Disclaimer: I still don't own Glee.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and alerts. They mean everything. Keep them coming.

Dear Quinn,

I honestly have no idea what to say in response to your beautifully constructed letter of two days ago.

Absolutely nothing.

I've been staring at those last two sentences for an hour now.

I thought you were straight. I honestly did.

Why didn't you tell me earlier?

Do you remember in junior year when you wore that blue dress with that red cardigan and sat in Glee and wrote in your notebook for the whole meeting and I got really mad with you for lacking focus and Santana called me a tiny reincarnation of a squirrel? And when you supported me over doing original songs? I liked your shirt that day. It suited you. You were so beautiful that year. I had -and I still have- no idea why Puck said those things.

You were perfect throughout high school. Beautiful. Blonde. Even at your lowest points, you rose above the rest. The cream of the cream. A heavenly being, sent down to show us how it was done. Oh, I so wanted to be you. I even wanted your nose. Do you remember? You were my ideal throughout high school. That's a lot of feeling and history right there.

I was nearly in love with you in sophomore year.

I liked your hair back then. It was braided, but little wisps kept coming out and you looked like you had a halo. You reminded me so much of an angel, even though you didn't always act like one. I always liked you too, throughout high school. I wished that we could be friends more than nearly anything else- and now we are, and it's perfect, just the way it is.

You are one of the most important people in my life. I don't want to risk that- do you understand? I think you're beautiful, I really do, and you match me so perfectly it's impossible to find anyone who would be better friends with me than you, but I can't throw away this bond we have in exchange for the inevitable messiness of a relationship with you.

I care about you too much to let this happen. If we dated- and however pleasant a thought that might be- it would end in resentment and arguments and half-awkward silences, like always. Don't say you'd be different, because you wouldn't. I know you. I know you better than you know yourself, sometimes. You'd be so happy with me and let me walk all over you, like you do with every guy you've dated at Yale. I'd be so happy and intoxicated with your very presence that I'd let you, and then two or three weeks in, you'll suddenly crack down. We'll fight. And fight. And fight. Then we'll break up and never talk again.

I love you too much to let this happen, Quinn. Do you get it? Do you understand?

You are perfect to me. Our relationship- the way we interact- our friendship, strengthened from its tentative beginnings in Figgins' office into this amazing Skype weekly talk about anything bond that we have- is the most precious thing I possess and I can't- won't- risk it for a wishful, half-faded dream.

Let's just be friends. Please.

Thank you for telling me.

Rachel