No. This wasn’t happening. There was no way this was actually happening. She had to be dreaming, Rachel was convinced. But as she looked down at the shredded pieces of her Wicked Playbill in the middle of their bedroom floor, she knew there was no way this was a dream. Quinn had left for another shoot about an hour prior and Rachel knew Santana was trying to finish up some paper work so she wouldn’t have to go into the office later on, but this was an emergency.
She was in shock, that had to be it. Because she was pacing the foor in circles around what was left of the only autographed playbill she’d ever owned and Tony had scampered off somewhere and she couldn’t even bother to go find him. “Santana!” she called out as she felt a few tears pricking her eyes, her fingers running through her hair nervously before she grabbed her other playbills and put them hastily on the highest shelf she could reach. This wasn’t going to happen again.