Globes and Maps, a gilmore girls fanfic

Title: Globes and Maps

Author: Angeleyez

Summary: Future. Complete. Rory lives the dream. Jess waits by the phone.

Disclaimer: Gilmore Girls is not mine. Something Corporate is not mine. Hell, the title isn't even mine.

A/N: Title taken from the Something Corporate song of the same name. Dedicated to Mai and Lia because I miss talking to them, and Arianna, who is incredibly helpful and encouraging. This is a one parter, by the way. Feedback would be much appreciated.

He returns home around nine after countless hours spent wandering the city. He vaguely remembers walking the sidewalks, his feet keeping him in constant motion while his mind drifted away. There was never a destination in mind, only the road stretching far ahead of him, and his natural instinct to follow it. Now, as he moves through the apartment, he realizes how long he's been gone. He feels it too: the stiffening of his joints, and the strain in his muscles spreading to his calves. He grew up in New York weary of using public transportation when he didn't have to; he's used to distance. But years and years of this catch up with him in a single day, leaving him sore and off-balance.

He enters the bedroom, his limbs screaming for rest, but he pauses when he flips on the light. The bed is still a mess of tangled sheets and her clothes. It hasn't been made since the day before, when he spent the afternoon lying inside her, memorizing every detail of her face, her hands, her body. The images come to him now, out of the corners of his mind where they hid while he walked miles and miles, trying to outrun what he couldn't. He finds that he can still taste her skin, and feel her lips on his ear where she whispered over and over that she loved him. He can still remember the dread spreading slowly, because for the first time, he didn't believe her.

With a quick flick of his wrists, the blanket floats through the air, coming to rest on the mattress. Her clothes end up on the floor, but he ignores them in favor of crawling into bed. His eyes shut as soon as his head hits the pillow. The events of today, of the past few weeks, months, years, settle on his shoulders and chest, impairing his breathing. Sleep, which only moments ago was within his grasp, is pushed aside by the weight, and he sees his future: dozens of nights like this one. Sleepless and frustrating, and him lying awake, his mind always traveling back to today, to her voice and her tears, and the way her mouth curved into a frown when he had been counting on a smile. It all leads back to here, to her, and he can almost hate her for it, if he didn't already know that this is love — and this is sacrifice.

The phone rings, an intrusion on the silence in the apartment. He considers his position and the pain that now plagues most of his body, and almost decides to ignore it. But then the hazy face of sleep laughs at him from somewhere far away, reminding him that he can't reach it, and won't be able to for hours to come. This is actually a godsend, a distraction in the form of a call, and finally, he stumbles out of bed and into the living room. He picks up the portable and mumbles a greeting.

"Jess…" Her voice sounds small. Far away. He pictures tears sliding down her face, and her hands shaking. "I can't breathe."

The floor is uncomfortable beneath her, but she doesn't notice as she lifts her hand into the air, waving it in front of her eyes. She reaches toward the ceiling, curling the darkness around her fingers. Her other arm is by her side, keeping the phone attached to her ear, as his voice — gentle and calm — comforts her. His tone reminds her of someone who is talking down a jumper, and she thinks maybe he is. She can feel herself teetering, failure and loneliness waiting for her at the bottom. Her desperation pushes her further toward it, but he keeps talking, no anger filtering in despite what has transpired between them. She is eternally grateful as she feels her pulse slow, and the shaking subside.

They continue speaking long after she is grounded and settled in. Every time he pauses for too long, a stab of fear hits her square in the stomach, and she clenches her fist until his voice floods back over the line. Each pregnant pause could be him gathering courage, rehearsing words, finally, finally bringing up what the two of them will have to deal with eventually. He'll ask again, force the subject, and her mind will empty, leaving her with nothing to save herself. All he wants is one answer, one simple 'yes', and she knows she can't give it to him.

Again, she brings her hand near her face, the ring spinning with each movement. Wearing it makes her feel guilty, as if he can see her through the phone. But she is curious; she wants to know what it'd be like without actually having to make the mistake. The band is too big; it's loose on her finger. If she moves too fast, it will slip off. It has already, twice. Watching it fall causes her to shiver. She thinks of him in their apartment, alone and confused, and she shivers again.

"Rory?" He asks after several seconds of silence. She hadn't even noticed the lull.

"Yeah?" Here it is; she'll let him down.

The pause is longer this time, agonizing. "…How was your flight?"

"Fine," she says quietly, letting her arm fall back down beside her. The ring shoots off, and she tilts her head to watch it bounce away from her, across the hotel room floor.

