Splashes of Color
Years ago, Luke Danes would have laughed at the thought of love entering into his life; that grey, monotonous thing called living had long ago let him down.
The appearance of one Lorelai Gilmore was something he hadn't seen coming, but she's settled into Stars Hollow, making it and calling it her home. She's been around so long that it's almost as if she's always been there, coming in for coffee, her and little Rory, who isn't so little anymore.
Rory is becoming her own person, but there are little things she does that remind him of Lorelai, like her manner of speech—oh, the sarcasm!—and the way she smiles.
God, that smile.
She remains firmly plastered in the back of his mind like a wad of gum on the bottom of an old-school metal desk. Impossible to remove, it'll be there forever. It's just something he'll have to get used to, like getting old. He can't recall how many years it's been since the first image of her found its way to that special little corner of his memories. Maybe it was the first time she smiled, or the first time she'd let him see her when she wasn't at her best.
He won't say he loves her, won't even let himself believe it's true for the smallest fraction of a second, because if he does—if he does—it'll change everything, every little thing about his life. Even though living is monotonous and grey, he's terrified of seeing color restored to it.
It'll seem out of place, he thinks, like an old photograph colored in with crayons. Some things just don't need color. Some things—some lives—are better off left as they are, black and white and grey, boring, unchanging, but steadfast all the same.
And maybe, he tries to convince himself, that's what Lorelai needs most. Someone who won't fall head over heels for her. Someone who won't change just because she's entered their life. Someone who will always stay the same.
Someone she can count on, not just today, but tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, too.
Yeah. He'll pour her coffee, and he'll listen to rants that only she can make sound dramatic. He'll see her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail that she probably hasn't even bothered to brush, and he'll give her advice when she asks for it—and sometimes even when she doesn't. He won't find any love there, not in the grateful tilt of her lips or the way she consumes a thousand carbohydrates' worth the fries.
But who is he kidding, really?
If he looks closely, he can see she's changed him.
Yellows, oranges, blues, greens…
Splashes of color are on the canvas of his life, and she, Lorelai, that crazy, impossible, altogether wonderful woman, is the one who put them there.
This was practice writing. Feedback is, of course, very much appreciated.