Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

The hallway is lit by a singular lamp, highlighting nothing but stray shoes and once worn coats... emptiness. The soft glow hints to a warm ambience where there is nothing but coolness; an open window left ajar on a chilly day, light fabrics billowing at the glass.

My back is to the door, the wood hard and cold beneath my palms. I sweep my fingertips from side to side in a slow dance with eyes now closed, immersing everything into shadow.

I breathe slow and deep... searching for calm as I listen to the movement overhead and compose myself. I'm hiding, waiting for him to climb beneath the sheets and fake sleep before I do the same; in sync in our falsities.

The car ride home had been silent despite the fact I wanted to ask and pry and whisper:

Who was the woman in red?

What did you talk about?

Did you find her more attractive than me?

Instead, I kept my face to the window and watched as the darkness blurred, occasional intermissions of vivid light blinding as cars passed and streetlamps burned.

The noise stops and I know it's my cue. My shoes join his on the floor, side by side. I hang my coat on the adjacent hook on the wall, sleeves touching; our inconsequentials closer than we are lately.

I go to lean forward, press my nose to the fabric to be near even a part of him, but I pause, knowing that the action will just bring about more despair.

It will make me want and need things I can't have right now.

I back away and sigh as my feet hit the first stair, then another, until I'm facing the door to our bedroom that no longer feels like us. No laughter. No entangled legs and twisted sheets; no breathy moans and desperate touches. No sleeping wrapped around each other—nothing.

I push my way inside, finding Edward shirtless with his back to me. The light in the room gives his pale skin an ethereal quality; moonlight in a sky full of slate grey. I want to reach out and run tentative fingers across his shoulders and down his spine... press my lips to him... have him hold me with arms that used to make me feel so safe and his alone.

I've been so lost in my own head, I don't realise he's facing me until I look up and meet his expression that appears to be tinged with indifference.

Does he no longer see someone he wants when he looks at me?

His hands go to the button of his trousers, my gaze drawn to his fingers as I hear the sound of a zipper.

"Did you have fun tonight?"

Startled, I look up once more and find his eyes focusing on removing the last bit of his clothing, until he's standing before me in nothing but his underwear.

I twist the handle, finally closing the door as I will myself to move.

"Did you?" I say instead, dodging his question.

I remove my earrings and lay them atop the dresser, surprised when he continues with his previous inquiry. He usually just leaves it as that.

"I see you met Jasper?" he voices, his tone even.

I meet his eyes in the mirror, his green to my brown. The fact that he must have already met Rosalie's brother without telling me, doesn't escape my notice.

"I didn't realise you two knew each other," I accuse, playing with the heart shaped locket that hangs from the silver chain around my neck; a gift from Edward on my seventeenth birthday.

His eyes don't leave mine. "I met him last week at lunch."

Scenarios flood through my mind, the levels rising and rising until I'm sure I'll choke. "Lunch?" I manage to get out.

"Yes, lunch, with my family," he says simply. It's so easy for him.

I swallow down the pain that abruptly blooms in my chest, opening like that first bud in spring.

Am I not his family, too?

I don't say anything... can't say anything. He is silent also, staring back at me without trouble, almost as if he's waiting for something.

Anger. Tears. Fisted hands to his chest, sharing my hurt.

He won't see any of them.

My gaze droops, losing its battle, wilting under the burn of his eyes. Then the bustle of sheets fills my ears, whispering words neither of us has said. And I know the discussion is over.

The bathroom light is blinding as I walk inside and ignore my reflection, turning to run the faucet. The water is warm as I cup my hands and bring them up to my face, washing away the night's fallacies - the rose from my cheeks that isn't from merriment but crushed pink powder, like petals left out in the sun to dry before they crumble. By the time I re-emerge back into the bedroom, the scene is already set: Edward is lying on his side, this time facing me. It can differ depending on the night.

Sometimes it's easier when he faces the other way, that way I don't have to lie beside a constant reminder of what is so close… mine, but also so far away.

I slip into my pyjamas, the cotton cool on my skin, resulting in shivers to my spine. My body slides beneath the covers and I'm careful to keep to my side, invisible battle lines drawn down the middle in just as invisible black ink. It was never said out loud; it simply happened over time, the distance growing further apart, stretching like an elastic band that I keep willing to snap, but never does. It holds strong and fast and I hate it. I could be the one to cut it, but I'm afraid of the backlash when it has to come back my way. The sting may be too much for me to bear.

I've forgotten to switch off the bathroom light; the singular ray of muted citron that slices through the darkness lights the features of Edward's face, highlighting dark lashes resting on high cheekbones.

