You're sixteen years old when you fall in love. It surprises you, the swiftness of it. No, that's too understated – it hits you like a freight train.

He's your best friend first. It's that simple. And isn't that how it always happens? Best friends turned something more? Something greater and all-consuming, that leaves your knees weak and your lungs breathless?

You'd told yourself after the beating that you didn't believe in clichés or fairytales or happily ever afters, just life, cut and dry and painful andmundane.

But then there was Kurt.

He sneaks up on you after months of playful duets and shy, bashful smiles that you realize you were dense enough to take as platonic. He hits you after the death of a bird, a harmless hazing ritual that Kurt took to heart. And you love it, how caring he is. He's singing, and the world tilts, swaying on its axis, and you don't see anything but him, this beautiful boy you haven't truly seen before, and you feel as if the puzzle pieces of your life are clicking into place.

I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece.

I'm complete.

Didn't you sing that to him on the day of staircases and false shortcuts? Then it was just a song. Now you get it.

There's only one logical thing to do after you're left reeling by the sudden alignment of your world, and you take his hand and stammer through what you hope are the right words, and his eyes are lighting up in a way that traps your breath in your throat.

You move me, Kurt.

His eyes don't leave yours, so bright and full of wonder, asking you are you sure you have the right person? And yes, you want to say, yes and I'm so sorry it took me this long to see you but I do.

You want to convince him, let him know that he has moved you, he aligned you, you have never been more sure of anything in your young life, so you do the one thing your brain tells you to do.

Kurt's lips taste like seeing fireworks.

The aftershock rumbles in your chest and his bright, dazed, so, so beautiful eyes say, okay, you've convinced me.

You're seventeen when you feel loved for the first time, by someone outside of the obligatory, someone not Cooper or your mother.

You've fucked up again, and this time you're terrified that it will be the end to everything you hold dear – Kurt. You love him, so much more than you thought possible in a time of Blackbird and shaky kisses. Kurt Hummel has become your everything and you've managed to push him away because you pushed too hard.

You repeat the dance in a mechanic pattern across the stage more times than you can remember until Kurt's voice breaks your silence. His shoulders are tucked in and god, he's beautiful, more beautiful now that he may be beyond your reach.

"I messed up this move…" I messed up more than that. "I know I can do better." I know I can do better by you.

His eyes are careful as he approaches you and your heart breaks, because you know you've hurt him, and it's no one's fault but yours for allowing a snarky Warbler to force one-too-many beers down your throat.

"I was drunk, and… I'm sorry."

You mean it more than Kurt could ever know.

Then he's apologizing too, and no – Kurt doesn't need to apologize. This is your fault, and you're not going to allow him to apologize to the boy who yanked him down in a back seat and breathed alcohol in his face.

Your kiss is almost desperate – no, Kurt, don't say sorry, I'm sorry, I love you so much, please don't leave me because I don't remember life without you – and his arms wind around your neck, holding you safe and close and he utters what you're thinking.

You take my breath away.

You gaze at him, pressure burning behind your eyes, and he grasps your shoulders in his hands and tells you, "I was so proud to be with you."

And your entire body is consumed by a low pulse of heat; your love for this boy scorches your skin and brings tears to your eyes, and no one's told you that, no one's said that they were proud of you before. No one but Kurt.

You choke through your words, tripping over your tongue in shaky, breathless gratitude.

I hope so. I want you to be.

It's later, when your limbs are tangled and his breath is hot and fast against your neck that you start to cry, holding the boy who let you love him against your chest, and all you can babble into his damp, sweet skin is thank you.

You're halfway through seventeen when you know that you're going to be left alone. It's been threatening for months, creeping like a shadow behind sweet murmurs and breathless kisses. You're terrified, honestly, of facing a year without Kurt, and you don't know how to act. So you're stupid and careless and you find yourself pulling away, trying to protect yourself even while all you want to do is lie with Kurt against your chest until the universe crumbles around you. And you know it's hurting him, hurting you, hurting everything, but you don't know what else to do.

You sit cross-legged on Kurt's bed while he prepares a cheese plate for your movie marathon, and you're thankful, that your time together is no longer so limited and scheduled, that this can be time to hold him, wrap him in your arms and pretend that he won't be gone in a few months, whisked away by the promise of something bigger and better.

Kurt's phone buzzes against his bedspread and you think nothing of it, leaning back on your elbows and smiling at Kurt's prom picture, framed and proudly on display at the front of his shelves.

The phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

You frown, sitting up and reaching for the phone, worried that someone's in trouble, it might be an emergency with Kurt's father.

