'Knowing You'

Disclaimer: Santa's not real, my tooth fairy is my mother, and the Gilmore Girls aren't mine.
Author's Note: Hmm... I seem to have a real thing with the Other Person don't I? :) Oh dear. I didn't plan for it to turn out this way, but there you go – creativity grabbing you by the ears and leaving you in places you didn't book in advance. Ha. You never know, I may consider continuing this story and speak through characters who haven't entered into extra-marital relationships. :p
Oh, and, being from Australia there are just a few spelling differences from the American way. Just so you know. :)
Hope you enjoy!
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There's so much more to a person than meets the eye; always something beyond the words they say, the words you hear; the ones you hear but don't quite understand. You think this is unfair, you think you should know, that you have a right to understand the meaning behind the curious glances and the awkward behaviours directed towards you, but then you think about it, and the same goes for them about you.

They don't know everything either. Not really.

They know your name is Rory Gilmore. They know your history (what they've seen and what you've told them, anyway) and they plan your future. But they don't know what you've done. Not really. They all have dreams of what you're going to accomplish, what great things you'll be and do and see...but they don't see the mistakes you've made. The one mistake you hope they'll never see.

On the face of it all, you're a normal girl. You live in a house, you go to college, you've got two parents, albeit separated, and a loving group of friends and family called Stars Hollow. You're beautiful and smart and funny, the darling of the town. And ever since you were a little girl, you always dreamt of something more – something daring, exciting, and breathtaking. You never stopped to wonder whether you could handle it.

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"Mum, I want to go away," you say. You don't mention where (Europe) or when (although it's implied) or with whom (Grandma).

You watch as she looks up from her coffee, and you immediately notice the danish crumbs scattered sparingly on her lips, and the errant strand of hair that has caught itself in the frames of her glasses. You hear as she hoarsely says the word, "Okay," and you feel that same old tingling sensation you get when you know something big is about to happen. She looks down, thinking.

What? You want to know. Are you judging me? Am I asking too much?

"Where were you, ah, thinking of going?" She says. It's quiet. It seems to you at first as if she sounds enthusiastic, but then you hear it – that little break in her voice before "going" – and you think maybe she doesn't want this.

Ugh! Who am I kidding! Of course she doesn't want this. Her only daughter, an adulteress at the age of nineteen, wants to go away and leave her alone. I, her best friend, am isolating her for the first time since I got that detention in the eighth grade for reading "Lady Chatterley's Lover" during French class. All she wants to do is help, and I'm not letting her do it her way.

But I need this.

"Europe," you tell her. "With Grandma."

She mouths the words back at you. You can't manage to hold her gaze any longer and drop your eyes to her lap where her right thumb is rubbing circles into her left index finger, whilst the others lie laced together in a tense lattice.

She understands me. You tell yourself. She understands me.

You're pleading now. Unconsciously, subconsciously, you plead for her approval. Silence settles upon you both. Its presence deafens, but your pleading rises above it. You're screaming now. The silence is confining, restricting, and you want out. You want to be able to breathe again, you want for your heart to be able to beat without hurting... You want, you want, you want...

"Look, Rory...Baby, I know you're hurting. And I know what it feels like to make a mistake, and to want to run away. I mean you're talking to the Queen of Mistakes and Running Away – if there was an Emmy for this, I'd win it for sure...but...sweetie, I don't want you to feel that you can't talk to me. I ran away because I couldn't communicate with my parents, and I don't want that to happen to us. I will always be there for you, no matter what and..."

"I know, Mum, I know. And I promise, I'm not running away. I am definitely coming back – I mean, I love Grandma and all, but she's not you, and I don't need her like I need you. But I also need this, now, and I can't stay here."

She's quiet again. You imagine she's thinking.

"How long?" she finally says, and you let out a slow, drawn out breath.

You name the feeling washing over you, Relief, and the one that is rising up in your throat, Gratitude. You cross to the other side of the table and your arms encircle her in the tightest hug you can manage, and inside yourself, you whisper.

Thank you.