She only calls late at night. During the day there are places to go, people to see, stories to find. In the first two weeks, she writes two articles. Her first covers the political unrest in the Middle East — same old, same old, he's read it all before. Her words are her own, but the facts never change, and he likes to imagine the expression on her face as she wrote it — uninterested, bored.

The second is on a minor terrorist attack, and it makes his stomach turn to think that she was there, so close, and at risk. The day after he reads it, they talk as he eats dinner, and she prepares to get into the shower. She doesn't mention it, so he doesn't either; but he hears it in her voice, an underlying layer of fear. Of curiosity.

It's always been like this. Before she left, before she was even offered the job, she'd have him stay up late with her, watching the news on the couch. She'd climb into his lap, his arms secure around her as the tragedies unfolded on screen. He'd always tighten his grip, pulling her closer, but even then, he could already sense that he had lost a part of her. She was out there, on site, surrounded by the misery. He couldn't protect her, not from what she wanted.

He still doesn't understand it…her. Growing up unhappy with one letdown after the other, he can't fathom why a person would go out, searching the world for disappointment and despair. He's dulled himself to the misery and the everyday tragedy that he finds just roaming the streets of the city. He doesn't need to go out and look for it. But she does; she has this insatiable need for something more, something different, something that'll mark her, and leave her changed.

It's just his luck that he got a girl with the small town curse.

Sleep never comes naturally for her. It has to be cajoled into appearing, and relaxing her body. She's not used to the stiff mattress of foreign hotels, or the generic look of every object in her room. She's stayed in three so far, and each one looked the same. The only thing that constantly changes is the language on the TV.

Jess doesn't know this, but in the luggage she carries, she has a bottle of his cologne — brand new, and taken from the back of the bathroom closet, so he won't notice right away. This is usually the ticket to a peaceful night, a dab here and there on her pillow, the sheets. When she closes her eyes, the only sound her breathing, she can pretend she's back in New York, back with him.

Sometimes she spends her nights tossing and turning, trying to define the word 'home' in her head, because now that she's so far away, it's what she dreams of. She likes to think that the apartment she shares with him is her home, their home, but sometimes she isn't sure. In the weeks before she left, the rooms felt stifling and awkward — not hers. She didn't understand it; she never used to get like that.

She tries to ignore the fact that even though she misses him terribly, there is no overwhelming urge to rush back there. She'd do it, for him, but there is a certain excitement in living out of a suitcase, not knowing for sure where she'll be the next day. She promised him she'd come home as soon as she could. Breaks will come, and she'll fly in for a few days, and it'll be perfect. She can live in two worlds — have everything she wants. It'll work out for the best, even though the ring doesn't fit, and he never mentions it, and she still doesn't think he meant it in the first place.

"What are you doing?"

"Skydiving," he jokes.

"Oh. Sounds exciting."

"Can't sleep?"

"No," she answers. It's three in the morning, and she has to get up in a few hours. She needs this rest. "Tell me about your day."

"What's there to tell? I went to work, came home, ate dinner."

"Alright, now try telling me about it again… but this time, spruce it up."

"On the way to work this morning, I rescued a bunch of orphans from a burning building."

"Orphans, huh? I must ask, who are these orphans and why are they always getting stuck in fires?"

"Horrible luck," he comments.

"So you were a hero today?"

"Yup, but the popularity was short-lived when speculation rose that I was the one to start the fire."

"Dashing hero to mad arsonist. Ouch. Sounds like you had your fifteen minutes."

"I guess you've just begun yours."

She's so quiet, that he thinks she's hung up. When the dial tone doesn't sound in his ear, he realizes she's still on the line. But he's said the wrong thing; he's hurt her. He doesn't think he meant to do it. But somehow, he always manages to.

"I'm not here for that," she finally says.

"I know."

She's silent again, longer this time. "I have to get to sleep."

"Okay," he replies, preparing to hang up.

"Talk to me a little longer?"

"Sure."

She pulls the blankets up around her, and before long, his voice serenades her to sleep.

One morning, he takes a ten o' clock lunch. He chooses a nearby diner with greasy food and mounted televisions in each corner. He sits at a table for two, facing the right wall. The waitress places a mug of coffee and a menu down in front of him, as he peeks out around her, trying to catch the screen.

