Glee Fic: Her Reality (1/1)
her reality
implied r. santana. brittany/santana.
her life should be perfect. it should be.
Its eleven fifty two at night and all she can think about is how completely and royally screwed her life is.
She’s twenty eight. She has a degree. She is married. Her husband is rich and she lives in a beautiful big house and her life should be perfect. It should be. But it isn’t. Because with every night she sleeps next to him, she listens to his deep breaths and as she stares at the ceiling all she can think of is he’s not her.
He’s not her. He’s not her. He’s not her.
And it’s eleven fifty eight most nights when she crawls out of bed, her Blackberry flashing in her hands and she leaves. She leaves. She always leaves, and it’s always the same place and the same time and she wonders why the hell she does this to herself. But then it’s past midnight and she’s in a dodgy hotel room and her lips brush against hers, hard and fast and all she can think is thank god.
Because lying next to her, being with her is the most simplest thing in the world and finally her life seems perfect. She feels everything slip away in that moment and she brushes her lips against the curve of her neck, feeling her arch into her, the sweat glistening off her chest. Perfect.
She doesn’t feel like this is wrong. Twelve years, this could never be wrong. But she slides her underwear back over her legs, sitting on the edge of the bed and she realises that this isn’t her reality.
And she wakes and it’s five thirty three am and her body is tired and glistening and she sighs, glancing over at the figure sleeping next to her. She reaches for her Blackberry.
I miss you, B.
---
implied r. santana. brittany/santana.
her life should be perfect. it should be.
Its eleven fifty two at night and all she can think about is how completely and royally screwed her life is.
She’s twenty eight. She has a degree. She is married. Her husband is rich and she lives in a beautiful big house and her life should be perfect. It should be. But it isn’t. Because with every night she sleeps next to him, she listens to his deep breaths and as she stares at the ceiling all she can think of is he’s not her.
He’s not her. He’s not her. He’s not her.
And it’s eleven fifty eight most nights when she crawls out of bed, her Blackberry flashing in her hands and she leaves. She leaves. She always leaves, and it’s always the same place and the same time and she wonders why the hell she does this to herself. But then it’s past midnight and she’s in a dodgy hotel room and her lips brush against hers, hard and fast and all she can think is thank god.
Because lying next to her, being with her is the most simplest thing in the world and finally her life seems perfect. She feels everything slip away in that moment and she brushes her lips against the curve of her neck, feeling her arch into her, the sweat glistening off her chest. Perfect.
She doesn’t feel like this is wrong. Twelve years, this could never be wrong. But she slides her underwear back over her legs, sitting on the edge of the bed and she realises that this isn’t her reality.
And she wakes and it’s five thirty three am and her body is tired and glistening and she sighs, glancing over at the figure sleeping next to her. She reaches for her Blackberry.
I miss you, B.
---