𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓲𝓽 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝔀𝓪𝓷𝓽

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚☕︎

Stars Hollow hadn't changed.

The sky hung low with soft clouds, sunlight filtering in like it didn't want to be here either. The sidewalks were familiar, the flower boxes still bright outside Doose's, the town bulletin board overloaded with flyers for the next movie night, next town meeting, next something. Life kept going here, even when hers had hit a wall.

Brooke walked slowly, her casted arm tucked close to her side.

She didn't tell her mom she was going out—she just needed to move.

To breathe. And no one stopped her because this was Stars Hollow, where nothing bad was supposed to happen.

But her arm ached every time she moved it. A quiet, pulsing reminder.

She crossed in front of the bookstore and paused. That crooked wooden bench out front — it was where Jess had once been sprawled out with a worn book in hand.

He hadn't even looked up when she stopped and stared at him, just muttered, "Don't block the sunlight, Deputy."

"Don't act like you're reading," she had snapped.

He'd smirked, flipping the page slowly. "You wound me."

She kept walking.

She passed the alley near Gypsy's, where Jess had once popped out from behind a stack of tires and made her scream. She'd thrown her to-go coffee at him. He'd caught it, sipped it, and said, "Too much sugar. Typical."

Farther down the road, she reached the spot in front of the diner where she'd first seen the paper bag in his hand. The care package.

The night he came to her house without saying why, just handed it over like it was no big deal.

She smiled bitterly. "You didn't say a word," she whispered aloud.

And now he wasn't saying anything at all.

The walk took her past Taylor's, past Miss Patty's, past everything—until she found herself on the path out of town. The one leading to the lake. That lake.

It was where their basket picnic had happened.

The awkward bidding. The teasing. The surprise when she realized she'd actually enjoyed it.

The clearing was still there. Damp grass, shaded trees, birds chattering in the canopy above. She sat, careful not to jostle her cast too much.

She picked at the blades of grass, heart caught in her throat.

This was where she watched him lie back and talk about music, about how everyone always got The Clash wrong, and how her taste in pop wasn't terrible, just tragically predictable. He'd made her roll her eyes so hard they practically stuck.

But then, when he looked at her like she wasn't just another town girl...

She blinked fast. The tears were coming before she could stop them.

She lay back in the grass, staring up at the clouds. "Why did you leave?" she whispered. "I wasn't mad. I didn't blame you."

But he had blamed himself. She knew it. In the way he wouldn't look at her at the hospital. The way he stood back when she winced moving her arm.

Her fingers closed around something on the ground. A tiny rock. Smooth and round. Meaningless—except it was something she could hold.

Her mind wandered back to the inn, to that first real kiss. It wasn't some dramatic moment. Just a night.

A quiet night where she'd gone to return his hoodie, and he opened the door like he'd been waiting for her.

And she had stared at him like maybe she had been waiting too. He leaned in. She didn't pull away.

And the record store—God, the way he stood behind her, flipping through the stacks. Their arms brushing. That ridiculous debate over Springsteen and whether the song "Thunder Road" was romantic or overrated.

She could still hear his voice in that low, lazy way: "You only like it because someone said it's poetic."

"And you only hate it because you have emotional issues," she'd shot back.

"You're not wrong," he had said. Not even denying it. Just honest.

The wind stirred around her. A single bird took off overhead.

Brooke sat up slowly, pressing her uninjured hand to her forehead. "You gave me so many reasons to stay mad at you," she said softly. "But I can't."

She wasn't mad. She was just hurt.

Because for all the walls he built, he'd let her in.

For a little while. She had seen him—not just the sarcasm or the scowls, but the boy who brought her cookies, who fixed her bike without asking, who sat beside her in silence because he knew sometimes that was better than words.

"You mattered," she said, standing. "You still do."

She turned back toward town. Her chest was heavy, but her steps were steadier.

He was gone. But the memories weren't. The laugh, the look, the kiss. All of it was here—woven into Stars Hollow, into the bookstore bench, into the lake breeze.

Into her.

And maybe that was the hardest part.

But she'd carry it.

Still here. Still his.