My eyes flew open and I sat straight up in my bed. I could feel myself sweating through my old Yale t-shirt. What was that? It had taken me years, but I was sure that I had finally packed all of those feelings into a tiny, imaginary box and buried them somewhere deep inside. Some days, keeping that box locked up was harder that it should be after all these years, but I had not had a dream like that in a long time; a dream about him… about Logan.

I sat in the dim room; lit only by the television I had fallen asleep to, trying to recall the details of the dream. I had been sitting at my desk at work; alone in an empty office, after everyone else had gone home for the night. Staring at the half finished article on my computer screen, I knew it was missing something… what it really needed was an angle. I was trying to come up with something inspiring, but was at a loss. That's when the phone rang… There it is; this is where Logan comes in. I could feel beads of sweat starting to form again as I continued to replay the dream. As I answered the phone I heard his smooth, confident voice came through the receiver, "I'll help you with your article; you just have to agree to a few conditions."

Hearing his voice is what woke me up. It was so familiar, and felt so real. He had made that promise before, not in a dream, but in real life, years ago when we were working at the Yale Daily News. That was the beginning of us. We had known each other before, but that weekend with the Life and Death Brigade was the start of something, even if neither one of us wanted to admit it at the time. Logan was just so magnetic, even when I was trying to dislike him. He was adventurous, and always a little cocky, but he was smart enough to back it up. He could be reckless and he made mistakes, but underneath his devil-may-care façade, he really was sincere, and even romantic. And that smirk; that little half smile of his that he knew exactly how to use to his advantage… I never stood a chance. Even when things hadn't been easy between us, we were still good together. We had fun together, and we…

Stop it. Why am I doing this to myself? That was almost four years ago. We have been apart twice as long as we were together, and I haven't heard a word from him in all that time. Sitting in the dark, thinking about what once was? Why am I such a masochist? This is what that tiny, invisible box is for. I just need to shove it all back in, lock it up and throw away the key. I need coffee.

I could see through the two small windows above my bed that it was still dark outside, and a glance at my alarm clock told me that it was almost 4:30. 4:30 in the morning? I haven't been up this early since the campaign ended, and even then, at this hour I was probably half asleep with my face against the bus window on the way to our next stop. Even still, I am not risking going back to sleep now. At this point I would probably end up sleeping through my alarm, or worse, I could fall back into a dream that I would rather not revisit. I rolled out of bed and shuffled my way to the other side of my apartment in search of caffeine. Normally I consider the auto timer on the coffee maker to be one of the greatest inventions of our time, but it did me no good this morning; I was awake before the machine was even warm. I hopped in a quick shower, hoping to clear my head while I waited for my coffee to brew.

I filled the largest mug I have full of fresh coffee and sat down on my well-worn couch in front of the TV, with CNN still on from the night before. I never have time to do this… Maybe I should get up early more often. Right, like that's going to happen. I decided I might as well enjoy some 'me' time while I have it. As I sat there enjoying my coffee, I found myself looking around my apartment. It was a tiny studio on the fourth floor of a pre-war walk up, not in the best shape, and not in the best neighborhood – definitely outside the magical, rent-controlled world of big city sitcoms. When I landed my job at The Post I took what I could afford. My mom isn't thrilled that I live here at all, let alone by myself, and if she ever told Luke how much I pay to live here, he would absolutely lose it. For that matter, my grandparents would probably have the building condemned if they ever saw it, but I don't mind it. It's a little small… okay a lot small… I have to use my oven as an extra bookshelf, but honestly, what else would I use it for anyway?