He attempts to flip through the menu. The pages stick to one another, glued together with month old syrup. It doesn't matter though; he isn't there to eat. He simply sits, and waits; eyes on the TV, and her voice from last night flowing through his head. She sounds calm, but there is a hushed tone of excitement that he picks up on — she's nervous too. This will be her first on-screen news report. And it'll be the first time he's seen her in two months.

His drink cools, and the waitress stares over, uninterested in his presence, but worried about her tip. His allotted time for lunch passes, but he remains. He watches the two reporters on screen, their mouths moving, the sound off, and he tries to read the headlines that flood across the bottom. The letters blur against the background color, so he can't make out any of the words. Distracted, he gulps down the rest of his lukewarm coffee.

And then, she appears.

He watches from his seat, not moving, afraid he'll miss something. Sangfroid looks good on her, and he tries to imagine her voice, steady and strong, and god, it's overwhelming. Pride replaces the lingering anger at her departure, and he's happy, really happy for her. She's there, she's a reporter, she's living her dream.

He stands up, and walks closer for a better look. None of the other diner patrons seem to mind, so he stands right in front of it, head tilted up toward her. He wonders how many people are at home, at work, at a restaurant, watching this — watching her. It strikes him that he has to share her now. He waves the thought off.

Her surroundings are clearer from this perspective — she's outside. There's a breeze, and it disturbs her hair, and every few seconds, it hits her in the face. She's finished talking, but there's a small delay before they cut back to the newsroom. He watches her brush her hair back behind her ear, right hand clutching the microphone, her left trying to fight the wind.

She's gone again, but still, he stares at the screen where she used to be, where her hand was, where the ring should have been. He turns around, and throws a few bills on the table before getting the hell out of there. It seems as if he has his answer.

The television is always on now, the channel never changing. He isn't an avid watcher, and has gotten in the habit of working on his laptop in the kitchen. The news provides background noise that he barely notices, but her voice always makes him pause. Sometimes he doesn't look. Sometimes he's transfixed.

"Hello?"

Jess falters at the sound of a male voice. He almost never calls her, and it's now very clear why. She must have switched hotels. "Sorry, I think I have the wrong room."

He's about to hang up when, "Is this Jess?"

Confused, he responds, "Yeah."

"Hold on, she's in the shower. I'll get her."

A faintly familiar feeling prickles at the back of his neck. And he thought the school days of jealousy were over. A moment passes where he only hears static, and then there is movement, muffled voices, the man's and hers, overlapping one another. He frowns into the phone.

"Jess?" She asks. The happiness in her voice throws him off. He isn't expecting it.

"Hey," he says. "Who was that?"

"Oh, that was Burke. We were assigned the same story. It's amazing… he's been doing this for three years! I couldn't believe it. He's been giving some real useful advice."

"That's great."

"He's just a nice guy. That's it."

"And I reiterate: that's great."

"Okay," she says to fill up air. The cheerfulness is gone; he feels guilty.

"Happy birthday."

"You remembered!"

"You sound surprised."

"I am, a little. Thanks for calling." She pauses. "I'm sorry, but I have to go get ready. Can I call you later?"

"Of course."

It happens at the most inopportune times. Most often when she is standing before the camera, minutes before they go live. There is nothing around to remind her, yet it happens. She remembers certain moments with him, arbitrary and insignificant, ripped out of the bigger picture of their relationship. She remembers nights on the couch, lying on top of him, with his hand on her back, and her head resting on his chest. His heartbeat filled her head then… now; it's the only thing she hears. Her eyes appear glassy as she stares off into the distance at an unseen point.

She tries to imagine the future, repeating those scenes, but in her head, it all seems fake, and too rehearsed. The distance is ruining what they have (had), and she's not sure they'll get it back. She tries, she calls, they talk, but it's not the same. She doubts it will be when she finally sees him again. Each day that she's gone, the distance wears the both of them thin. As she stands here, she can almost feel it crumbling. It's irreversible, beyond repair, and it hurts —

She hears her name, and a countdown from five. The camera rolls; she's there, she's focused, he's gone.

He blinks, and three more weeks have passed, and the phone rings and rings, but it's never her. Every night, he comes home to an empty apartment, and the flashing red zero of the answering machine.

He works late. It doesn't help.

"My fingers hurt."

"Typing a lot?" He asks.

"And writing. My wrist is kind of sore. The whole general area of my hand hurts."

"Maybe you're getting arthritis."

"I am not! It's not smart to put these ideas in my head. You're going to make me worry."

"Worry is good. Keeps you alert."

"I do enough worrying already without having to be concerned about whether or not my hand's going to cramp up," she says.