Your heart stutters in your chest and the world seems to freeze, a bitter imitation of the first time you truly saw Kurt, and you have to see squeeze your eyes closed, as if when you open them again everything will be all right, everything will be okay.

It's not.

Us New Yorkers have got to stick together – if you don't get into NYADA and our plans for weekly luncheons go to waste I'll eat my hat!

Are you sure it didn't hurt when you fell from heaven?

You must have been Cleopatra in a past life. You've got a great asp!

There are dozens of texts, and they're not from you. They're from Chandler, someone you have never heard of before, and your breath chokes in your lungs because someone is making Kurt happy and it's not you.

You have trouble getting the words past your throat when Kurt shows up, cheery and smiling as if nothing's wrong, as if you're not staring at the evidence of Kurt pulling away from you, forgetting you, throwing you in the fucking trash.

"Who's Chandler?" You hate how your voice breaks, how weak it makes you sound when you're trying to be strong, stand up for yourself foronce in your life.

"Why are you going through my phone?" And you're angry at Kurt for the first time, spitting out the text messages in his face like poison, because you trusted him, you don't trust people, not after Sadie Hawkins, not after Cooper, and you trusted Kurt and he drove a knife of flirty texts with a fucking stranger into your back.

"This is cheating, Kurt." Your voice shatters like glass and you don't care if Kurt's met this guy once, you don't care that half the world's teenage population would scoff and look down their noses at you, this is cheating to you. This has hurt you, made you question everything you've ever thought you knew about Kurt. You feel shaken, like someone's knocked the ground out from under you and left you reeling with no way to catch your balance. And it hits you all at once, slams tears behind your eyes and stuns you breathless – your boyfriend cheated on you.

"You like this guy." And it hurts even more, saying it out loud. Kurt likes this. You're replaceable, just like you always have been. You don't matter.

"I like the way he makes me feel." And Kurt's telling you what you already know – you haven't been enough for him, you're not good enough anymore. You're angry, boiling over, but you have to reign yourself in, because you're hurt – you're fucking shattered, but you can't lose Kurt, because Kurt is everything that is good in your life and you can't fuck this up. You can't fuck up like you always do. And you realize, as you're fighting back the tears, that you're not angry at Kurt, you're angry at yourself, because you're the one who pushed him away.

"I transferred schools to be with you – I changed my whole life! That doesn't make you feel loved?"

My father doesn't speak to me anymore, you want to shout. I almost lost an eye because I wanted to protect you! I didn't want to spend a moment away from you because I love you so much but you're leaving me – why can't you see that?

You can't even find words as Kurt lists off reasons why you have no idea what it's like, being your boyfriend. The phone seems to burn white hot in your hands but you feel cold and defeated, broken down and lifeless. You have no fighting left in you, just pleading – talk to me, tell me that you're unhappy, but don't cheat on me – small and tired, because that's the whole of it: you are so, so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of trying when there's no one left to notice. If Kurt's done with you, all you ask is that he tells you with words instead of through a stranger with an affinity for homewrecking.

It's okay! Kurt tells you, and you laugh so you don't break down and cry.

It's not right. But it's okay.

You regret your song choice as soon as Kurt shows you his.

You were rash, and angry, and hurting, and you're surprised Kurt's still holding on. If you were him, you would have let go by the second verse.

But Kurt's still here, and he's singing to you, a love song in front of the entire glee club, and you flash back to when you realized you were meant to love him, and it almost breaks you right then and there.

I have nothing if I don't have you.

Your lungs are frozen up and you clench your hands together in your lap, world tilting in that way that's so familiar now, every time you look at Kurt. Tears bubble up your throat as Kurt stares you down, daring you to contradict him, beautiful eyes fierce and unwavering, clear voice rushing from his lips to wrap you in a tight, reassuring embrace.

Kurt is fighting for you. You, this emotional teenage boy who accused him of infidelity in front of all his friends; he's fighting because he is nothing if he doesn't have you.

You can't speak, can only blink through the tears and applaud him along with everyone else, and you can only hope he sees that your applause means so much more.

It takes a brief spat over cheesecake, bronzer, and a doe-eyed-counselor for you to let it all pour out, the things that you've been keeping from Kurt for so long, ever since Cooper came and went, all your fears of losing Kurt for good, how hard it's been practicing like you won't be able to hold him every morning, have those stolen moments throughout the day, a gentle touch here, a private smile there, the makeouts he likes to color code on your school planner. And you'll even miss him snapping his fingers at waitstaff, despite how much it crawls under your skin because the cheesecake is literally ten feet away, Kurt, because he's Kurt, and he's the love of your life and you are absolutely terrified of losing him.

