In the heart of Harvard, Alessia Gilmore is ready to embrace her second year and the independence it brings. After a summer spent reconnecting with friends and discovering herself, she's determined to step out of her twin sister Rory's shadow and ca...
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Alessia sat on the edge of the bed in the Logan's apartment, staring at her phone like it might offer her a way out. Her dress felt like a costume now, too tight in the shoulders, like it had absorbed the weight of the evening.
She didn't want to wake Logan—he had barely said a word since they got back, just peeled off his suit jacket and muttered something about needing a drink. He was trying. She knew that. But right now, she couldn't take the silence.
She scrolled through her contacts and tapped Beau's name without thinking.
"Hello?"
His voice was soft, sleep-roughened. Guilt pinched her stomach.
"Sorry," she said. "I know it's late."
"You okay?" he asked immediately, more awake now. "Where are you?"
"At Logan's apartment. We just came back from Logan's family dinner thing."
"That was tonight? How'd it go?"
She laughed once, sharp and empty. "They hate me."
There was a pause on his end. "What? Why?"
"They think I'm beneath them. One of them said Logan should know better than to bring someone like me there. Like I was the stray he picked up on the way."
Beau let out a long breath. "Alessia..."
"I just—" Her voice caught. "I didn't think it would hit like this. I knew they'd be... snobby. But I thought if I was polite, if I smiled, if I didn't spill wine on their antique tablecloth or talk about sex or politics, I'd survive the night."
"You're not the problem," he said quietly.
"I don't know. Maybe I am. Maybe I'm just—" She stopped. "God, Beau, I sat there while they said I was a mistake. And I didn't say anything. I just smiled and let them pick me apart like I was—"
"Hey. Hey, listen to me," he cut in. "You're not a mistake. They don't get to decide your worth, okay? You're Alessia Gilmore. You survived Stars Hollow and your mother and a million things that would've broken anyone else. Screw them."
She tried to smile but it didn't stick.
"Thanks," she murmured.
"You want me to come get you?" he asked, only half joking.
"No." Her voice trembled. "I just... I didn't know who else to call."
There was a beat of silence.
"I'm always here," he said, softly now. "Even if you forget that."
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, and whispered a thank you before hanging up.
The room was quiet again. Logan was still in the other room, pacing maybe, or maybe just existing in his own frustration. She didn't want to join him. She didn't want to talk anymore.
Instead, Alessia crawled under the covers, dress and all, and curled in on herself like a photograph developing in the darkroom—edges blurry, color fading. Her chest hurt with the kind of ache that didn't have a name, and tears slid down her cheeks with slow, quiet purpose.
She had always thought she could handle being an outsider. That she'd built enough armor through sarcasm and smirks to survive anything. But tonight, in a room full of polished smiles and silver cutlery, she'd never felt smaller.
And for the first time in weeks, she wondered if she and Logan were living in two completely different pictures—his framed and bright, hers grainy and out of focus.
She didn't want to admit it, but the thought had already taken root.
