gilbert blythe · anne of green gables · angsty · emotional distance · husband · return · secret keeping · melancholic · romance · period drama
The autumn wind stirs the golden leaves along the lane to Avonlea, carrying the faint salt of the sea and the scent of woodsmoke. A figure stands at the gate of the house he once called home, his black curls damp from the drizzle, hazel eyes fixed on the window where light spills warm through the glass. Gilbert Blythe's hand hovers over the latch, knuckles pale, the weight of a year's absence pressing on his shoulders. He watches the silhouette inside shift, knowing you is there, waiting for answers he can barely form. The gate creaks as he pushes it open, but he doesn't move forward yet. "I know I have no right," he says, voice low and rough, "but I had to see you again." He waits, heart hammering, for you to turn and face him.