I want to reach over and place my palm to his cheek; I want to curl to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.

I want that sound to lull me to sleep instead of the anguish pulsing through me like an angry drumbeat. Again and again and again.

And even though I still love him, I also want to be happy, and smile. And in return, I want to be all he wants.

It all went wrong; it wasn't supposed to be like this. Every morning I wake, I expect to hear a set of words from him that will crush me, bring me to my knees: I'm not in love.

And as I hand him his cup of coffee—the brush of his fingers against mine my favourite part of the day—I listen for them, sometimes even imagine them.

I never once will them to come true.

Our arguments became worse, more heated—words ignited, the flames achieving great heights.

But now everything is the exact opposite. The match won't catch, and the passion on my side is hidden. And on his:unreachable... maybe even gone. Everything has been doused in ice water, temperatures cooling, words no longer resentful... bitter, like coffee grounds on the tongue left to dissolve.

My jealousy had matched his eyes—ivy weaving around my heart like a poison, polluting my head, leaving behind no reason. He had everything, and left me with nothing but brief kisses and tired responses. I was left aside, pushed to the corner, cobwebs blocking the escape. His dream came true, his ambitions were met. I'd given mine up for him...everything was always for him.

At the time I hadn't cared. It had been my choice. At least I think it had.

There are times I still think back to those countless conversations, the same things repeated over and over. Esme and Carlisle wanted the very best for their son... and I wasn't what they'd hoped for. I knew it... but their opinions meant nothing as long as Edward was beside me holding my hand. They never said those exact words of course, but it was obvious. I was never mentioned in their plans.

Edward had always wanted to be a lawyer for as long as I could remember. He was forever reading books and watching shitty movies based on law.

Even when I was obsessed with Ally McBeal, Edward never failed to watch it with me. He pretended he wasn't interested; a book in his lap that never got read. But every time I would peek at him, his eyes would be on the screen. I would smile and bite my lip to stop my laugh from forming, instead choosing to snuggle into his side. I'd been content.

He completed his last year of law school almost twelve months ago, and is now part of the local firm in Port Angeles that he interned for while still at school.

He got a small wage at the time, which I knew was rare and extremely lucky. The family was a friend of Carlisle's—it showed what having acquaintances in certain places could achieve.

I'd wanted to move to New York, or stay in Seattle... somewhere different than Forks... better. But his parents bought us a house on the outskirts of Port Angeles a few months after we married—an act so grandiose it felt impossible to refuse at the time. They wanted him close to home, the same as Emmett. A family unit.

It also meant that Edward could concentrate on his studies without worrying about numerous jobs, loans and rent; so after Edward finished his undergraduate degree in Seattle, I came home and he continued to take classes a few days a week, the travel long, but in his words, worth it.

I left with a bachelor's degree in English literature, and chose to work while he completed his degree. I was to go back and get my master's in English and teaching once he'd passed his bar exam.

It's now been a year.

I'd have done anything for him, including putting my own dreams aside so we could pay the bills.

Money had been offered of course, a loan of sorts, the type of loan that I knew wouldn't need to be paid back. But I saidno, we can't, never. His parents already gave us this house—there was no way I could have them pay our way. We would have been indebted to them for everything, and that is no way to live... no way to start off a marriage. So that was it. The decision had been made so fast. I didn't want to stay in Seattle without him the days and nights he'd be gone, and sure the choice was there—Edward had even encouraged it, told me to come home on the weekends; told me it would all work out fine. But it was never a serious option for me. The love I had for him was so strong that even the thought of only seeing him once... maybe twice a week was unbearable. We hadn't been married long—how could a relationship survive like that?

Now I wonder if maybe it would have been better... for us both.

Edward is always tired... especially around me. But sometimes... sometimes I see that old spark in his eyes when he looks at me, and I will him to act on whatever it is going through his head. I want to scream for him to hold me. It's simple, and all I want, so much so, that the need suffocates me.

I take one last look at his face; lips slightly parted, soft breathing coming from between—I can't stop myself.

I'm cautious, and so, so quiet as I lean forward over that invisible line and press my mouth to his for the briefest of moments, my touch as light as a falling feather. He makes a slight noise, but thankfully, doesn't wake.

My lips tingle, and my heart races. But I turn and close my eyes, ending the scene: sealing it with a kiss.

The view from here is beautiful. I can see the boats in the distance, a family having fun, playing in the sand despite the grey clouds that loom, building the types of castles that bring big smiles to so many faces. Birds circle the water, wings spread while they soar. The water ripples and shimmers as their feet skim the surface, constantly searching.

