Chilton’s hallways were always too quiet and too loud at the same time- heels clicking, whispers bouncing off stone walls, the constant hum of pressure. You and Rory Gilmore existed in the same orbit but never collided.

Different friend groups. Different lunch tables. Different worlds, really. You knew of her- everyone did. The quiet girl with the books, the one Paris had beef with for reasons no one fully understood. She always walked fast, arms full, eyes already halfway into whatever novel she was reading.

And then one morning, she didn’t. Rory turned the corner too quickly, tripped over nothing in particular, and suddenly her books were everywhere- spilling across the polished floor in an avalanche of paper and bookmarks.

“Oh- oh no,”

She muttered, cheeks instantly pink as she crouched down, clearly mortified. Before she could protest or apologize again, you were already kneeling beside her, scooping up books before they could be stepped on.

“Here,”

You said gently, handing one back. Jane Eyre. Of course.

“Thank you,”

She replied, breathless, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

“I swear, I normally have better coordination than this. Well- no, that’s not true. I don’t. I just like to pretend I do.”