Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

The clouds roll apart, the sun emerging from behind, highlighting the water with silver streaks that glisten and blind. I could sit and stare for hours, lost in metallics that coat your skin if you squint your eyes just right and reach out into the distance, fingers dipping into the ocean, paint falling from the tips.

I watch as a horde of young boys pass a ball amongst each other on the sand, making the most of the free days before school starts once more; late nights, early mornings and forgotten homework that lies unfinished on the kitchen table next to a bowl of half-eaten cereal.

I glance down at my watch, a nervous twitch that has become apparent in the last ten minutes. I'm starting to regret my decision of agreeing to meet him here for lunch, at my bench; doubt creeping up on me like shadows.

Jasper had phoned the bookstore earlier this morning, insisting I still owed him a lunch date, and I'd found myself saying yes, I'm free, without much hesitation.

But now I'm worrying that this spot of mine will no longer be just that, mine, which is ridiculous considering the amount of people passing by at continued and random intervals.

My same sandwich, same pastry, and same drink sit beside me on my bench as I take yet another look at my watch. He's late. Perhaps he's changed his mind?

And as soon as those thoughts appear, brown shoes fill my vision, my gaze having drifted to, and lingered on, a gum wrapper bustling about on the ground.

"Sorry I'm late," comes the slightly breathless voice from above my head.

I look up and shake my head. No apology needed. "It's fine, honestly," I assure as I pull my lunch closer so he has enough room to sit.

He looks out to the water, hand shielding his eyes from the light. "Pretty," he comments.

I nod, wholeheartedly agreeing. "Yeah."

"So," he says as he lowers himself to the bench, dressed casually in slightly worn-out jeans and a blue v-neck sweater, "I missed you New Year's Day. Edward said you hadn't been feeling well."

That night plays back into my head, and I swallow thickly, picking up my coffee so my hands have something to do. "That's right," I echo, the admission no longer entirely a lie; it had turned out that way in the end.

Red marks on cheeks.

Yes, I had definitely felt unwell.

He watches me over the plastic of his coffee cup. "And you're okay now?" he questions.

I suck in a deep breath, linking the fingers of both my hands.

No.

"Yes."

He looks like he doesn't quite believe me, but nevertheless grants me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Good," he nods.

"How are things at Em's?" I ask, eager to change the subject as I rip a corner of pastry from my almond slice.

He rolls his eyes. "Busy," he says as he finishes his coffee. "At least everyone else is busy. To be honest, I feel like I'm in the way most of the time."

I shake my head. "I'm sure Rose and Em appreciate you being here, especially Rose," I add. "I mean, who doesn't ever need their big brother?" I offer, taking a sip of my now mostly-cold coffee.

A smile lights up his features, this one reaching his eyes. "I hope so," he agrees, shifting a little. "I think... because I'm so used to being busy all the time—whether it's meeting clients or sketching up new designs—it simply feels weird to sort of sit on the sidelines, waiting for someone else to direct me. I'm not used to it, I guess."

I bring my whole pastry up to my mouth. "With Esme involved in this wedding, you'll have your hands full soon enough, trust me."

He laughs. "Was she as hands-on at your wedding?" he questions, his hand cupping the side of his neck as he slides his palm back and forth across the muscles there.

I chew slowly, suddenly losing my appetite. "No," I answer, focusing on the birds skimming the water.

"Oh."

He takes a bite of his sandwich, and I can see the questions gazing back at me... along with the filling threatening to spill from the sides of his sandwich.

A giggle slips through my lips. "You may want to do something about that," I say, pointing at what looks to be crabmeat smothered in mayonnaise as it continues to overflow from the crusts.

His sandwich gets lifted up in the air so he can take a look, which is the complete wrong thing to do. He ends up losing a good amount of the filling to his shirt. "Shit," he mumbles, looking helpless as his eyes dart about for something he hasn't foreseen to pick up from the deli—a napkin. Luckily, I always take more than I need, or rather, should.

