Luke Danes had become an expert in not telling things to Lorelai Gilmore.
It started more then nine years ago when he first met her, when she left the diner for the first time and he didn't run after her screaming "I love you, I love you, don't leave!"-- And it had just continued that way ever since.
When she told him he looked nice, he didn't tell her in return that he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. When he jokingly asked her to marry him, he didn't tell her he would've been very happy if she'd have said yes.
It moved on to him suggesting they play poker, not telling her he thought they should date.
One might even say he downright lied when she asked him why he thought she was calling him unless she had a chick loose in the house, and he didn't tell her it was because he thought she finally saw him and decided to love him forever and ever. He didn't tell her that.
When she asked him if there was a reason for him not wanting Rachel around, he didn't tell her that despite of Rachel's greatness, he was far more interested in her own, and the greatness that is Rachel seemed to come between him and that.
After Rachel left, he really did mean to tell her, but as she would say -- all the elements of the universe got together to screw that up. It's tough when the universe is against you -- that's like taking on the Manhattan garbage union.
When she asked him if he got her wedding invitation, he didn't tell her that when he did, he had spent about three hours just staring at it, not moving an inch, barely even blinking the whole time. He didn't tell her it was sitting on his bed stand, and that he'd been avoiding his bedroom for days just not to suffer its presence.
When she asked him if he was going to come to the wedding, he didn't tell her that he wouldn't, he didn't tell her that he simply couldn't, he didn't tell her that despite considering himself a strong man -- he did have his limits, and that was it.
When she asked why he had made her the chuppah, he didn't tell her that was the only way he could think of to still be a part of her wedding, that he wanted her to be happy, and that he wanted something… something that was real, something that was substantial, something that said that he loved her, whether she realized it or not. He didn't tell her that he had to do something to keep himself from flying completely off the handle, he had to keep himself busy, he had to put all those emotions that wouldn't stop marathoning through his body into some use -- and that carving a detailed chuppah seemed like the right thing to do, allowing him to think of her and think of something completely different all at the same time.
He didn't tell her how happy he was that she called off the wedding or what he hoped it would mean for him. He didn't tell her that the moment Sookie told him, the world regained its color and the sounds regained their music. He didn't tell her he was a stupid sap. He didn't tell her how happy he was, but somehow, he thought she knew.
He didn't tell her how much he really did need her help with Jess, and he didn't tell her he thought she did an amazing job with Rory -- even though he knew he should.
When they fought, and she tried to apologize, he didn't tell her it was easier for him to stay mad, that it was better for him to think of her as a customer and nothing more, or that sometimes loving her was just so hard he would rather not deal with her at all.
When she came to his diner that night and started crying -- he didn't tell her how much he had missed her, and how sorry he was for pushing her away, or how he couldn't bear to watch her cry. When she asked him how he knew she'd have "it" someday, he didn't tell her any guy with eyes would jump on the chance to be her "it", and more importantly -- he didn't tell her, that as far as he was concerned -- she could have "it" right there and then if only she'd bother looking across the counter and see what was there.
When they talked about having kids, he didn't tell her he would carry the baby himself, jam-hands and all, if only it would have her eyes.
When he taught her how to fish and she told him it was to impress another guy, he didn't tell her how incredibly cruel she was being. Nor did he tell Nicole that she was only "second-best", only a rebound from a relationship that never was.
When she told him about her dream, he didn't tell her about the many he has had. And right before she went to Europe, when he asked her if she thought he should go on the cruise with Nicole, considering… everything-- he didn't tell her that now that Jess was gone and Rory was going to college, maybe it was finally the time for them. He didn't tell her that.
He did tell her that he and Nicole got married, and that they were getting divorced, after she badgered him enough. There wasn't any real reason for him not to tell her, only he felt so stupid… and hated admitting such an idiotic mistake. For that same reason he didn't tell her when Nicole was back in his life, or when he had supposedly moved. He just hated admitting his mistakes, even to himself, and especially to her.
Reluctantly, he did tell her about the socks and the sock man. He had to tell someone. He hated telling her how he had failed, how he was stupid, how he was not good enough, even for someone who wasn't half as good as she was. But he did tell her that.
Sometimes, even if he didn't tell her things in so many words, he told her through his actions. He told her through driving her to the hospital and staying there with her through every torturous second. He told her through fixing stuff around her house, whether she asked him to or not. He told her through health lectures he wouldn't bother to get into with anyone else, and he told her through a smile that he saved especially for her.
He had eight years of practice in not telling her things, until the night when he couldn't not tell her anymore, and as it turned out -- telling her paid off in a better way then he could have ever imagined. In just one short moment, two minutes at best, he told her everything -- everything he felt, everything he thought, everything that he was, and she told him her side of the story right back.
Through the year that had passed since that fateful night, he had taught himself to tell her things, breaking a pattern he was so used to after relying on it for almost a decade. He was surprised by how easy it could get, to tell her things, things he never thought he would tell her, things he never thought he would tell anyone…
He could finally tell her "I love you, don't leave" whenever she'd get out of bed or go to run an errand. He could finally tell her that she was beautiful, whenever the truth of that statement would hit him so hard he simply had to let it out. He could finally tell her how happy he was, and it didn't matter when or where as long as it was with her.
Eight years of telling her nothing and one year of… sharing popsicles. He was finding out that "not telling" was nothing like riding a bicycle, and now that he was out of practice -- it was becoming harder and harder everyday, every smile that came in his direction, every awkward wink, every loving kiss, and every lonely night, when she would snuggle against him, yet feel like she was a million miles away.
But how could he tell her? What would he tell her? And to what cost?
Was it really that important for him to tell her? After all, he could have just as well not known. It's not like anybody had ever told him. It's not like it affected his life in any way.
Luke Danes was not a stupid man. He knew that he needed to tell her. But Luke Danes had "not-telling" down to an art, and like any artist -- he had to suffer.