A/N: Since a few have asked, I'm not entirely sure where the idea for this story came from but a year ago I read this book called We Have To Talk About Kevin. It was made up of letters from a woman to her ex-husband in which she wrote about their son who had committed a Columbine-like crime as well as memories of their times together and a lot of things, none of which have to do with Luke and Lorelai. But I was pondering the finale again and I have written a fic about how Lorelai fights for Luke but then I thought, what if she didn't? What if she ran instead? (Which is not completely un-Lorelai-like.) And I could just see her writing a letter to Luke because even after leaving she's still thinking about him and then I thought of that book. In the book it was just the woman's letters and I liked the way you figured what the guy's responses were without actually having to read them. So what I'm trying to say is that I'm not planning on including Luke's responses. You should be able to infer much of what Luke responds from Lorelai's letters.

I'm really pleased with the response so far to this story and I assure you that there will be a story contained with in the letters and not just a bunch of letters. And I'm considering putting in a few letters not to Luke but to Rory as well. Thanks for reading and reviewing and keep it up!

June 10th, 2006

Dear Luke,

I don't think I need to tell you how surprised I was to receive your response. After rambling on and on for what must have been about four or five pages, I was sure that you would read the first paragraph, flip to the end, see my name and burn the letter in effigy. It's actually almost a relief to know that you have more respect for our ten years of friendship than to just toss my letter in the trash and say to hell with her. I know that I should know you better than that, but after what I did to you, I can't say that I wouldn't be surprised. I guess I almost feel I didn't deserve your response. That as much as I begged you to answer, I'm amazed that you followed through.

I was pleased to read that Paul Anka is happy and well. I can't believe you're letting him sleep at your apartment. I mean, I know you chocolate proofed the place, but I think deep down I wondered if you still resented him for being in my life.

I still remember the morning you told me about him eating the chocolate. I remember the look on your face as you described the scene. It was picture perfect. I could see you finding the chocolate and then checking Paul Anka's mouth for traces. I could see you running him to the animal hospital and then to the vet. I could see you giving him water and holding him for hours, willing yourself not to fall asleep, and then taking the extra time to chocolate proof the apartment and diner so that he could stay there when I was over there. But what I heard was, I did it for you Lorelai, you're hurting because of Rory and I don't want you to be hurting because of Paul Anka. Sometimes I wonder if I ever deserved you at all.

You know, that was also the morning I told you that I wanted to wait until things were right with Rory before we got married. Luke, did you ever wonder if it wasn't going to happen like I did? Did you ever think for a moment that you put that ring on my finger just to put a smile on my face and kissed me in the gazebo just to take the pain away? Did you ever think that my proposal was just another one of my crazy antics and that it was one moment that I wished I could take back? You never told me how you felt about me postponing the wedding, except the one time you made an off hand remark like 'when we're married, gee when's that gonna happen'. You never let me in. Was it because I was hurting?

I guess I did the same thing, didn't I? I never told you how much I hated that you postponed our wedding. I made one comment when we were on Martha's Vineyard and then nothing until that night in the street. You were supposed to just understand that I wasn't okay with it. You were just supposed to get me.

You have to know that proposing to you was never something I regretted. Sure, it was spur of the moment. Yes, I told Max that a proposal has to be something magical with horses and daises and balloons or something. But I was wrong. A proposal just has to be one member of a couple finally realizing that they've found their soulmate and they never want to let them go.

Do you know when I realized that? Because, really I have no idea.

This past week I've been spending a lot of time really getting used to the job. I think this is the one and only time these words will be written by my hand, but I'm actually thankful for Michel. Thanks to him, I'm used to some of the annoying habits of Frenchmen. I'm also able to decipher their English through their accents. Did you ever meet Michel when he first started at the inn? I think I remember the first time you two met, but I'm not positive it was the first. Since you're not here to correct me, I'll just go with it being the first time.