I reach into my bag and without thinking, wipe the mess from his shirt, just as I have with Edward so many times in the past, a natural habit that seems to have stuck regardless of the recipient. But then I look at his hand squeezing his leg mid-thigh, at my own fingers that are pressed against his chest, and realise that both of us have stopped speaking, a mist of silence lingering.

I can feel him looking down at me, feel his breath as it hits the top of my head and I'm suddenly far too close for comfort. My hands leave him quickly, and I instantly feel stupid for drawing more attention to the awkwardness.

I refuse to meet his eyes as I smooth my hands down my skirt, attempting to remove invisible wrinkles as his palm shoots out, halting my fidgeting, his touch warm and wrong, and yet part of me still relishing in that tiny bit of contact.

It's been so long since someone did something as simple as hold my hand.

"Bella?" he murmurs, drawing my attention towards him, lashes flickering as I try to divert my stare away from his expression. His gaze flits between my eyes and mouth, and I'm floundering in grey. "It's okay."

And no... No, it's not.

"I need to get back to work," I whisper, interrupting him as I slide my hand out from underneath his.

His hand finds his hair, frustrated as he surveys my face. A deep breath and sigh follows. "Okay, thanks for lunch."

And I pretend that this sudden weirdness doesn't exist. "You, too. Thanks for asking me."

He goes to stand, but I wave him off, taking one last peek at his face before heading for the bookstore.

XXX

A few customers come in to browse, parents scolding their children as they reach out with fingers sticky from candy, asking for this book, and that book, and please Daddy, please while jumping up and down on little legs.

Some get what they want, while others begin crying, mothers forever shushing as they give apologetic smiles and pull them from the store.

I wonder if I was ever like that when I wasn't allowed the book I wanted at such a young age; whether I was dragged away kicking and screaming with that passion only children seem to own.

The thought makes me smile.

The day continues to pass, the store now empty apart from two teenagers who whisper to each other in the aisles, smiling and holding hands as the girl looks on with eyes that adore.

And I know that expression all too well.

~CitP~

"I never thought I'd be complaining about it being too hot in Forks," I say as I lift my arms into the air and lean back from my perch on Edward's bed until I'm flat out on cool cotton.

He doesn't respond and I stare up at the ceiling, following the pattern in the plaster that circles around his light. He's become quiet again, has been like this on and off all day and I frown, wondering if he'd rather I just go home.

He'd been waiting for me after my shift at Newton's again, the third time this week, and we automatically ended up at his house.

Emmett had been on his way out when we arrived, pausing to tease Edward about something I couldn't catch. Whatever it was, it had turned the tips of Edward's ears red.

I turn my head to the side and find him staring at me, eyes lingering on my bare legs in my shorts. I quickly look away before he notices, feeling even warmer.

I bet I look stupid. I should have worn my jeans.

The bed dips and his words cause me to laugh. "You look like a starfish."

I raise a brow. "You're just jealous you didn't think of this first," I tell him, stretching my arms further out at the sides, before moving them up and down. "It's so much cooler like this."

He smirks. "And now you look like a bird."

I immediately sit up and push my hair from my face, hands that aren't my own suddenly helping me.

I blush, flustered, too nervous to look at his face. And then my fingers catch his and we both freeze for just a second, that awkward silence hovering once again.

He's so close and I swear I'm going to pass out if he doesn't say something.

I hesitantly look up and lightening instantly starts running through my veins, electrifying and frightening; his gaze causing sparks that explode in green. Then his fingers move from mine to brush across my cheek, and I can't help but tremble.

I'm suddenly thunder. I'm too much feeling. And it feels like I'm falling, but I'm not afraid, because his arms are around me and they're the only ones I want catching me anyway.

"Bella?" he breathes, pulling me to him. And with that one word spoken exactly like that, he's stolen my heart for good, and there's no way of getting it back: I wouldn't want it now anyway.

