A/N: I know it's been ages, I just haven't been in the 'Letters to Lucas' mood. I hope this makes up for it. Will try and get another few up in the next couple of weeks.

Love. The. Holidays.

This is my Easter pressie to all L2L fans.

I hope you're still there!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but a way more complex version of the twisted mind of the one and only Brooke Davis herself. If I owned One Tree Hill, I wouldn't be writing this.

Brooke lay in a muddled heap of the finest quality sheets money could buy, in the best room the motel had to offer, her eyes glued together by sleep and her hair in a tangled mop attached however unfortunately, to her head.

Her night had been one of pure restlessness, yet again. The previous days had brought fun to her doorstep- free of charge, but somehow she found herself able to pick it up again and again, regardless of the fact that she knew how she would feel when she woke up again.

The nameless hook-ups were nothing more to her than they were to the recipients, as it had always been before him. The drinks were still a little harmless fun, but their 'harm' was not so 'fun' anymore; the effect being a feeling of tremendous guilt every morning after.

And then the guilt turned to shame. Then anger. At him- for making her allow herself to feel this way because of him.

And then she usually ended up cleaning the sleep from her face with the tears falling relentlessly from her encrusted eyes.

Before she realised that there was certainly more for her than this, in life. And that she had to search it out. So she woke and made the same mistakes persistently every day.

Subsequently, the pile of letters hidden in the secret compartment of her divine motel four-poster grew considerably in number as did the amount of anonymous no-accounts behind her.

This morning was no different than any of the others she had woken to in the previous week; but she stopped before she opened her eyes this time.

She didn't sit up, and she didn't allow herself the guilty pleasure of feeling the effects of last night's hangover. She didn't feel anything. She was numb with the constant pain in her heart, keeping her from the one thing she truly desired more than anything- to be free from this feeling was to settle things with him, though, and she wasn't sure if she quite had enough strength to do that yet, much like the fact that she couldn't actually see herself removing her slumping figure from the comfort of her bed any time soon.

Completely against her own will, she unknowingly began composing her next letter in her mind, her dream-like state giving consent to the needs of her sub-conscious (and though she fully intended to deny it, her conscious) and forcing her to face the inevitable task of dealing with everything she wished she could put behind her.

Dear Lucas,

This is torture.

My holiday has become my hell.

A hell in which I am engrossed by thoughts of you, evolving my usual idea of paradise into some sort of dread-worthy duty.

The surfers strutting by me are merely another chore, I swear it, Lucas.

Along with the parties and the alcohol and of course- the new clothes.

But retail therapy dries up eventually, and it becomes just another way to pass the time in which my heart is aching for you. Because it is, no matter how hard I try to hide it.

Every time I wake up, every time I get dressed and every time I go out, I'm waking up to no one, getting dressed for nothing and going out meaninglessly.

I miss the meaning my life held when I was with you.

I want to wake up beside you, get dressed to look good for you, and go out with you, Luc.

I want to have you in my life, because I want my life to be filled again.

For now, this holiday is just an empty shell of what could have been if you were here with me, or if I had stayed with you.

My parents are gone as usual, I haven't known where they've been ever since I arrived here. But they've never been there. I got used to that from a young age.

But that took me years.

It only took me a few weeks to get used to having you around, Luc; but when I did get used to it, I never wanted you to leave. I never dreaded your return.

I got scared because I became so close to you so quickly. But I loved it nonetheless. It felt right with you. It was something that was always meant to happen.

I never want to forget what happened between us.

Because then my days would be exactly what they have been over these holidays- useless.

Worthless.

I saw my worth through your eyes when I was with you, and I began to actually like who I was for the first time in my life.

I mean, I'm Brooke Davis- I've always loved my life; the money, the mansion, the car, the clothes- all the props of being a spoilt expensive rich kid. I loved the sheer materialism of my life. I loved the surface.

I hated being below it.

I hated looking at myself as the person behind all of the 'stuff' that my life evolved around, because I became nothing.

But then I had you, Lucas. And you showed me my worth, and I loved you for it.

Perhaps what I miss is being able to like who I am, rather than who I was when I was with you.

I just wish I could find a way back to being that person, without being with you.

Because I can't be with you.

Because you were with her when I was with you. And she was supposed to be on my side. And you were supposed to be on my side.

But there weren't ever any real 'sides,' just the slips and turns of everyday life.

