A/N: Lit fluff. Rory's POV. Reviews are basically what I live for.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, as always.
Some days she wonders about what she could've had. What they could've been.
She uses the excuse that everyone does it; wonders about past loves, past lives. She uses the excuse, but she knows it isn't true.
Everyone said he would be bad for her. He was. He never called, he didn't tell her anything, he left, he came back, he left again, came back again, left again, came back again. But the last time, it was her that went to him.
And she was only as bad as he was.
She knew it, too. Se hurt him, probably worse than he hurt her, because back then she didn't know how she felt. She was stupid, and young, naive enough to think that she never loved him. That he was only in it for one thing. Maybe she just listened to them because she was too afraid to listen to herself.
But he knew. Not then, but later, when he had gotten his life together so well that it was better than hers. He was happy. He didn't need her. That was what made her so sad. But he showed her that he was ready, finally, three years too late—but, hey, at least he got there, right?
She threw his heart back into his face. No, it was more than that. She stamped it into the ground, broke it into pieces, twisted it and shattered it. Fucking destroyed it. She said that it didn't matter how well his life was, he would always be her back-up. At least, that's what he heard.
But when she thought back on it, she realized that it wasn't what she meant. Her mind told her something else, something different. It said that she wasn't ready, that she was scared and vulnerable, and she knew that her life—herself—would never be in line with what she wanted it to be. It would never have the fulfillment that his did, the hope and relativity and pride that he had found, somewhere in the corners of his mind.
He would never know.
It wasn't fair that he wouldn't, but it was what it happened, it was the way it had to be. The thoughts came quickly, too quickly for her to notice that it was him she was thinking of. Another reason he had long since been ready before her. He had always known it was her. So had she, but she hadn't figured it out.
She hated that it was too late. She hated that she had lost her chance, that her tears were real and for him, the guy that was never there, but always on her mind. Everyone hated them, together, but they could see it, too—that what they had wasn't just some teenage fling. It was real.
She wished she had a way. She wished that she would wake up and find it a dream. She missed him, but mostly, she missed them. The thing that could disappear into the ground, the grass and earth folding around it, enveloping it in a cloud, telling her that it was the opposite. She knew it already, though. She didn't need any help.
Because no matter what anyone said, she would never be good enough for him.
A knock on the door. She didn't want to answer it; she didn't want to face whoever it was that was there. No one should see her like this. But she was bitterly denying that this was what she had become. Without him.
Another knock. Who the hell comes to someone's door at one in the morning anyway? She was allowed the what-ifs, the guilty minutes that rolled by when she wondered what she was ever going to do with her life. She seriously considered becoming a monk.
Knock. She could swear whoever it was was knocking the melody to a song. Guns of Brixton? Were they serious? Just another footnote in her mind.
She opened the door. The guy's hand stopped in mid-air, poised for another knock, another word in the song. His face looked nervous when his eyes met hers, filling her with air, lifting her up. She was floating, or falling—it was definitely one or the other. It didn't really matter, as long as he was there.
He started talking. He said that he had found her address, and that he needed to tell her something. He needed to tell her face to face, even if it meant they would both end up hurt.
Her eyes were hopeful, but her voice was normal when she asked if he'd like to come in. He said yes, and they sat down at the kitchen table in her small apartment.
Her eyes were still bloodshot, and her hair was mussed, her shirt was crooked and she was desperately in need of a cup of coffee. She found it so amazing that he had found her when she had wanted him most. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she could turn her life around and make herself be good enough. Maybe he would give her another chance.
He said that he couldn't do any small talk, and she smiled at how he was still the same as when he was seventeen and brooding. When he asked her why she was smiling, she just shook her head.
He took a deep breath, continuing on what he had been saying. Finally, he just blurted it out. I'm getting married, he said.
Her face felt numb. Was the room spinning? Maybe. How much of an idiot was she, thinking that she deserved another chance. Second chances are one thing. She had had too many of those.
No, she had been right. His life was too good for her, as was he. He was the epiphany of getting-it-together, of love and hate and remorse. Of remembrance. He was the guy in the book that got turned down by the girl, then made his life better than ever, and spit back in her face. She was the girl whose life went tumbling down the minute he stopped believeing in her, because there was no one's opinion left that mattered.
She knew the difference between floating and falling. She had been falling. Because floating can go on forever, you can live in that vision of half-real/half-fantasy, her body weightless and your mind young, no matter how old you get. But falling was just a trick. It felt like floating, it had that weightlessness, but then you hit the ground, surprised, because it had only been then when you realized you were going down instead of up.
He asked her if she was okay, she said that she wasn't. She said that she was falling. He almost laughed at the writer inside her; it was something that he would've said.
She knew that he found it amusing. She didn't blame him. Here was Rory Gilmore, former town princess, whose life was now so fucked up that Jess Mariano, former bad boy, had even given up hope in her. But it was his hope that had always been there.
He said there was something else. She almost started falling again, this time ready for the drop, before his eyes met hers. They were the same, she realized. They were still dark and sad, but they were the same in a different way, too. They still looked at her.
I'm getting married, he said again, and I was hoping that you could do something for me.
She forced a smile. She wanted him to be happy, even if she was dieing. She wanted so much for him to just kiss her; she wanted him to tell her that he had been lying, that there had only ever been one girl for her, and that was her. Even if she wasn't good enough for him. She knew it wouldn't happen, but she hadn't deemed it impossible. After all, he still looked at her.
She asked him what he wanted her to do, and his gaze lay on her for the longest time. She didn't think it could ever be over, with them. It could never be over.
I was hoping, he said, that familiar smirk playing on his lips, even when her life was crashing down upon her, I was hoping, he repeated, that you could be the bride.
She stopped her trance that had been memorizing him; the contours of his face, his hair, his body, his antics, praying to at least have this memory to add to the string of ones that haunted her always. Floating?
She couldn't form any words, so she did the next best thing. She crashed her lips to his, relaying everything that she had kept with her for so long, the sadness, the longing, the hoping, the sweetness. Maybe even the love.
He told her that he couldn't let go, not without one final try. She just kissed him again. I'm sorry, she said. He said that he had always known.