I know he'll keep it safe, keep it his, because there's no way this feeling can be one-sided. But if I'm wrong, and he changes his mind, I still wouldn't ask for its return. I'd set it free with weightless wings and let it remember all the good, all the happy, perfect moments exactly like this one right here—because if I didn't, it would break inside my chest, split in two, one side mine, the other his,and there's no way a heart can survive that kind of split.

His thumb touches my lip, and the way he's looking at me right now, like I'm the only one... I know there's no way I could survive it either.

He leans forward, slowly, until his lips touch mine for the very first time.

And I suddenly forget how to breathe.

Time suspends and I feel dizzy, as if the room is spinning around us. His mouth is soft and warm and I can't help wondering why we didn't do this sooner, because nothing could feel this good, I'm sure of it.

He pulls back just a little, staring at my mouth as I shiver, lips red from mine. "Are you okay?" he whispers, all light cotton.

My eyes find his mouth this time, watching his lips move as he speaks. "Yeah," I breathe, nodding dumbly.

Crooked smiles just for me. "Good."

His mouth is back, and I didn't realise how much I could miss something after being without it for mere seconds. And so when his hands get tangled in my hair, and his mouth opens, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself even closer, the mattress groaning as we fall back and ignore the outside world, making our very own shapes.

~CitP~

I blink back the memories as dust motes float in the beams of light filtering through the once again empty store.

To anyone else viewing that memory, I would have simply been kissing a boy, and he would have just been kissing a girl, and wasn't it easy, free, and uncomplicated?

They would have told me there would be other kisses, from other boys just as special, but they'd have been wrong. I didn't want to kiss anyone else. I remember the way my heart thudded so fast, and how I didn't care if I was naive in thinking it would only beat along with him... for him. I didn't want to think about this ending or finding someone else. Otherwise, what would have been the point in sharing any of it in the first place?

Moments like those are special for a reason. They're bright beginnings filled with chocolate kisses and days on the beach.

No, he was the only one for me. And in all the ways I can think of, still is, even if those ways no longer seem to work or make sense.

I just don't think he agrees anymore.

I look at the clock and make a decision, keys appearing in my hand as signs get twisted to closed, as doors get locked behind me, the ringing of the bell final.

XXX

His office is in a good-sized building on the opposite end of town, a too-large parking lot dominating the space out front. I instantly spot Edward's car, my gaze drifting to the few others before I carry on.

I pull the glass door towards me and step inside, the smell of new paint heavy, the atmosphere becoming all the more uncomfortable when I see that Heidi isn't stationed at the reception desk with her smiles that ease some of the tension I feel from this place. The desk is empty.

I blame his time spent here working for these people more than I should, which in a way is silly, because he's in control of his life, no one else. He was so eager to impress, hours becoming longer, occasionally spreading to his time outside of this building, paperwork and files being brought home with him. And Carlisle would encourage him, constant talk about promotions and trust, while I would beg him to stop, to keep it separate.

It would seem his father is still winning.

I think about waiting until Heidi returns to her desk, but the truth is, I feel too on edge to stand here and wait. So I head on down the long, L shaped corridor, passing a couple of other offices on the way, gazing at the framed photos, articles and awards that line the beige coloured walls. Fresh flowers are brightening the sill of a window as I turn down the final stretch of carpet that leads to Edward's office, tucked away at the end of the 'L'.

His name is engraved in a bronze metal, a plate attached to the door. I run my fingers over the markings before knocking softly, in the end, an action no more than a brush of knuckles against wood, and push down the handle, feet unsure as I walk inside.

The sight that greets me is one that makes me wish I hadn't come.

It's all innocent enough, both sitting on opposite sides of the desk as the sound of my entrance causes them both to turn their heads.

Edward stays leaning forward, pen in his hand, as Kate does the opposite and leans backwards into her seat. I can't decide which action would look guilty if something had happened here that shouldn't have.

