Diclaimer: I own not, you sue not. No copyright infringement intended. GG not mine, duh. Song is called "Walking By" by Something Corporate ... once again, not mine.
Thanks: Becca, for everything. You are amazing. Thanks for putting up with me.
Unfinished
I.
Why do you leave these stories unfinished?
She used to stare at him sometimes, not blatantly, but sometimes when he's at his desk, typing away spoof-articles to annoy Doyle, she'd focus her eyes his way. Just watching, she told herself.
She liked studying him, liked how his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his mouth always appeared to be in motion, how he liked to stuff his hands into his pockets.
She liked to watch him when he was by himself, liked how quiet he seemed when he was not surrounded by his entourage.
But not anymore; it hurts to watch him now.
She'd always enjoyed it afterwards, lying tangled up next to him, listening as their breathing coincided. Now, she wishes that they could have done that more often; just laying there, being quiet.
She's filled with regrets, overflowing with doubt.
She puts her hand to her heart, feeling it constrict, very tight all of a sudden.
She walks into her bedroom, but it's not the same. The scent isn't like it used to be; it's no longer laced with his cologne. She's finding out that she doesn't like the smell of vanilla scented candles unless it's mixed with his scent.
On her table, she finds the picture taken at the only Life and Death Brigade event she'd ever been to, the only event she'll ever see. A smile comes to her lips, unconsciously, but it quickly disappears. She puts down the picture so that she only sees the white side.
She doesn't want to be reminded.
It's different now; he doesn't consume her world like he used to.
She's fallen back to routine; back to the life she lived before that fateful day when he met her outside of her dorm. She's finding out that it's not the same anymore, that the normalcy in which she lives in doesn't taste the way it used to.
She's finding out that she's developed a taste for something more.
She bumps into him sometimes, in the hallways of the newspapers, by the coffee cart, in class. They exchange the polite hellos, how are yous, and then they go their separate ways, as if this happened all the time. As if he'd never seen her underneath the covers, as if he'd never heard her whisper his name a thousand times, as if he'd never made her cry.
She plays the part well; obliviousness suits her like a second layer of skin.
She can play his game; she can come out of this unscathed and unaffected.
Right?
Well, of course she can.
She can be just as impassive, just as cool, as he appears.
She can do this.
Shaking her head, she tumbles onto her bed, pulling up the covers to shield the light.
Of course she can't.
She was stupid to think so, stupid to believe that she could do this without getting hurt.
But the truth of the matter is that she's lost without him; she'd never realized how much until now, when she's alone and pathetic and every song on the radio reminds her of how it used to be. The hole in her heart grows wider and she can't seem to find anything to fill it; she can't seem to find anyone who fits like he used to.
One day, she relapses and dials the number before she realizes what she is doing. The ringing continues for an eternity before his voicemail picks up. She should have known that he'd be out.
She drops the phone, horrified, and steps away from it.
She squeezes her eyes shut, forcing the tears back, but they tumble out anyway.
She's always hated break-ups, but this time it's different.
They were never really a couple.
The dinner dates, nights to the movies and plays, lunches in Stars Hollow meant nothing. Nothing. It was never official, and she was always waiting for words that he could never say. Maybe he didn't want to.
She opens her eyes wide, hoping the tears would dissolve.
It works a little, but not much.
She's suddenly reminded of the night that she spent in Stars Hollow, consoling her mother after a brief and nasty break up with Luke. The words that her mother said rings in her mind, incessant and unforgiving.
He could have been the one.
The thought is ridiculous in her mind, but the doubt remains.
She'd give anything to take back her words.
I think we should call this off.
Oh.
This isn't working out.
Why?
I …
She'd give anything for a moment in time to stop her legs from running out of his dorm room, tears streaming as Colin and Finn passed her, heading toward their own rooms.
… love you.
She'd give anything to be blind to the fact that he's arm in arm with a new girl every week, while she's rejected all of the offers that have come her way. She used to reason that it was because it was customary to have a mourning period.
But since when has she been so conventional?
It was because she knew that everyone would pale in comparison to him.
Who wants a cheap imitation when you can have the real thing?
She'd give anything to stop seeing the looks that he gives his new interest every time they appear at the newspaper (at the coffee cart, in the hallways, in class). She always feels her stomach drop upon seeing that look, that crinkle-eyed, half smile smirk, that look that was supposed to be meant for her.
But now she knows.
She was nothing special; he gave that look to everybody.
He wasn't hers to claim; he never was.
She's on her way to finally accepting the reality.
She's almost there.
Almost.
A knock at the door.
She comes over to the door, pulls on the knob, and she finds him outside the room.
Almost doesn't count.
"You owe me answers, Rory." He says, eyes locking on hers.
She nods, still shocked by the sight of him in front of her, but then she comes to her senses; stepping aside, she lets him in, wondering if this is what she's been waiting for.
II.
Why do you look when you've already found me?
She doesn't watch him anymore, he's noticed. Sometimes he'd turn his head to her desk, in hopes to catch her, but that's not the case nowadays. He's never noticed 'til now how much he misses her gazes; the ones that were always aimed at him.
Instead, he finds that her face is focused straight ahead, at her computer, and she's typing away at full speed.
Sometimes he gets an urge to send her an instant message, just to say hello, but he suppresses the temptation. He doesn't know where to go after the polite greeting.
He's not sure how to talk to her anymore, so he avoids it altogether. He's trying to make it as easy as possible for her, or is it for himself? It's hard to be sure of anything these days.
He's fallen back into routine; he sees more girls than he likes to admit, parties more than usual, and drops by the newspaper more than he needs to.
He reasons that it's because his father is finally breathing down his neck, nagging him to show some interest in the profession that's destined for him.