He pauses, briefly pushing the time lapse between this phone call and her last out of his head. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"What are you worried about?"

"Nothing. I'm just rambling."

"Okay…" He doesn't believe her.

"Everything's good, I promise." A pause. "Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"Love you, too."

The nights have become long and uncomfortable — he has taken to sleeping on the couch, so the reminder of his loneliness is no longer within arms reach. He's lived alone before; he used to revel in the silence. But he's become so used to her presence that this prolonged absence is a jolt to his system. He's not sure he'll survive it. He's terrified that he will.

Tears line her side of the conversation. He desperately wants to ask her what has her so upset, but he can't remember how. He doesn't know what to say. Instead of mentioning it like he hopes she will, she continues their pointless dialogue. It grates on his nerves, the insignificance of their words. He remembers days of meaning and importance, but he has nothing new to say. She has thousands of things she could tell him, but still their phone calls grow shorter, and farther between. He can only blame her.

It isn't long after he hangs up with her that he catches the news report on TV. Another terror attack — dozens dead; the scene is gruesome. He feels sick, and wants to call her back, ask her if she's alright, and talk to her about Stars Hollow, old memories, anything that will make her happy. He remembers now, the right things to say.

A part of him hopes that this is it, the breaking point. Maybe she's had enough. Maybe she'll come home.

"Berlin, huh?"

"Ja." Two weeks later, and she's back to normal. She's fine. She didn't even need him to fix her.

"And there's the extent of your German knowledge."

"I can speak German!"

"Yeah?" He asks, amused.

"Ja."

"This is getting funny."

"So, my skills are a little limited. Burke's a master."

"Meeting up with him again?"

"He's trying to mooch off of my success," she teases.

"Excited?"

"Always. But I really want to go to London. I want to see Big Ben and drink tea and eat crumpets."

"That's called stereotyping."

She continues, ignoring his comment, "But no such luck, it's off to Germany with me. I go where I'm sent."

"And who are these people who order you around? Who do they think they are?"

"My boss?"

"Huh. Boss, right. Looks like you'll have to wait for London."

"I'd love to go back to Spain. I want to go to Valencia. They have beautiful beaches. Or, oh! Ireland! Anywhere in that country. I'd love to see it again."

"You should take some time off," he tries, "See some places for yourself."

"There's just so much. Maybe I will choose the next place to go. Throw my weight around a little," she laughs. "Where do you think I should head next?"

No hesitation, "New York."

He's done it again, said the wrong thing, caused a heavy silence. But this time, he meant to.

"I have to go."

"Hey, wait."

"I have to get to sleep. Places to go tomorrow," she explains.

"Rory, come on…"

"I'm sorry, I just need to —"

"I miss you," he tells the dial tone.

She giggles, feeling drunk, even though she barely finished her first glass of champagne. He touches her arm as he finishes the story, and she giggles again. Her stomach hurts from the laughter, but it is the best kind of ache, and she gestures for him to tell her about another adventure. They enter the elevator, and he presses the number for their floor, and continues, this time using broken German. She understands every other word, which only seems to make what he is saying funnier, and she collapses against the wall. She feels free and light; happy… the mix is indescribable.

In the past four days, she has gotten around seven hours of sleep, if that. She and Burke were up many nights, interviewing who they could, poking around where they shouldn't, and they had finally gotten it. The story; the scandal. Political figure taking bribes, paying others off. The article was written, proof to support it, and now, the night was theirs. Celebration came next for a job well done, and she thinks she'll call Jess later to tell him.

They enter her room, and immediately gravitate toward the bed — their lack of sleep hits them hard. She lets her head fall onto his shoulder, and he lets out a small chuckle.

"You need to learn German."

"I'm already trilingual… Qualingual? I know plenty of languages."

"German? Not so much. You asked one of the men if he had any information on the recent monkey rumors."

"I did not!" She laughs. "You're making this up. You're mean."

"And then there was the comment about the money laundry. Hi, it's laundering."

"I got the tenses confused, and then there was the whole… it was a minor miscommunication, leave it alone," she orders even though she can feel another giggle in her throat.

Yawning, her eyes close, and she stretches her arms into the air before letting them drop. He moves behind her, and she hears the mattress creak as he gets on his knees. His hands land on her shoulders, his touch tentative. But she relaxes into him, leaning back slightly, and he begins to give her a massage.