A silence falls across the room.

"I didn't realise anyone else was in here," I say, looking between the two of them. "I'm sorry, I'll go."

"No, we're finished anyway," Kate assures me with a red lipped smile as she gets to her feet. "Stay."

I want to both laugh and cry that she's the one taking charge here and giving me permission to stay in a room that is more mine than it ever will be hers.

Kate begins to talk quietly to Edward as I walk around the room, the feel of his gaze burning from time to time.

My head is so full; it feels like it's going to explode. And I don't know how much more I can take before that final enough, stop, no more hits us both; before there's no going back and we arrive at that one-way only street.

I pause at a picture of the two of us that I don't remember putting here when I helped him add little touches to this room, and turn back around, unable to stare at those faces.

But I don't know which image is more painful, as Kate is smiling brightly, and Edward is focusing all of his attention on that smile.

My smiles are lost, hidden in bags of marbles that belong to previous years.

I want to shout out, ask her why she's here—she's been in town for no more than a couple of months, why would she need legal advice? She doesn't even live in this state.

Insecurities build at a rapid pace, brick after brick until it towers past my head. And I start looking at her for answers that I know I won't find.

Talking is over, and a silence has settled once more. I make my way back to the desk, and stare down at the hand that briefly touches my arm when I get there.

"We should meet up for that lunch soon," Kate suggests, pushing her dark hair off her shoulders. "I know that Rose and Jasper still want to."

I can see Edward writing from the corner of my eye. He takes breaks in-between to raise his eyes towards us with his head still bent, and I start smoothing down my skirt, which I figure is another nervous twitch as I think about this morning. "I already had lunch with Jasper today."

The scratch of pen on paper stops.

"Really? That's great. Well, next time, it will have to be just us girls."

I nod even though I can't think of anything worse than sitting around another table with someone who is everything I'm currently not.

Another squeeze of my arm and she leaves us alone, the door clicking softly behind her.

"I didn't know Kate was going to be here today. You never mentioned it." I don't know why this is the first thing I say, or why I even mention it; he doesn't talk to me about anything anymore.

Edward studies my face, finger tracing his bottom lip with his elbows bent on the desk. "I wasn't expecting you."

And I shoot back. "I didn't know I had to make an appointment."

He gets to his feet, suddenly organizing pages. "That's not what I meant."

And everything I came here to talk about gets thrown onto the bonfire. Something is crawling all over my skin and I have to know.

"Do you like her?"

He pauses, hands stilling on the sheets of paper that line his desk in a tidy formation. "What do you mean?"

I hesitate for a few seconds but don't alter my words. "Do you like her?"

His eyes fasten to mine and I know he knows what I'm asking. I see it hit and spark like fireworks.

He gives a shrug, something non-committal and casual, neither one nor the other. It's too easy. "She's a client. A friend of the family."

I think about this, and no... no. "She's not a friend of mine, and I'm your family," I say, watching him as he pauses once more; his expression cuts through everything else, expectant and interested.

"She's Rosalie's friend, and Rosalie isn't quite family. Soon... but not yet." I don't add that I doubt Rosalie will ever be family to me.

His palms are flat on his desk now, body leaning forward ever so slightly as he waits and watches me with that intensity that used to make me flush all over—and if he's blinking, I'm missing it.

"So, no, she's definitely not a friend, Edward," I finish.

He stands up straight, tie crooked, and I can't look away, the need to fix it, to make it perfect—to pull until it chokes—is all consuming. I look back into green and want to hate him. Hating him would be so much easier. "I don't know what else to tell you then," is his reply.

And he's a coward.

I let his words flitter between us, kites shifting from side to side in the breeze, eyes glued to diamond shapes that in a different place, in a different situation and happier environment, would explain and cover for the silence. But it's a bullshit answer.

It's not enough.

My voice sounds too loud, too desperate. "And that still doesn't answer my first question."

