Unfinished Letters From Lucas
Dear Rachel:
How long after we’d left did it take for them to sit you down and get you to accept the truth? When I used to imagine it, I’d imagine that Brittany just blurted it out in her Brittany way, and you rolled your eyes at her, and then Santana growled at you and muttered some derogatory thing under her breath in Spanish.
But then you remembered how we’d tried to tell you, how I’d tried to tell you, on that last night, who I really was and you let out a gasp, and then Kurt put his hand on your arm, and when you looked at his face, his eyes all watery and sincere, you knew it was true…
Dear Rachel:
On my most selfish days, I wallow in how badly I wish I could have loved you as Quinn. Held you in my own arms, kissed you with my own lips, touched you with my own hands…
Dear Rachel:
Sometimes the only way I can get myself to sleep at night is if I make myself believe that at least a part of you knew, somehow, who I really was. Otherwise, it’s hard for me to live with the way I touched you, with the way I let you touch me.
In fairy tales, when people get transformed into other creatures, into swans and witches and beasts, don’t they at least get to keep their own eyes? Isn’t that how their true loves finally recognize them in the end, by looking into their eyes and seeing who they really are underneath the spell? But I didn’t even get that, Rachel. I didn’t even have my own eyes for you to look into and see me beneath what in every other way looked like him…
Rachel:
Every night I pray that there are days in which you don’t even think about us at all…