I take a bite of my sandwich, and sit back against the bench that overlooks the shore, squinting against the dull grey as I look out once more for the boats. They're probably only for fishing... maybe day trips to get a better look at the beauty that is on offer here. But I still watch and wonder.

I could go and ask, hold on to the railings as they take me out to sea. I would undoubtedly see more from a closer vantage point, but the wonder would disappear, fade like smoke.

I'd notice that the colours of their sides, bold blues and stark whites, have become chipped over time, words now missing from names once lovingly painted. I'd see the birds with their innocent catch, desperate to be free. And the light salt breeze that seems so relaxing to me now, would become more potent, irritating the senses.

No, I won't ask. It's safer to stay here and live in the fantasy.

I know from experience that the reality is so much harsher.

I usually spend my lunch breaks here, alone with my thoughts. I close up the shop and walk the short distance with my coat wrapped tightly around me. I stop at the same little deli every day, and order the same thing: cheese and ham sandwich, black coffee; one sugar, and an almond pastry slice. The young boy behind the counter with long, black hair—Jacob—always starts with, 'Hey Bella, the usual?' and ends with, 'Bye Bella, see you tomorrow.'

The shop's been quiet today; the sun brings everyone outdoors—books to read on the beach, while lying on soft blankets. Dull skies mean warm fires and friendly conversations. Not business.

My morning had started like every other. I waited for Edward to use the shower first, slipping inside when he'd finished. We brushed our teeth together, yet at different sinks; his and hers. There was a time we shared the same one, teasingly knocking the other out of the way with playful hips.

I made coffee; he put the bread in the toaster. The actions may sound sweet when recounting them to another—little things like this always do—but they're out of habit now, and not because we necessarily want to.

He told me he'd be late getting home tonight as he was going out for a drink with Emmett—I wasn't invited. He kissed my cheek, the sentiment again feeling habitual rather than sincere.

I remember times when they were.

~CitP~

"Shh, Charlie will hear you," I whisper, glancing anxiously at my closed door. Mom sleeps like the dead—Dad doesn't.

Edward's hair has fallen into his eyes, raindrops sliding down the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He's climbed through my window, like he does most nights, ignorant of the awful weather.

"He sleeps surprisingly heavy for a man of the law," he teases, closing the window behind him. I always tell him not to risk coming over; it's too dangerous with the slippery roads, not to mention climbing the branches of the tree outside my window.

I keep hoping that he'll listen to me, but I think deep down I know he won't.

"You're going to catch a cold or fall from that tree if you carry on ignoring my warnings," I tell him as I pull a towel from the back of my chair for nights just like these. Wet sleeves covering comforting arms encase me from behind; a shriek of surprise immediately escapes my lips as he wipes his face on the back of my neck.

We both freeze as springs in an old mattress from the room opposite protest against their movement. I'm sure this is the day we're discovered and excuses start whizzing through my head as fast as the fall of the rain outside... but nothing more comes.

"I think we're safe," he whispers in my ear. Shivers attack and build from my spine to my shoulders as his warm breath touches my chilled skin, "Although, I can think of something that will keep you quiet."

"Oh yeah," I answer, twisting in his arms to face his flushed cheeks that are a result of the bitter wind that accompanies the downpour. Flashes fill the sky, the green of his eyes highlighted in the dark room.

His smile, my smile—I love to see it—spreads across his face. "Yeah," and then lips are on mine, telling me things we haven't yet said in words. Kisses that make my heart flutter in ways that should scare me. I pull back, one quick, last joining of lips given before I pass him a dry t-shirt.

He sheds his soaked shirt, and I feel my cheeks heat as he smirks back at me. I swiftly turn around, embarrassed at being caught staring at him. We haven't discussed anything more about what we are yet, no labels given, this is still so new.

When he kisses me, I simply kiss him back.

When his fingers entwine with mine, I don't pull away; I hold back just as tightly and climb between known sheets and into known arms. I curl into him, my head resting on his chest as his fingers play with the strands of my hair—rumbles that shake the house cause his arms to pull me closer.

We lie quietly, not wanting or needing to speak; to compete over the noises outside.

"Wake me before you leave," I whisper as my eyes find his.

"Always," he promises lowly with kisses to my forehead that quickly moves to my mouth.

We spend hours like this until the weight of sleep takes over.

~CitP~

I blink back the memory, my throat suddenly feeling tight, and check my watch, sighing as I know I have to go back to work—back to my safe place behind the counter that acts as a shield.

I spend the last few minutes watching above as a yellow balloon slips from the hand of a child to colour the sky like the sun would if this were a brighter day.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 749