It was a rainy day back about seven years ago and my jeep had gotten stuck in the mud at the inn and I called you and begged you to bring me some coffee. I must have whined for about fifteen minutes about how it was the worst day of my life and I wouldn't be able to survive without a cup of your coffee and there was no way I was going to be able to get to the diner to get some because my jeep was stuck and my hair had been ruined by the rain so much that I couldn't go out in public. So, as usual, you came to my rescue. I think you were more interested in seeing what my hair looked like after I had been soaked by the rain. (I hope you know that I can hear you laughing all the way from here, Luke, don't forget that.) I know it looked like someone had put a giant mass of seaweed on my head. I suppose that was payment enough for you to drive all the way to the inn just to bring me a cup of your coffee. But I still apologize for Michel. He had no right to treat you like that, but eventually we both learned that he treats everyone like that. Even paying customers.

I was back in the kitchen talking to Sookie when a bellboy rushed in to to tell me that I'd better come quickly before the French-American War began in our front room. Before I even got in the room, I could already hear your voices. Your growls and grumbles matching Michel's high pitch squeaks. Thinking about it now, it's actually kind of funny. But at that moment, all I could think was that you two were going to receive more complaints than Drella that day and I would be faulted for it. And, as an added punishment, my coffee might be ruined.

And there you were, yelling at Michel that you had one job to do and you were going to do it no ifs, ands, buts, or irritating Frenchman were going to get in your way. You were so hopping mad that it was shocking to realize that your one task wasn't to paint the Sistine Chapel. All you wanted to do was get that coffee to me, laugh at my hair and get the hell out of there. And do you know that all I wanted to do at that moment was throw my arms around your neck? Especially when I heard you defending me to Michel. I mean, to my face, all I got from you was attitude and grunts but when Michel said that I was a weak woman who was always looking for men to come to my rescue, you had my back instantly. And I don't necessarily think that Michel was wrong. Course I don't necessarily think that Michel was right either. But you… you said that I was one of the strongest, toughest, most hardworking woman that you ever met and Michel should be thanking Mia for allowing him to work under me. I swear, I was flying. My heart fluttered. If I hadn't been so damn afraid of the consequences, I would have done you right there in the front hall.

Sometimes it breaks my heart to realize that we could have had more time together.

So I was telling you about my job. The inn here is really nice. It's on the rural outskirts of Paris in the XII arrondissement of Paris, right near the Bois De Vincennes, which is one of the two municipal parks of Paris. The inn was built in 1956 by a man name Gustav Platines. It actually looks older than it is. When it was built, Platines went for a French Revival theme and it actually came out quite beautifully. I think the first time I walked up to it, it seemed like it belonged in England on one of the large estates. When you first walk into the inn, it almost seems like you're walking into a home. Not that it seems like you're intruding. No, not that at all. But it seems homey. Like you belong. It actually makes for a lovely work environment. It makes me not dream of home, of the Crap Shack or of the Dragonfly so much.

Okay, I admit that's not true. Every day when I wake up, I wish I were going to work at the Dragonfly. That place was my home. I built it from the ground up. I put my heart and soul and all my money and even some of yours into it. Do you remember that? Do you remember that you're still a part owner of the inn? I know. I know. You call yourself an investor. In fact, sometimes I think you'd have barely let me call you that. I think sometimes you wanted to pretend that that thirty-thousand dollar check just appeared in my hand out of nowhere. We made up a time table and everything for how I would pay you back. But then we started dating and eventually it got really annoying to have to find places around the diner and your apartment to leave money so that it wouldn't be me handing my boyfriend a check. Basically so I wouldn't wake up in the morning after sleeping with you and give you money like I was using you or something.

Mike Armstrong said he went through all his places that needed someone like me to consult and he thought this place would be perfect for me. And it is. It really is. It's perfect for me. Do you think the more I write that, the more I'll start to believe it? I mean, lots of people think lots of things are perfect for me. Hey, Sookie thought you were perfect for me.

