Author's Note: Okay. This is a different kind of story idea coming from me. It's set in a slightly alternate universe, meaning all of the events up to Season Four have happened, but no one has returned to Tree Hill. Except Haley and Nathan. They still live there, and raise Jamie. Lucas did come back for a while, right after Nathan's accident. But he couldn't stay there forever. The others have moved on. Brooke's living in New York, promoting her label and being a fashion designer. Peyton's still in California. She did create her own label, however. And Lucas is in Charlotte, trying to write his next book. Basically, all of the events surrounding characters in season five did happen. Nathan did have his accident. Lucas was engaged to Lindsey. Brooke does take care of the baby. But they're all doing it separately. Oh, and the Comet book was still written. He just didn't publish it.
Now, this first chapter is Lucas struggling to meet a deadline of a new manuscript. The chapters following will be excerpts from Lucas's actual book. It might be confusing at first, but I think you'll all catch on.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any characters from One Tree Hill. I am only responsible for their fictional corruption. I also don't own the song Letterrs to You (by Finch), even though I stole the title.
It was quiet. The only sound that filled the apartment was the dull tapping of his fingers on the keys. The light from his laptop bathed the room in an eerie blue glow. He stifled a yawn, staring down at the document in front of him. The words all seemed to run together, and it didn't make sense. Whatever he was writing now wasn't working. He could tell that much. But he had writer's block. And according to his editor, the only way to get rid of writer's block was to write.
But whenever he wrote, all that came out was a bunch of mixed up words and sentences that didn't seem to fit. Since publishing his first book, he'd fallen into a slump. You couldn't make a living on one book. His editor told him that, too.
He tapped his fingers idly against the desk, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. A shoebox was lying on the corner of his desk. It was an old shoebox, beaten and weathered, and the lid was missing. Arching an eyebrow slightly, he reached out and tipped the box over, the contents spilling onto the desk and littering his laptop with several envelopes and pieces of stationary. The Brooke box.
It was actually one of two Brooke boxes. The other one was large, and filled with everything from pictures to articles of clothing. It was stashed away in his old room in his mother's house. This one followed him around wherever he went. Sometimes, when he had writer's block, he'd dig out her old letters and read them. The Brooke in those letters was so honest…so raw. He always got inspired to write after reading her letters.
He pushed the letters off of his laptop, inhaling sharply. The lingering scent of her perfume clogged his senses. Picking up one of the letters from the pile, he traced the letters of his name: Lucas. Her handwriting was so careful. The 'L' was bolded, as if she'd gone over it with her pen many times. His eyes scanned the letter briefly before he slid all eighty-two letters back into the box.
He opened up a blank word document and began to type.
Letters to You; Lucas Scott.
His fingers halted upon the keyboard. And then the words began pouring onto the page, as if the keyboard had a mind of its own and he wasn't the author. After a few moments, the tapping of keys drowned out and he sat back to look at his work so far. It read:
In life, there are people you love. And, in life, you inevitably end up hurting those you love. It's a fact of life. Every action has an equal to opposite reaction. Every choice has consequences. I really have a lot to say to those people, a lot to make up for. I should have said it a long time ago, when I had the chance. But everything's easier in writing. I wrote letters to you all, once. I never sent them.
Just because I never sent them doesn't mean they meant nothing. They did. I just wasn't sure I worded things right, or I lost your address, or we lost touch. Those are excuses. Really, I never sent the letters because I was afraid. We all make mistakes. We all have things to apologize for. We all have things we wish we'd said. But some of these apologies and admissions are long overdue. For that, I'm sorry. I never sent those letters, but now I'll publish them in a book. Think of it as my own personal public diary.
My name is Logan Young, and these are my letters to you. You know who you are.