A/n: In the wake of the new season and the tragedy it will bring. Something to remember.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

xx

Star

"Every moment before now has brought me to this place."

The lights had never seemed so bright, the crowds so large, the music so enchanting, invigorating, lively. The stage, so present, so open.

She angled her chin towards Santana, "it's better than all my dreams. All of them."

But still, as a burst of high, tinkling laughter rushed through the air, Rachel turned her head away from the entrance to the theatre and Santana's cold fingers brushed against hers hesitantly.

It was odd, she thought, that this moment should come now.

That this milestone could cost so much, paid for with something so dear.

Her time.

Spinning suddenly, she turned and grasped Santana's hands tightly in her own, "Someone once said not to dream too big or for too long, because, because when—if ever—you actually achieve them, they're meaningless and you've missed everything in between. Is that true? Do you believe it, Santana?" Rachel rushed out and held her eyes with a desperate, searching stare.

What Santana did know for sure, was that she didn't know what the hell Rachel was talking about. But she wanted to tell her what she needed to hear, she wanted to make things seem—even if for an hour, even if she had to lie—okay. Okay enough. Okay enough to keep her from falling apart. And while she wasn't the greatest at keeping peoples' shit together, she felt maybe, that she was Rachel's only option. Cause who holds you up when your own legs fail you?

"This is your life, Rach." She settled on, squeezing Rachel's fingers, willing the water in her eyes to fucking get. lost. "This is what you've been living for. This is you."

But she could have said anything else or nothing. She wasn't sure it mattered. Rachel's shoulders dropped, she lowered her eyes and let her hands fall, hanging empty beside her.

This is me, Rachel thought. This is me. This is me.

Is this me? Is this my life?

It had taken her nineteen years to brush up against the stars. Nineteen tireless years of singing her throat raw and working herself to death just to bathe in the glow of Broadway lights.

But she had only four to give to the one star that mattered.

She turned her gaze to the night sky, the theatre's lights dimming in her periphery. Santana's hand found its way back into one of hers, her grip firm this time. Steady.

Somewhere up there in the black sky, among the glittering dots, was her life, her dream, her star.

Finn Hudson.

xx

A/N: Thank you for reading.