His jaw clenches and relaxes over and over, a song on repeat. He studies my face; eyes and lips and cheeks lavished with attention. "What's this really about?" he asks, eyes narrowing, chilling me inside and out, angry black brushstrokes on a blank canvas.

A deep breath, a pause. An answer. "I think you know," I push out.

Another clench of his jaw, an instrument tuned to my voice, to my words. "You don't trust me." And this isn't a question.

I push my tongue up to the roof of my mouth, trying to keep the spite from escaping, but maybe it's true. I don't know, I simply don't know. And that's the problem. "No, I don't think I do anymore."

Nothing. He says nothing. I take a step forward, as if this will somehow enable his thoughts to mesh with mine; fish caught in nets, entangled, easy to latch on to.

Why won't he just talk to me?

My mouth opens, lips now parted with anger and pain. "When did you become so heartless?"

He's closer, but still distant, and I have to look up a little more. He speaks; voice sure and confident—he's in control of this avalanche that threatens to smother us both in white ice.

"About the same time you did," he tells me.

I flinch, his words a stab, stab, stab. My face feels broken, cracked china in display cabinets for all to see. I raise my voice. "I have so much heart," and I'm gripping onto my sweater so hard with both hands balled into fists. "I wouldn't still be here otherwise."

His stomach pulls in beneath his shirt, long breaths held before words are released in one harsh and heavy swoop. "When are you going to stop painting me as the bad guy in all this?" he demands, gaze unyielding, anchors dropped to depths of hazy grey and murky blue.

My words are whispers, second-hand thoughts that I'm not sure I want to keep, so I let them go. "You can't paint someone to be who they're not."

And no hesitation—comments backed with fire. "Well then they have obviously never met you."

I shake my head, dismissing his words as more lies. "I'm not like that," I answer.

More deep breaths and, "You see what you want to see, and that's it," he says.

"And you don't?" Neither of us should be speaking like this, here, and I'm grateful his office is broken off from the others. It's bad enough watching something you once loved fall apart, but having others view it while it happens is another story altogether.

One of those sheets of paper that line his desk gets crumpled under his palm as it fists. I hope it was important.

His next words bring so much anger that I want to forget that this is his place of work—I want to scream. "You're clueless to anything other than yourself," he tells me, as if this is his big playing-hand in a game of cards. A full house.

And that right there just shows me how much he doesn't know me. It makes me think he never did.

No... he knew me. He loved me.

I look up into his eyes, breathe in, and hold it.

He's just trying to hurt me.

"You have no idea how hard it is to be married to someone who keeps everything locked away in here," and I'm pointing to my head, finger against temple.

He smiles, head turning away as he lets out this little bitter laugh that I hate the sound of. "Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea."

And I'm suddenly copying that exact sound I hate. "That's right, I'd forgotten—I shouldn't say anything. You're the perfect husband and I should be thankful you worked so hard, that day after day, month after month, I would get ignored and pushed aside for complete strangers."

He looks incredulous, hands dragging through his hair. "I was working! All those long hours were for you, for us."

It's a cop out.

"And now?" I wonder aloud, twisting the ends of my sleeves with my fingers. "Who are they for now, Edward? Because they're not for me, they never have been. Ihate them."

Anger, present as day on his face again. "You're being ridiculous."

"Why, have I left something out?" I ask him, sarcasm colouring my voice, "Maybe the part about you being the perfect son, too?"

Quick as a click of the fingers. "Don't bring my parents into this."

"Why? You do," I argue, watching as his left hand runs up his right forearm. "Every time that front door slams shut, and you disappear for hours, that's you doing exactly what you just asked me not to."

His jaw flexes as another sheet of paper feels the brunt of his chagrin. "You know, this blame game is getting really old, really fast."

"Well then do something about it!" I return, so tired of being the only one who cares.

I've hit a nerve, pushed too many buttons.