When she lets out a small sigh, his hand wanders to her neck, brushing away a few strands of her hair. She thinks of Jess situated behind her on their bed, fingertips skimming her back, his lips following their trail. The longing hits hard again, a breaking within her chest. She wants to call him suddenly, and tell him how much she misses him. She feels bad about the way their last conversation went. All he wants is for her to visit, but she's so scared that if she goes to see him, she'll stay for good. She's not ready.

She turns her head to the side, feeling the tension slide out of her, and Burke leans forward. His lips find hers, and the taste is all wrong, but she still gives in. His arms slip to her sides, her waist, trying to spin her around. She ends up kneeling on the bed as well, snaking her fingers into his hair, as he curves his body, and pushes her down toward the mattress.

She enjoys the kiss, but she can feel something off about it. Then, her head hits her pillow, and the familiar scent of cologne makes her dizzy. She forgets to be worried. It isn't until his hand wanders under her skirt, grazing her thigh, that an alarm goes off in her head. She pulls away and lets out a startled gasp. She pushes him, and he rolls off of her, as she struggles to stand up.

"Get out!" She yells.

"Rory, I —"

"Out!"

Wildly, she points to the door. This time he listens. She looks around the room, and feels out of place. She recognizes nothing; everything is wrong. She grabs for the phone resting on the nightstand table, and dials his number. She needs him right now, but she needs more than just his voice.

"I love you," she says as soon as he picks up. Thousands of miles away, his heart drops to his stomach. It keeps falling as she repeats herself; he doesn't believe her.

He hangs up somewhere between her rushed confession, and her fourth apology. She calls back over and over, until a busy signal stops her. She has to talk to him, she has to fix this. She has to make him believe that all of it was a mistake, one that will never happen again. He needs to understand that she's sorry, and that she misses him, and the guilt she feels now is the worst kind of pain she could ever imagine.

In a matter of minutes, she has her luggage packed. She sits back down on her bed, teetering on the edge, trying to block out the fear and panic that overwhelms her. She calls the airport to book the next flight, and leaves the room quietly. She carries her two suitcases, a subdued quality about her as she drops off the key and leaves the hotel.

Her flight is delayed, and she waits for hours in a stiff, plastic chair at the airport. She stares straight ahead, her luggage at her feet, going over her explanation. Nothing seems right to fix this. She runs scenarios over and over in her mind, different words, different reactions, but each one ends with his retreating back.

Much later, she pulls in front of the apartment complex in a taxi. She fishes American currency out of the bottom of her purse, and overpays the driver. She asks him to wait here with her luggage, promising to be out in a few minutes. As she heads inside, toward the elevator, she allows herself the fantasy of Jess coming downstairs to help her bring them up.

When she reaches the door, her heart slams against her rib cage, the terror and guilt filling every available inch of her body. She doesn't know if she should knock or use her key, but in the end, she finds it unlocked. She slips in without a sound.

There are no lights on; the rooms are completely still. She heads toward the bedroom, hoping he is still awake. The door is slightly open, so she pushes it the rest of the way, but stops in her tracks. She can make out two figures in bed, one next to the other — both seemingly asleep. It is in this moment where her world cracks open, splits completely in two. As the pieces rain down around her, she tries to hold back a sob, but the muffled sound escapes her throat, and he sits up in bed.

His eyes are wide, his breath short. She turns immediately, and stumbles back down the hallway. She hits the wall several times and slams into the coffee table as she darts into the living room. There is unfamiliarity here too; she can't predict where anything is. Finally, she reaches the door, but just as she opens it, it's slammed shut. He's directly behind her, chest against her back, his right hand over hers, resting on the doorknob. Months and months, and now she's thrown back with him here, against her, and all she wants is to be gone.

"Rory," he says, his lips on her hair. "I didn't mean —"

She spins around and hits him in the chest. He takes a startled step back.

"How could you do this? In our apartment? In our bed!"

His face darkens, and he swallows his pleads and apologies. "You're angry? You're gonna yell at me? After you called me from Europe to tell me you fucked some reporter?"

"I didn't sleep with him! I wouldn't do that… I didn't want that!"

"It's funny how after you call me, you come rushing back. It took this to get you home?"

"Jess…"

"How long has it been?"

"This would have happened anyway," she insists, refusing the blame. "Has this been happening?"

"No, Rory… geez!"

She digs into her coat pocket, her fingers fumbling for the ring. She pulls it out, and stretches her hand toward him. "Take it."

"No."

"Take it! You should have never given this to me. We should have known it was going to end up like this. You… god, Jess, you can't push me away for months and then suddenly just try to yank me back in! As soon as I told you I was going for this job, you got distant! You weren't you! And then, as I leave, you give me this?" She asks, shaking her hand. "You don't propose in an airport terminal! That's not how it works!"