Looking around my cramped but cozy space I was actually very happy to be living there, proud even – I was making it in New York like I had always wanted. I pulled a blanket over my feet, thankful to be where I am, even with the late winter cold spell that had settled over the city… although, enjoying my morning coffee under a big avocado tree in a sunny backyard wouldn't be so bad either…

What is wrong with me today? I shook my head and downed the rest of what was in my mug, imagining that tiny, invisible box. Lock it up. I shuffled through the garment rack that served as my closet to find something to wear to work. Maybe if I get my day started I will be able to get my head on straight. I put on my grey suit, picked a pair of black pumps out from under my bed and pulled on my coat. I grabbed a Pop Tart out of the cabinet as I picked up my bag and headed out the door. Down the block from my apartment I boarded the M train and rode the 20 minutes to 51st Street. On my way into the building I stopped at the coffee cart on the corner. I still haven't found coffee as good as Luke's, but this was a decent substitute… so was that personal coffee cart at Yale. Shaking my head once again at my own ridiculousness, I bought my second cup for the day and headed into the lobby. I really need to get to work.

When the campaign was winding down three years ago I must have sent resumes out to a hundred newspapers and online magazines. I had gotten some offers from smaller papers in Boston and D.C., but I knew that I wanted to be in New York. What I really wanted was The New York Times, but I had been through it before, losing out on another job holding out for them. Just before the inauguration I got a call from the New York Post. A fact checking job was open, a low paying and pretty much thankless position, but once I paid my dues I would have my chance, and I got it. After almost a year of fact checking I talked my way into a features assignment and got my first byline, and not too long afterword I got myself a desk in the newsroom.

It was early, so it was still quiet in the office when I sat down. In the back of my mind there was a faint familiarity to my dream, but I successfully quashed that feeling. I had a few emails waiting for me and a couple of potential assignments sitting in my inbox. I was getting through the emails when I got a text from my friend Leslie, wanting to meet at the coffee cart downstairs. She was understandably shocked to learn that I was already at my desk, and it was only ten minutes later that she was standing over me, demanding to know what was up. Crap.

Les and I were in the trenches together when we started at The Post. After a martini fueled Breakfast Club experience one night after work, as she sloppily tied her blonde hair into a bun, she filled me in on how she came to New York from Chicago on a whim after her boyfriend, Ben, broke her heart when he cheated on her. She had written freelance before she landed the fact checking gig at The Post. For my part, the gin spilled to hear about having turned down Logan's proposal, how he took off for California while I ended up on the campaign and I haven't heard from him since. In response, Leslie ordered another round of drinks, we vowed to leave all of that in the past in favor of fresh starts in the city, and we've been friends ever since.

My plan for the morning had been to dive into work and try to forget about all of the craziness that had been running through my head, but Leslie knew me too well. She knew something was up and she wasn't going to let it go. She dragged me into the break room, sat me down at the table and put a fresh cup of coffee in front of me, "Spill."

I reluctantly started to tell her about the dream, but stopped short in the middle of my sentence. For the first time today I noticed the date. From the large wall calendar hanging behind Leslie's head it stood out like a sore thumb. Someone may as well have highlighted every inch of the little square… it's his birthday.

It really shouldn't matter. Why would I even notice that? I haven't spoken to him at all, let alone wished him happy birthday in four years. And anyway, he never made a big deal about his birthday… But I did. I remembered the hoopla-filled, Gilmore-approved extravaganza I planned for his 25th… Stop. I took a deep breath and a big gulp of coffee before I looked at Leslie. She was waiting with baited breath, so I continued.

As I finished my dream synopsis, I was expecting her to tell me to snap out of it, as we had always done for each other on the rare occasion that our past had come up to haunt us, but instead she looked at me through her mascaraed lashes with her mouth tight.

Now I was the one who was sure something was up. "What?"

"Rory…" She sighed, clearly struggling internally with whether or not what she had to say should be said, "He's in the city."

** I do not own any characters or content related to Gilmore Girls or any other entities mentioned. **

A/N - Thank you to everyone who is re-experiencing this story, and welcome to anyone who is finding it for the first time. As I said in the Author's Note in After Four Years, I will be releasing a couple of chapters at a time in anticipation of new material. I hope you continue to read, because I am really looking forward to it! As always, please comment and favorite. I love hearing from you! xoxo