His rigid posture dissolves and he's leaning into your space, so sure when he tells you that you're not going to be alone, you're not going to lose him, he'll be just a Skype call away. And you're crying, because you love Kurt Hummel more than anything else in this world and somehow he loves you, too.

You want to take his face in your hands and kiss him breathless, and by the look in his eyes he wants it too, but your guidance counselor might shove a handi-wipe between the two of you, so you settle for pressing your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in vanilla and spice and holding onto him for all that you're worth.

You've never felt so vulnerable and small when Kurt's graduation cap is thrown skyward, signifying his freedom and your confinement.

Kurt is going to New York. You have known this for months. You almost lost him because of how you reacted to it. You knew it was coming.You still don't expect the tears that choke you in the bleachers, blur Kurt's exultant smile into fractured pink and slices of sky blue. You're following him in a year, but 365 days has never seemed so eternal and it kills you, knowing that you'll be here without him that much longer. And you almost break down right here and now, just imagining that – navigating the stormy waters of your barely there family without Kurt's steady, guiding hand; sitting in glee club every day without his murmured commentary in your ear; walking the hallways without his solid presence by your side.

Kurt is your world. And he is going to leave.

He's close to you now, fingers gentle against your cheek, eyes glittering and dazed with post-graduation fever, and you smile and act like your heart isn't splitting at the seams because you won't do this to Kurt, not today. You've talked about this already – shouted, really, through song and couples counseling a few weeks ago – so you shouldn't feel like your world is going to crumble around your ears without him, because you've talked through it, you've made plans, but it still hurts more than you ever thought it would.

You feel so, so much older than seventeen when you say goodbye to Kurt at the airport after a summer of sweaty kisses and fiercely whispered promises while tangled clothes-less on Kurt's bed. He's beautiful, smooth, creamy neck wrapped up in a blue scarf that pulls the color of his eyes right past his face, thin white v-neck snug on the shoulders you've kissed over countless times, and his smile is broken as he holds you to his chest, hands clinging tight. You clutch at him, sealing him in your memory, perfect and soft and loving you, so even if you lose him to subways and Broadway and promises in a big city full of things so much better and more than you, you will still have this Kurt, wrapped in the tender and unbreakable arms of your memory.

He whispers how much he loves you, and how he'll be back for Christmas and he'll text you every single day, and you better have your laptop open every night at eight, Blaine Anderson or so help me I will never forgive you and you don't cry, because you promised you wouldn't. You capture his lips in one last, heady, desperate kiss, wishing this moment would never end, that time would slow into a freeze-frame, holding Kurt here forever, but his flight is boarding and his eyes are wet with tears as he pulls back and away. You wait until he's in line and he cries out, high and shaky, I love you, Blaine! and you call I love you too, Kurt! before he's gone and you're alone in the middle of the crowded airport.

You last until you're home and your door is locked and then you fall, a broken, shattered sob clawing its way out of your throat, hands grasping at Margaret Thatcher Dog, the one piece of Kurt you've been allowed to keep.

You're eighteen and your diploma means Kurt. Kurt, beautiful and elegant and perfect and yours, and you're not waiting the summer, not spending another week in the town you've learned to hate in Kurt's absence when you could be on a plane to Kurt.

You've missed him more than words could ever describe. Every second had felt dipped in molasses, slipping agonizingly slowly down the clock, and it was only the thought of holding Kurt again – pressing your lips to that spot behind his ear that always makes him moan, lacing your fingers through his, feeling his weight solid and bare against your chest – that carried you through another endless day.

The New York airport is crowded and immense and you stand on the tops of your toes, more out of place than you could have ever thought possible, but then you see him and you're home.

He slams into your chest, all grasping hands and frantic kisses, breathless words that gasp against your hair, and you wrap him up in you, breathing him in, vanilla and spice just the way you remember, pressing him against you the way you haven't in months. You kiss him, careless in the middle of the airport, holding his hips under your palms and Kurt I've missed you so much let's never be apart again okay I love you so much.

He takes your hand in one of his and your carryon in the other, talking a mile a minute, about city lights and small apartments and adjusting to the hustle and bustle of the city, and you just watch him, the work of his jaw beneath ivory skin, the dance of his eyes under the airport lights, so bright and lovely and you've missed this so much. And you don't tell him that he doesn't have to worry about you fitting in, or getting adjusted, or taking the time to forget about Ohio and home.

As long as you're with Kurt, you will always be home.