"What was I supposed to do? Tell you I love you and hope for the best?"

"Yes! Why couldn't you believe that it would be fine?"

"Look around Rory, it's not! And I knew it wouldn't be. This is how it is with you… how it's always been with you. You look to the next thing — the better thing. You're always looking to the future so that you don't even see what's happening now. It happened in school, it happened with your job, and it was going to happen to us."

She crumbles then; the sting of tears too powerful for her to suppress. She opens her mouth to say more, but she hears a female voice from down the hall.

"Jess?"

He closes his eyes when he hears his name. Regret dances across his face. He remembers they are both at fault here.

"Go back to bed," she tells him.

"Rory," he pleads. "Don't go." He reaches for her, clutching her wrist. The grip is loose, and she shakes it off easily. She slips out the door, and moves down the hall, heading back outside to the waiting taxi.

Three days pass in a tired routine of work, dinner, and sleep. There are no calls, no messages, and no hope that she'll contact him. For all he knows, she's in Europe, back to work, forgetting that the two of them ever happened. He's so angry at her for kissing Burke, for going away, for being right. He had known of her desire to go overseas, but somehow, it drifted to the back of his mind when they were together. It was a forgotten dream by the time she announced she was up for the job.

He knew her though; she would go away, and she wouldn't want to come back, at least not for a while. She needed to travel, see everything, and she'd ride the wave as long as she could — even if it meant being without him. He pushed her away, because he already saw her disappearing. He didn't want to feel the full affects when she was finally gone for good. But he realized — too late — the mistake he was making. The proposal was a desperate attempt to salvage what they had. She saw through it though. And now there was nothing left.

On the fourth day, he comes home to a single message on the answering machine. He holds his breath as he presses play.

"Hey, Jess. It's Luke. Look, Lorelai is going to kill me if she finds out about this, but… Her flight's at 7:30 tonight. Gate twenty-two."

It doesn't take long to find her. She stands in line with the other passengers, a purse in one hand, her ticket in the other. On the way there, he planned on grabbing her and forcing her to listen. It didn't matter so much what he said, as long as she missed her plane. But now that he's here, and sees her ready to leave again without a goodbye, he's not sure he wants to stop her. He stands several feet behind her, staring quietly, trying to make his feet carry him in the opposite direction.

But she sees him. They lock eyes briefly before she faces forward again, her mouth a small 'o' of surprise. She wanted to call him but anger and the knowledge that she was the one to cause the destruction of their relationship stopped her. But now he's here. For her.

In an instant, she is out of the line and walking toward him. She stops inches away. The distance is finally bridgeable, but neither can seem to close it.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey."

"How did you…"

"Luke called, he told me."

"Oh."

"I just wanted to say goodbye. That's it," he explains.

"Yeah, sure." She looks distracted, elsewhere.

"Bye, Rory. Have a safe flight."

"Thanks," she answers, disbelieving.

He begins to walk away, his skin prickling from the surrealism of the scene he leaves behind. Her voice stops him.

"This isn't forever, Jess. I am coming back."

He turns around to look at her.

"But I'm not going to ask you to wait. It just isn't fair," she finishes.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For… all of it."

She looks at him for a moment, waiting for him to say more, but he doesn't. He simply stares. Slowly, she walks forward, before slipping her arms around his neck. He pulls her as close as he can, resting his chin on her shoulder. To his surprise, she speaks.

"I'm sorry. So sorry. But I… it was never like that with you, Jess. I was never… waiting for something better. There isn't anything better than you. This is just something that I have to do."

She pulls away and turns around without meeting his eyes, and walks back over to the line. Her words linger behind, telling him things that he already knew, and should have believed. He never should have doubted her motive, or the way she felt. And he shouldn't let it end like this.

"Rory!" She freezes, hesitating. If he asks her to stay, she's not sure she'll be able to say no. She's not sure she can do this. She's not sure she can give him up.

"I'm going to be here when you get back."

She nods as if she understands — he thinks she does. She turns around, moving up in line, and as he watches her hand her ticket over, he sees his future: dozens of nights stretching ahead of him, sleepless and frustrating, with a sliver of hope in the form of late night phone calls when she can't sleep, and the ring that she never gave back. His eyes catch it on her hand, pushed halfway down her thumb. He holds on to the image as she walks away, disappearing through the gate.

And then, she's gone.