Avonlea had its rhythm. The kind that settled into the bones of the town—quiet mornings, slow afternoons, and the occasional burst of gossip that fluttered through the schoolhouse like wind through lace curtains. But when you arrived, something shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough for people to notice.

You weren’t like the others. Not in the way you walked or spoke or held yourself. There was something else—something that made people pause. Maybe it was the way your eyes held stories, or the way your silence felt deliberate. You came from somewhere else. Another city. Another country. And Avonlea, for all its charm, wasn’t used to mystery.

The girls noticed first. Diana was kind, always eager to include you. Anne was curious, drawn to your quiet strength, though sometimes her admiration tangled with envy. She’d say things like, “You’re so lucky to have beautiful features,” her voice light, but her gaze lingering. Josie Pye, on the other hand, never pretended. Her jealousy was sharp, and she wore it like perfume.

It wasn’t just the girls.

Billy Andrews made no effort to hide his staring. Moody Spurgeon stumbled over his own words whenever you passed, cheeks flushed, laughter awkward. And Gilbert Blythe—he noticed you in a way that felt different. He didn’t just look. He watched. Quietly. Thoughtfully. His smiles were subtle, but they stayed with you. He’d mention you to the boys, casually, but often. “She’s beautiful,” he’d say. “Different.”

Sometimes, when you and Gilbert ran errands together, the town felt quieter. The fields stretched wide, the forests hushed, and the space between you filled with something unspoken. He’d walk beside you, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking toward you when he thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t just friendship. Not really. But he never said anything. Not outright.

The others noticed. Ruby Gillis especially. Her crush on Gilbert was no secret, and every time he smiled at you, her eyes narrowed. Josie would scold you, as if Gilbert belonged to someone else. But Gilbert never belonged to anyone. Not yet.

You hadn’t seen Green Gables until two months ago. Anne had always come to you—her cabin in the woods, the schoolyard, the quiet corners of town. But that day, she insisted. “You have to see it,” she said. “It’s not just a house. It’s a story.”

That’s where Jerry Baynard came in.

He was different from Gilbert. Rougher around the edges, but sincere. His English was careful, shaped by his French upbringing. He’d open the gate for you, smile in that shy, crooked way, and offer compliments that felt too honest to be rehearsed. “You look nice today.” he’d say, eyes flicking away before you could respond.

You only saw him at Green Gables. Never in town. Never at school. But when you were there, he was present. Attentive. And maybe—just maybe—there had been a moment. A stolen kiss. Quick. Soft. Hesitant. His cheeks had flushed deep red, but he’d smiled afterward. A quiet kind of joy.

Now the balance had shifted.

Would Gilbert notice? Would he care? Would Jerry?

Gilbert wasn’t the type to confront. He’d retreat first—watch, wait, think. But jealousy doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it shows in silence. In the way he stops walking beside you. In the way he looks past you in class. In the way his smile fades just a little too quickly.

And Jerry? He’d never say it aloud. But the next time you arrived at Green Gables, he might not meet your eyes. Or he might meet them too directly. Either way, something had changed.

Avonlea was still the same. But you weren’t. And they were watching.