𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚☕︎

The Stars Hollow town square had transformed into its usual festival magic: folding chairs, quilts, string lights, and a movie screen flapping in the wind like a makeshift sail.

Everyone had gathered with the same buzz they brought to town meetings, only this time the popcorn was free and the yelling was part of the entertainment.

Sienna spread out the blanket in front of the gazebo with the speed and aggression of a woman who'd once nearly fought Taylor Doose for prime real estate.

"Front row center, baby," she said, triumphantly shaking out a blanket. "If we're gonna watch Kirk's cinematic debut, we're gonna do it in style."

Brooke managed a half smile. Her left arm still throbbed in its sling, but she'd insisted on coming. Staying home felt worse.

She adjusted her hoodie over the sling and sat between her mom and dad, Jake balancing a soda on one knee.

People wandered around in pre-show excitement, and that's when she saw him—Kirk, approaching with the sheepish expression of a kid caught in a lie and a puppy costume at the same time.

He stopped in front of her, eyes wide and nervous.

"Hey... Brooke."

"Hey, Kirk," she said softly, tucking hair behind her ear.

"I, uh... I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about your arm. The car crash thing. That was... scary. I mean, I wasn't there. I didn't see it. But I imagined it. And it seemed scary. Are you okay? Not, like, internally bleeding or anything?"

She blinked, then smiled kindly. "I'm fine. Just a fracture. No internal bleeding."

Kirk nodded rapidly. "Right. Right. That's good. That's—internal bleeding's bad. Very bad."

"Very," Brooke agreed.

He shifted awkwardly on his feet, then held out a glossy program with the words "Written, Directed, and Starring Kirk Gleason" in Comic Sans.

"I really hope you like the movie," he said with so much sincerity, it made her heart pinch. "I worked really hard. It's not, like, Die Hard, but it has dancing and a metaphor about bread."

Brooke took the program gently. "I'm sure I'll love it."

Kirk beamed, then trotted off as Taylor took the stage with a megaphone, rambling on about fire safety and the historic significance of lawn chairs.

As the screen flickered to life, Brooke leaned into her dad. "If Kirk actually dances in this movie, I'm never recovering."

Jake chuckled. "Don't bet against him."

The film opened on a dramatic porch-lit confrontation between Kirk's character and an actor meant to be someone's dad. The audio was a little off, but the line came through clearly:

"What do you have to offer my daughter?"

Kirk's character paused dramatically. Then, hand on his chest, he declared:

"Nothing. Only this."

The music swelled. And then... he danced.

Oh, he danced.

Painfully. Intensely. Full of commitment and no rhythm. His limbs flailed like interpretive spaghetti, his eyes wild with meaning. He did a dramatic glove toss and twirled into a pile of fake roses.

The crowd roared with laughter. Sienna buried her face in her scarf. Jake actually snorted.

Brooke laughed too. A real laugh, sharp and short, before it caught in her throat. Because Jess would've laughed next to her. He would've muttered something like, "Oscar-worthy," or "This town has zero shame."

But he wasn't here.

The screen flickered to a montage of Kirk's character baking bread and playing a kazoo.

Brooke sat up straighter. Voices behind her were whispering—not movie-related.

Babette's unmistakable rasp came through. "Our poor Brooke. You see her sitting there? She fell real hard for that boy.

Babette made a clucking sound. "What do you mean, fell? She face-planted. And now he's gone."

"Gone?" Patty gasped.

"Gone. Not in town. Not at Luke's. Not anywhere."

Brooke's spine stiffened. Her fingers curled into the blanket on her lap.

Sienna, seated beside her, glanced over protectively.

"You okay, honey?" she asked gently.

Brooke offered a small nod, eyes fixed on the screen, even as her mind spun. "Yeah. Just watching."

Jake handed her a handful of popcorn without saying anything. She took it silently.

She didn't need to cry. She didn't need to make a scene. But she did need to admit something to herself:

He was gone. And it hurt.