"It's not just me!" He's shouting now, pain radiating towards the sky. "You're in this marriage too!"

And I didn't realise we still had one.

My chest constricts with this image of him—I'm blinded by a broken and angry man.

There are so many things I should ask him right now while he's not in control of himself, but only one question seems to be important. Or, at least, demanding in the pit of others.

I can feel the tell-tale burning in my eyes, as words escape without yet full permission.

"Do you love me at all?" I ask, silent tracks on the brink of forming down my cheeks. A mix of anger and regret.

His eyes are full, shining like dew on the greenest grass—beauty in temperatures that begin to freeze.

He stares, but doesn't answer. And I'm crushed like dried leaves under foot, scattering in autumn colours.

The phone on his desk abruptly starts to ring, loud and harsh in the following silence of his non-declaration, startling us both, but he doesn't answer it. A light soon flashes, a call waiting, but still nothing. His eyes find the clock, lids squeezing shut as he rakes his hands through his hair. "I have a meeting to get to in a few minutes." And he's trying to calm himself down. "I'll see you at home."

Home... he used to be my home.

"I won't be there."

The words surprise me just as much him. His head snaps up, and here it is. Here it is.

"What do you mean, you won't be there?" His eyes are wide and holding me in place, rooting me to the ground. Is he panicked? Does he care? Do I?

I lick my lips, stalling, waiting for the courage to appear. "I'm not going home," I tell him, voice shaky.

Tears want to fall—I'm choking on my own grief.

And I can't stop talking like this now that I've started.

"I can't do this anymore," I say hoarsely, taking a step back towards the door. "I can't look at you every day and feel what I'm feeling. I can't, I can't, I can't."

What am I saying? Inside... inside I'm screaming. Cords are being snapped, ties broken. I want to reach out and grab them, hold on to those strings until they cut into my skin and leave angry, fuchsia marks. Keep trying. But it's useless, and they're falling away one by one, torn ribbons fraying at the slash-point. And it's too much. It's all too much.

The room morphs to a bubble as my vision continues to blur with the storm of tears that pool and threaten to spill—overflowing wells that can hold no more. And my chest hurts as I breathe, panic seizing me, an intricate web of terror.

I look at his face and know all too well what I'm really saying, what I'm really doing and why I'm doing it. Can't he see? Please see. Edward, look, hold—desire your own angry, pink scars.

He walks around to the other side of the desk, a sudden flurry of movement, cutting out the island that has been between us. But just as quickly stops. He doesn't move any further than that. And it hurts.

Won't you even try?

"Where are you going?" he asks me, voice low and calm now. Is he relieved?

I'm drowning.

My throat feels too tight, but I speak clearly enough. "My parents."

He turns away, focusing on anything that isn't me. The phone rings again: it gets ignored for a second time. A full two minutes must pass. "Won't you get lonely?"

And that's all he has to ask me?

These renewed bouts of fighting... they would suggest that passion is still here somewhere. But lines get muddled. The fight for has left, and just left us with thefight.

It's a sign that there is nothing left.

His voice is impossibly soft, yet still distant—he's my never-ending puzzle that will plague me for hours after the previous attempt.

Someone knocks on the door, and we both know time has run out. I back up until I feel the handle beneath my palm, gripping the cool metal as I answer him.

"Maybe," I shrug, a sad, watery smile forming. "But then... I don't think anything could feel as lonely as standing here in front of you like this, watching as you do nothing."

Blank stares are all I can remember of his face as I push and turn and meet Heidi's smile as I walk out the door. There's no comfort for me there now. She's too late.

I hear voices behind me, maybe even my name being called, loud and pounding in my ears as I increase my pace, hundreds of buzzing bees, but I don't stop.

I need to get out of here.

Now.

Cold air hits me, the day still bright, sunshine making the once-new tarmac a dark grey—an abyss of everywhere-my-eye-can-see misery.

