Notes: Future Literati. Kinda. One parter, complete. Yeah, another one. This is the product of being bored, and writing late into the night. Feedback is always appreciated.

Thanks: As always, Elise, the bird to my feather. Meep. Moo. Oi. This one's for you, darling.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, seriously, I'm broke. No suing. GG is ASP/WB's. Song title is by Brand New.

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The Break In The Bend

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It's been years, three to be exact, since he's last seen her. At first, he didn't think her to be real, but she is. She's real, and she's here, right in front of him; standing before him with tears in her eyes.

She's here, but it's too late.

It's too late for hellos, he thinks; too late for second chances, and the resurrection of a lost cause.

She never seems to be on time.

She steps toward him, and he responds with a step back. Two steps forward, and two steps back; they never seem to be getting any closer. But it's too late, they're too late, and the thought of crossing the finish line disappeared a long time ago.

"Jess," she begins, her face flushed and stained with tears.

"Rory, go home," he hears himself saying.

She steps forward again (two steps forward, two steps back), and stammers, "No. I came here to ask you if—"

"No, it's too late," he tells her. And it is.

He refuses to succumb to her this time.

"No, it's not," she says quickly, desperately.

He turns, trying to walk away from her, but she reaches her hand out to stop him. But it's okay; it's different now. Her touch no longer leaves any tingling sensations, or scorch marks. He's immune to them now, immune to her.

Finally.

Sighing, he tries again, "Yes, it is."

"No, please hear me out! I … I wasn't ready for you when you asked me … to go away with you. But now, now I am. I'm ready, Jess. I am," she's desperate, and frantic, and he thinks it's ironic how the roles have switched.

He shakes his head.

"I'm ready."

No, you're not, he retorts silently in his mind.

She'll never be ready, and he's finally at the point of 'not caring'.

He doesn't care.

It doesn't affect him anymore.

"Rory, just go …"

"No," she insists.

"Rory," he tries again.

"No. I love you, Jess," she swears, making him wonder if it matters anymore. He knows it doesn't. "I do."

"Rory, please."

"I do," Rory maintains, eyes filled with hope.

And he's sorry, sorry that he's always breaking her heart.

Silence follows, playing its insufferable melody.

A sigh.

A sob.

Then, "I don't."

"What?" is her response.

He gulps, "I don't. I don't love you."

She blinks, shakes her head as she tries to formulate an answer.

It's a weak one. "Of course you do."

"No, I don't," he repeats, clear, firm, and sorry. "I did. But that was a long time ago."

It's past tense.

Now she is sobbing, openly, and his throat is suddenly dry. He doesn't have any more words to give her; there isn't anything left to say.

This is called the end.

"No, Jess."

He breathes in, one last time. "You're too late."

Two steps forward, two steps back.

Theirs is an old and winding road that ultimately leads to a dead end.

Sighing, he walks into the opposite direction—away, away, away from her.

This is called getting over you.