#yalegrad

❝   i don't have the time or energy to spend with you.  ❞   he had bigger fish to fry. fish that looked like taylor. 

“Your opinion doesn’t matter.”  // @yalegrad //  john mulaney sentence starters // accepting

      it’s like a rollercoaster she can’t get off, like she’s at the top of the biggest, most final drop and she’s going and going and going and it never ends. no, instead it keeps plunging down, no light to guide the way home. it’s pitch black here, where she’s made her home — fitting, since she’s completely and utterly lost. maybe it was a mistake to have come back for a few things. maybe she should’ve sent logan instead, to fetch the rest of her belongings, but she was doing him an act of kindness by sparing him a paris geller grilling. but of course, in her kindness, she had forgotten that she would now be on the receiving end of one. 

    she’s walked into a different scene than she expected, that’s for certain. paris isn’t looking for a fight, doesn’t have her back arched like she so often does. instead she seems tired, almost pleading. rory is tired too. but she can’t come back. not when she isn’t sure this is the place for her anymore. paris has always known what her path was. she was unwavering and true in her pursuits. everyone else always knew what rory’s path was — and for a while, she thought she did too. but now, the wool’s been ripped off her eyes. she sees the cold hard truth. this wasn’t her place. this wasn’t her life. maybe it could be someday, but she needs the time and space to figure that out on her own. 

        she walks out into the common room, rubbing at her eyes until paris comes into focus — blurry at first, then sharp. she’s staring at her with the focus of a raptor ready to rip her in half. at least, she feels that sort of energy radiating off of her. it’s like she’s laura dern and paris is the entirety of the ensemble cast of dinosaurs from jurassic park — but only the bloodthirsty ones. “ paris it’s  . . . ”  she trails off, realizing she’s unsure of the time, still in a sleepy daze that has her questioning what day it even is, “ it’s sunday, i think? and it’s early and i’m barely awake.  ”  if the absolute mess of bedhead she’s sporting, along with her flannel, pizza printed pajamas are any indication of her current state of mind, she should still be back in bed.  

     she’s still staring, arms folded over her chest with some sort of unnerving determination. at least, most would find it unnerving. rory’s used to it by now, has grown to find an odd comfort almost in the way that paris is simply paris. things change and people may leave, but the one constant rory can always count on is paris forever being a little bit much. you can’t always predict the weather, but you can always predict paris.