Fingers fumble with keys and then I'm sitting, locking doors and twisting metal until an engine rumbles to life, steering me away. Autopilot movements and I know I shouldn't be driving, but there's no one else, only me.

I gasp outwards, unable to halt the pain with stop signs in the brightest of reds. Just stop, stop, stop. Flurry after flurry of thoughts cripple and my fingers turn white against the wheel as I struggle to keep it together until I can lock myself away in my childhood bedroom with its four safe walls in the same pale colour, until I can find arms that will hold me and love me until I can cry no more. And until I eventually tire myself out and fall asleep with fingers running through my hair.

But the crippling thoughts... they don't stop... they don't stop.

I'll see you at home.

I won't be there.

...

"Keep your eyes closed," he whispers into my ear, even though I know where we are and who bought this for us. Hands disappear and, "Okay, open." His smile is breathtaking. I jump into his arms and kiss and smile and wrap my legs around someone that is more important to me than bricks and mortar ever could be.

...

I can't do this anymore.

...

He throws his glass to the wall and I watch it shatter and fall to the floor like glitter. I'm screaming and pointing as he shouts back just as loud. His chest heaves with his anger and I throw the dish cloth at him as I attempt to storm out. I glare as I pass, and suddenly his arms are encasing me and I'm pushing at his chest with soap suds still on my hands as he grabs my face and presses his mouth against mine, all anger and need. My back finds the wall and hands are under my shirt and I hate how good it feels.

Lips on my jaw, whispered words against my skin. "Stop."

My eyes squeeze shut, heart beating so, so fast. "I hate you."

Forehead to forehead and fingers in my hair. "No, you don't."

...

Where are you going?

My parents.

...

"He'll shoot me."

I roll my eyes. "He won't shoot you."

Green eyes light with mischief. "He would if he knew that I haven't been able to stop staring at your ass in those jeans since I got here."

Cheeks heat and I open my mouth, speechless. Then just as quickly I look away, shy, embarrassed, but butterfly kisses flutter across my face, causing me to squirm and giggle. "Pink cheeks and tight-fitting jeans—I never stood a chance," he jokes, all big smiles of his own.

Heartbeats like a hummingbird's wing. "They're not that tight," I mumble.

His hand slides slowly down my back, searching my face the whole while, pauses... and then slides it down some more. My mouth pops open for a second time.

His eyelids seem heavy, gaze now serious. "Trust me, I can... they are."

A throat clears and I swing around, immediately leaning back into Edward as Charlie stands in the doorway still in his work uniform, gun and cleaning rag in hand.

Fingers touch mine behind my back as I grab blindly. "He's definitely going to shoot me," he whispers.

I nod and take a deep breath. "Yeah."

...

The engine has stopped, noises dissolved, the car no longer moving—and yet my hands still grip the steering wheel so tight that my fingers ache. I'm parked in front of a house, staring out the window of the car at familiar shutters and the familiar green of the garage door. I can't seem to get my legs to move.

This wasn't planned: no calls ahead, no packed bags with the usual essentials, no, Mom, I don't know what to do. I've only just managed to bring myself.

I don't know what all this means, the exact damage of my actions unknown, if there is even any at all. On his side, that is. Mine seems to be in a state of utter shock, a numbness wrapping around my muscles like ivy at top speed.

Maybe this is what we both need, some time apart? Maybe this will be good for us.

Maybe this is the last nail in the already half-buried coffin before the ground swallows us whole, forever in darkness.

I can't breathe.

I fling myself out the car, legs shaky and unable to hold my weight as I fall forward and drop to my knees, gravel and pain slicing at my skin. I can feel the sting in my palms, feel a wetness begin to trickle down my leg; feel the gust of a breeze that lifts my hair from my shoulders.

But all I can see, all I can focus on, are the cracks in the pavement, splitting the ground running with their dark and angry fractures, mini wastelands set in concrete.

It's at that moment I let it go.

I set my heart free.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 642