finality of his decision, he brought the pages up to where he could comfortably read them, and started reading.

                When he was finished, he sat back heavily on his heels, feeling very emotionally wrung out. A long time ago, he had been able to memorize the contents of this letter, would be able to recite it word for word if you asked him (not that he ever wanted to). Reading those lines and lines of words scratched painstakingly into the paper helped to drag residual memory from the depths of his mind to the surface, and he realized that he would still be able to deliver certain chunks of it on autopilot, if not every nitty gritty detail of the letter.

                He waited for the inevitable possibility of tears, but they didn’t come, to his surprise. He stared down at the sheets of paper in his hands, and discovered that he didn’t feel as shitty as he had envisioned feeling. He didn’t feel that much, to be honest. He probed his mind for what he did feel, and first found regret, for what could have been. Renewed little stabs of hurt by the refreshing of when it all began, but that was to be expected. Searching deeper, he identified a calm sea of sadness, but that had been there for a long time, and possibly would be forever. Sadness wasn’t very easy to erase, he had found out a long time ago.

                But there was also certain fullness. As if a jigsaw puzzle, missing a piece, had finally found that offending little corner and had slotted it back in place, completing the picture. No longer did he feel as empty as before; the hollowness had somewhat disappeared to an extent, leaving him sufficiently satisfied. Maybe this was all he needed. A short trip to a point down memory lane to conclude the journey. Perhaps this would be the end of this stage of his life. One final jolt and he would be able to start afresh, for real this time.

                With that thought in his head, he refolded the paper, slotted it back into the envelope, returned it to its place on top of the few small boxes squeezed into the drawer. He slid the drawer shut, turned the key with some finality, tugged that out, and stowed it back in his jeans pocket. He stood up, closed the door of the cupboard and moved to unlock his bedroom door.

                He stood in the doorway, surveying the room impassively. The bed was made, the room quietly calm and serene, everything was in place; pristine. As if nothing had happened. But so much had, in that short span of time.

                He shut the door and returned to his study.