Love found.

Love lost.

And unwitting entity, I fell into the 'Lucas Scott' trap, of finally becoming a person, rather than a higher being.

I 'did' life. I could never 'be' life.

I wasn't defined by 'things,' I was defined by people.

And usually, it was her who brought me back down to earth.

I guess I allowed you to find that in each other, and fall for it.

Hell, if I'm honest with myself- she had you all along.

You saw yourself through each others eyes, as I did with you, but this time- you saw each other again.

I need someone in my life to define me as a person.

At the moment, my life is parties and hangovers and… writing these letters… to you.

And now I realise, you've still got me.

These letters are a 'broody' reflection of the 'cheer' you saw in me.

Perhaps you love being able to love yourself, Lucas.

See, in the same way I found a way to like myself through you; you saw yourself before you, and you rushed to discover everything you loved in someone.

You made me into a shadow of her, and I discerned between us the fact that, no matter who you were with, you were always going to be able to make them a part of you. I wanted to be a part of you, because it was that part of me that I grew to love. I grew to love the you I found within myself through you, essentially.

Wow, confusing much? Do I love myself, or you, or do you love you, or her… or me?

Did you ever love me, Luc?

Or was I always just a figure to be moulded?

Did I need to be moulded before you could love me?

Now I see; I needed to be moulded. I needed to find something within me that was worth more than everything of 'worth' around me.

I needed to learn to see people for who they truly are, rather than what brand of clothes they wear.

Haley wore a poncho when Nathan fell in love with her. I guess it's kind of like that for us.

I'll always wear the clothes I wear, drive the expensive car I drive, live in the mansions I've grown accustomed to… I'll always have money, but I'll lose the better person I know I can be if I allow myself to be defined by such.

I can't regret loving you, Lucas. Because if I hadn't loved you, I would have continued to be a selfish existence caught in the popularity rut- forever.

But you came from nothing (figuratively speaking- I mean compared to m… I'm talking about money, ok?) and you rose up and somehow you set yourself above popularity and made everyone see you as a human being.

It was that, more than anything, which made me see that simply 'being' isn't enough. We can't 'live' without finding a way to see beyond what we live with. We can't be defined by those around us, or what 'stuff' we have.

Therefore, we must become people. We must struggle to live. We must fight to survive. And we must learn through our battles, who we are. And most importantly- who we have to be.

So you made me understand the most vital lesson of my life, Lucas- who I am.

And I think I fell in love with the joy you made me feel whenever I was with you- because you didn't look at my wealth, or my popularity- you wanted to see what was on the inside; what counted above all.

I'd never had anyone do that.

And now that I'm back to living without it, I realise that I don't like it at all.

I want someone to be with me, and to love me for who I am.

But here, I'm just another tanned object of affection for the surfies to pervert their mind with. (You know it's true).

I don't have you.

I don't have her.

And I don't have anyone to make me see who I am underneath.

No one wants to see her.

No one is even the slightest bit interested in her.

Because everyone here is escaping real life for a while. No one wants to have to look beneath the surface, because it's too much effort. And no one wants to even try to see beyond, because they're all scared they're not going to like it.

Or perhaps that's just me.

I don't want someone to love me like you did, or love me for what you loved me for, again.

Because I want you to love me.

But you don't.

You love her.

You loved her all along.

So I don't know how to feel.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know who I am, or what my worth is, because my boyfriend, my best friend… and even my parents… are gone.

The Brooke Davis you saw in me, left with them.

She's not there when you're not.

And her ghost is all that remains, wishing you could revive her into being.

And to tell her that 'being' is good.

B. Davis

Somewhere along the last few lines, Brooke drifted off into a sleep.

He visited her in her sleep sometimes.

It was good for a few moments.

And then her clothes weighed her down as he walked towards her, and her was tugged back by the arm of her best friend.

She sunk as she watched the two people she loved most in the world, love each other before her.

And it killed her.

Ok, so perhaps the ending is a little too 'emo?'

But it kind of felt right to put it in.

Note: She's not actually dead. This is a literary term called a 'metaphor'.

I'll stop being patronizing now… I don't know why I was in the first place.

Again, I'm so, so, so, so sorry for my lack of motivation with these letters. I hope this is good enough, and that they continue to be good enough… or perhaps even a little better…

Reviews welcomed back with open arms!

Gabbi xx