It's not because he wants to see her.
It's not because he misses her.
Sometimes he finds himself thinking about little moments they shared together, how worried she had been after her mother called her, how all he'd wanted was to hold her until all the bleakness in her gaze had passed.
It's those little moments in time that are etched in his memory, those little smiles that graces her face, those strands of hair that he tucks behind her hair, those things. The things that he once viewed to be insignificant now play a greater role than he wants them to.
It's funny how some things change.
And it's fucking hilarious how some things don't.
He stands in his room, eyes on the mirror, as he gets ready. What's her name again? Sheryl-no, Jackie-wait, or is it Callie? Alisa, he decides. Yes, Alisa. Or is it …..
This is just pathetic.
He sighs, coming to the conclusion that it doesn't matter anyway.
It'll be over before it even starts.
He glances at his watch as it blinks back a reminder to him.
7:45
7:46
He's late.
Sighing, he wonders if it's even worth it. He pulls out his cell phone from his pocket and is surprised by the message displayed: one missed call. He stares at the number and is taken back by the familiarity.
He's never been more confused in his entire life.
I think we should call this off.
Oh.
This isn't working out.
Why?
I …
And then she'd ran, tears streaming down and soaking her shirt in the process.
He'd been left without his mouth hanging open, trying to comprehend the whole thing. Later, when Finn and Colin entered the room, they'd ask in amazement what he'd done to her. Still in shock, he'd replied that he didn't know.
Because he didn't.
He had no idea.
He still has no idea.
Later, he'd tried calling her, but was unpleasantly met with her voicemail. He hadn't left a message because he figured that if she wanted to call, she would. If she wanted to find him, she would.
If she wanted this, she would come.
But she didn't.
The realization that it was over came to him when he'd seen her at the newspaper, and she didn't so much as look at him. It was then that he finally saw the finality of it hanging over him.
But now, as he stares down at his phone with the numbers blinking back to him, the frustration comes back. The memory of her walking out comes rushing back like a flood, and he can't seem to stop the water.
Doubt drenches him in its uncertainty, making him wonder.
Is that what he's been waiting for?
III
Why do you leave these questions unanswered?
"You owe me answers, Rory," he says, locking eyes with her.
Gulping, she steps aside and allows him room for entrance. When she's closed the door, and they're faced to face, her body begins to shake in the never-ending silence.
This is torture.
She opens her mouth, finds it dry, and closes it again. She's not sure of what to say. Her hand begins to quiver and the mask comes off.
She's so afraid.
Clearing her throat, she forces herself to speak, "Look, Logan…"
"How are you?" he starts off, not knowing what else to say just yet. Maybe later (much later?), when his mind is forming coherent thoughts, he might be able to string together words that actually makes sense.
The shock of it hits him like the December wind: he's afraid too.
"I'm fine, and yourself?" she lies, willing her voice to be steady.
"Good." I miss you.
"Well, good. I'm glad," she repeats, hoping that if she says it enough times, she'll eventually believe herself.
Silence fills the room, entering every crevice, pounding into their ears.
Trying to break the silence, he clears his throat, starts to pace around, and asks the question that's been on his mind ever since he knocked on her door: "Why did you call?"
"I…" she starts to say, but upon seeing that no words were coming out, she closes her mouth. The words in her mind can't seem to reach her lips for some reason, so she stands quiet and trembling before him.
I miss you. I love you. I'm sorry.
Sighing, he stops pacing and goes to stick his hands into his pockets.
He's waiting for her.
"I…" she starts again, but to no avail.
(She's not coming.)
"I thought we were okay," he says softly. "I don't understand, Rory, I really don't."
I was afraid. I miss you. I'm sorry.
She tries again, "Logan…"
"No, I don't understand why I canceled my date tonight, immediately, when I saw your number in my cell phone. I don't understand why I had to rush over here, making things incredibly awkward for both of us," he thinks out loud, his face lively and animated.
"I'm sorry…" she whispers, but he doesn't hear her.
"I don't understand why I come into that godforsaken newsroom, expecting that you're going to call off this fucking charade," he spits out bitterly, jaw clenched.
"I'm sorry…" she tries again, lips trembling as she speaks.
"I don't understand why I'm still waiting for you," he says, soft and defeated, and the weight that she's been holding drops at his words.
Shaking, she comes closer so that they're face to face. She reaches her hand out, takes his into her own, and pulls it close to her heart. She squeezes her eyes shut, and the tears that she's been holding drops on their joined hand.
"I'm sorry," she says, loud enough so that he can hear. Sighing, he brings his free hand to her face and uses his thumb to brush away her tears.
He cannot stand to see her cry.
"Okay," he nods.
Gulping, she leans in close to him so that they're a breath away, and whispers, "I was scared of you. I still am."
"Why?"
"I…." she whispers. There's no going back now. "…I'm scared that once you see that I'm not great as I'm advertised to be, you're going to leave."
She closes her eyes.
"I can't watch you leave."
"Rory…"
"I'm scared that when you compare me to them, I come up short."
He sighs, "Rory…"
"I'm afraid that you think they're prettier and smarter and better and I'm…"
He closes the distance betweens them, kissing her silent.
"…boring."
He leans into her, touching foreheads, and whispers back, "You're beautiful and intelligent and not at all boring."
"I…."
"One of these days, you're going to believe me."
She looks up, meets his eyes, and finds nothing but warmth. She leans into him again and breathes in the familiar smell. His hands drop down, resting on her hips, and he lips draw close to her ear.
Leaning closer, he whispers, "I'm scared too."
Surprised, she steps back and finds his eyes again, afraid.
She finds nothing but truth.
"Okay," she accepts.
"Okay."