It was one year since Kurt and Blaine kissed. One year exactly. One year since their lips touched, one year since they felt the beating of each other’s hearts through their shirts. One year since their arms were fully wrapped around one another and one year since they felt that rush, the thrilling sensation of kissing someone that you love, one that never seems to get old. One year since Kurt Hummel had felt true happiness.

He dealt with it as best he could. Not having Blaine around anymore was hard, but he went on. He breathed, he ate, he slept, and he laughed, sometimes. But he didn’t live, and not a day went by when he didn’t hurt.

That pain in his heart wasn’t as strong, after a while, but occasionally, when he would see a Starbucks, or come across an episode of The Bachelorette, or hear a certain song, he’d just freeze, he’d stop working. And his heart would clench painfully, and his head would be assaulted by painful memories, and he’d see and hear his last moment with Blaine...

“Kurt, are you sure you’re okay?” His voice had been so kind, so gentle, so comforting...

“Yeah, I’m-I’m fine, don’t worry about it. It’s stupid, anyways.” But Blaine had heard the tears in his voice, had known that Kurt was on the verge of a breakdown.

“Kurt...”

“It’s just... I can’t believe I let myself ruin my chances over something this stupid. I should have known better than to trust him but I didn’t and now he’s screwed me over. I don’t know what to do Blaine, but I’m seriously considering just dropping out.” His eyes had flashed up to the Wicked poster on his wall, to the simple paper that seemed to represent so many of his hopes and his dreams, not of starring on Wicked per se, but just of Broadway, and of the stage, and now he would never have that.

“Do you want me to come over?”

“What? No, no, Blaine, it’s fine, you don’t need to. It’s late, and I’ll be okay.”

“I’m coming, and don’t even try to convince me not to. You’re upset, and I love you, and I’m coming.”

“...Thank you.”

Throughout the entire conversation, he had been gripping the phone tightly with one hand, twisting the promise ring Blaine had given him in high school with the other. His thumb had been spinning it in a steady, rhythmic motion, twirling it around his ring finger.

Blaine never did come over that night, and Kurt had been heartbroken. He remembered feeling hurt, betrayed, even, that his boyfriend had broken his promise. He remembered staring at the phone, waiting for a call, a text, explaining why Blaine was so late.

He got one, eventually, at around five in the morning. He remembered the voice exactly; it had been crisp, slightly accented with the New York tongue that he hadn’t quite gotten used to yet. It had said:

“Is this Mr. Kurt Hummel?”

“Yes.” He had just woken up, his throat hoarse partially from sleep but mostly due to the tears that had spilled out, ones that had refused to be contained after Blaine’s no-show.

“This is Officer Miller; I’m calling to inform you that Blaine Anderson’s car was hit by a drunk driver about four hours ago. I’m very sorry to say this, but he’s dead.”

And that was that. No amount of crying would change it, and no amount of screaming could ever bring him back. 364 days ago, Blaine Anderson had died.