Dammit, I wish I weren't writing in pen. You were perfect for me. I knew it too.

Sorry… I had to stop writing for a few hours. I reread your letter though in that time. I read the part about Liz being pregnant. When did you find that out? Had you told me that? I don't remember you saying it. Man, I wish I had known. I can just imagine it, Liz barefoot and pregnant, screaming at TJ that he's burning down the house or making a hole in her roof. And you just know he would do that. You'll have to take pictures and send them. Or not. But, do, please, give Liz my congratulations and well wishes. She deserves to be happy. Someone does.

I wonder if the kid will be like Jess. You know, she was right. Jess did turn out okay. Rory told me all about his bookstore and his book, which she's still trying to get me to read. He's really made something of himself. He's changed. He's not the kid who stole Babette's gnome or ignored my daughter's phone calls. He's better than that. And did you know that he stopped by my mother's house when Rory was living there? Do you know that he told her to go back to Yale? Do you know that he told her everything I was thinking without me even knowing it? He's something. When I heard about that, I almost when out and bought him a cape. He's almost… well actually he is… he's you, Luke. You've always been my hero. And you know, I couldn't imagine anyone else I'd like him to turn out like.

You're going to be a great uncle. I mean, to this new kid of Liz's of course. You've already been a great uncle to Jess. You're amazing, Luke, you really are. You're a good uncle. A good brother. A good father. And don't tell me I'm wrong, because I know what I'm talking about. Remember, I'm the one you chose her over.

Sorry.

Again that whole using a pen thing strikes again.

So I should get back to a safer topic, huh? Yesterday I decided to go shopping. I mean, you always hear how awesome the shopping is in Paris. And do you know they don't really make the Lorelai look in Paris. (Really, Luke, for God's sakes stop rolling your eyes!) It's a special type of style that's all my own, hence the term 'Lorelai look'. I must have gone to 80 million stores and didn't find anything. I guess the whole thing is that what am I buying things to wear for? I have work clothes. Tons of them. I have enough that there's some still left at my house. I believe there's probably still some in my drawer in your apartment. I've worked at an inn for more than half my life, I have inn clothes. So what do I normally shop for? Clothes that I fear I'm never going to need again, dating clothes.

You remember the dress I wore to our first date after we got back together? The pink one? I know you remember because you were totally drooling when I took off my coat. And you were supposed to be. I bought it for you and I don't mean for you to wear. I went out specifically and bought that dress so that you'd come and get it. I bought it to show you what a great girlfriend I can be, to prove to you how glad I was to have you back in my life. I guess a simple dress doesn't fix everything.

Luke do you ever look back on your life and say, this isn't how it was supposed to go?

Have you been checking on my house? I mean, you don't have to. You have your own things to do. I'm already grateful for you taking care of Paul Anka. But I was just wondering. It's summer now and I remember on the first beautiful day of summer I would open all the windows and just let the sun and warm air seep in. The house needs that sometimes, just a little airing out. You could even stay there if you wanted. I mean you helped pay for the renovation. You helped pay for the furniture. You may have never actually moved in, but it's still partly your house.

On the other hand, if you do decide to stay there, please don't tell me. I don't want to know. I don't want to imagine you there, in what was supposed to be our house, in our bedroom, without me. I just couldn't handle that. It was supposed to be ours. The house was painted and renovated to fit us. And who's living there now? Not us. And I don't want to think that it's just you. I don't want to close my eyes and imagine you on our couch or laying in our bed. It would just remind me what I lost. What I threw away.

So, please, if you do write back, don't tell me.

But do write back. I loved your letter. It may have only been a few sentences to my masters thesis, but it was something. And everything about it was so you. And it made me miss you more. At least it made me feel something, at least it made me feel alive. I've been here two weeks and until your letter arrived I was nothing more than an empty shell. Just a body moving into an apartment, doing a job, but letting nothing touch me, feeling nothing. Your letters are like oxygen, please don't take them away.

Living on a prayer,

Lorelai