Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

Light flickers, muted flashes behind my lids—a movie on the big screen, illustrations quivering... blazing to life. Something changes, a new reel. Stop. Start. Click. Again. A picture only I can understand flutters inside my head; a window to my soul. There are ballerina twirls, and heads thrown back; laughs and smiles and something beautiful. A beginning.Click.

Warmth flutters, blooms inside my chest as I watch and breathe—quick, slow, quick, all in sepia tones. Consciousness is gaining, a scene long gone, but not forgotten, threatening to shift. Kisses are blown and caught on lips, glittering eyes and daisies placed in hair. And I watch as promises get whispered to skin, to hearts, to places that ache. Growing. Click.

Shouting matches, screams inside my head, back and forth. Towering forms and looks like hate; anger and pain, love and defeat... teardrops. An ending. Stop.

My eyes open, swift and without warning, instantly meeting blinding white. And I know this sight all too well.

Alone.

I reach out with tired limbs and touch nothing—air and the sight of my own fingers as they search for something that isn't there, all pale skin and pink in the dull light of a January morning.

And in the end I pull back with nothing but a shaky sigh that threatens to crack open my chest and expose my pain and red for the universe to see if they choose to look.

I stare at the mountain of space beside me, imagining forms that no longer exist in my world asleep and here. It's the hardest part of my morning, knowing I have no one to share it with.

Waking up in an empty bed is the loneliest feeling; bare sheets and unwrinkled pillows, snowy cotton and barren hearts.

You think you'll get used to it, but you never do. One half of the pair is missing, and that's impossible to ignore. I try and try so hard it scares me, the desperation asphyxiating. And sometimes when I'm not trying, that one lucky hour where it all falls away, it's so easy to forget.

But sometimes it's not.

Every now and then I can push aside those painful reminders—images of green eyes and crooked smiles, sleep-messed hair and groans that build in your chest as touches ignite need—and sometimes it's all I can do to stay above water as my heart drops and anchors, dragging me down until breaths run out and everything stops.

It's at those times I have to try and be strong and think of other things.

But weakness is not my virtue—it's my vice.

And it's impossible to stop.

Dreams plague my sleep, lingering when I wake. And God, the leaving hurts, sometimes so much I'm positive I'll no longer be able to breathe, but it's nothing compared to the flashbacks. They're uncontrollable because they happened, past tense: they're set in stone, utterly unchangeable. They aren't what-if scenarios that you wish for, but realities that bring you to your knees while doing something as simple as making a cup of coffee. And it's that, right there, those everyday scenes between a husband and wife that fully drive that wedge between your ribs. The little things really do cut the deepest. And whether it's the end of the day, or first thing in the morning, it's those that hit you the hardest. They're the things you miss the most—fingers against cheeks as they brush hair aside, laundry folded at the end of the bed you don't remember washing. Lazy Sundays spent cuddled together on the couch watching bad TV. And that single text containing the words "love" and "you" that sheltered you from whatever else was happening that day.

But there's no shelter now. There are holes in the roof and crumbling walls, rain falling to cheeks before splashing to the ground. Everything feels like it's falling apart at such a rapid pace. A complete contrast to the slow deterioration that was occurring before, leaving no escape from the cobblestone heap now at my feet which only continues to get bigger as the days pass. I've become trapped in my own despair with no way to break through to the other side—a side where the sun shines and laughter vibrates, a foreign land to the graveyard that has me shackled at the heart.

Knowing I can't stay lying between these empty sheets any longer, I tiredly pull myself from bed, a heaviness to my limbs that was never there in the beginning. I dress in the comfiest jeans I can find, not caring what I look like or when I last brushed my hair. Those things no longer matter.

And before I leave this room to go through another one of those painful little reminders, I pause, my hand on the doorknob, trying to calm. One breath... two, open. I get ready for a new day.

I simply get ready for the same.

XXX

I know Renee wants to talk, I can see it in her eyes when I turn and catch her watching me when she thinks I'm not looking. She wears that same worried expression that took residence on her face the day she found me sitting here with tear stains on my cheeks, her concern evident. And I hate to see that I'm doing that to her, but I don't know how to make it go away. I can't seem to voice the word that would suggest what Edward and I are right now.

Over.

And I have to squeeze my eyes shut because it's just as hard to think it.

She hasn't asked for details though; she won't until I'm ready, and I think she can sense I'm not. Even Charlie seems to be waiting, which is exactly him, as he's never been one to pry. And yet I can tell he's just as worried as Mom is. He's a little more restless than usual, the odd shift in his chair with a throat clear, maybe hoping to gain my attention, or maybe just a simple reminder that he's there if needed. Either way my heart breaks and blooms that I'm putting them through this as well.

They're simply being here for me in the only way I'm able to let them right now, and that's silent company. My days aren't as alone as they were before; lonely, but not alone.

I still think back to Edward's words to me those five days before in his office.

Won't you get lonely?

And even thinking about them now... they make me want to laugh out in humourless despair, because how had he not seen I was just as lonely with him? Even when he was home, it was as if he wasn't, so lost to himself, keeping me locked out. And in return, I guess I did the same.

I always used to think the fights were the bad part, but the indifference was far worse. And still is.

So whenever those words push themselves into my head, I'll sometimes give him a different answer to the one I voiced amongst those four walls that I never want to step foot inside again—a single word whispered that explains everything... the same word that sealed this marriage for us with the happiest of hearts.

Yes.

Yes, I get lonely. But then I remember all those nights I'd sit across a room from him, asking myself where my husband had gone. The man that had taken his place was a stranger; so much so, that when I looked at my own reflection in the mirror, I wondered whose face that was, too.

So while I'm still drifting in the expanse of the arctic, in desolate wonder and fear, there's never any doubt in continuing to go forward. Turning back isn't a viable option.

In fact, it isn't even an option at all. And I have to ignore the freeze—ignore the shell of ice that encompasses itself around my heart.

XXX

Sunset is approaching, paint dropped through the clouds creating a tie-dye of colours, a rainbow of the night.

The temperature has dropped, cause for hats and gloves and a wool-like noose around my neck whose fibres tickle against my skin. No one's home, Dad at work and Mom with a neighbour, and sitting in an empty house is reminding me of the very things I was trying to get away from in the first place. So I'm walking, nowhere in particular, just one step in front of the other until the house disappears and the roads become quieter—until all I'm left with is a darkening evening and a need to escape.

It's been five days since I spoke to Edward... almost six... five days since I last saw him. And it feels like months and yesterday all at the same time. There are so many things we need to talk about; so many things I don't want to have to discuss. He hasn't been back to the house, hasn't tried to contact me once. And I don't know if it's because he's in the same boat as I am, holding on to the sides for dear life as the storm continues to play havoc with the elements, or whether it's simply because he no longer cares about me or us or what happens next. Maybe it's all of those things. Maybe he's happier now.

And another layer of ice builds.

Emmett has phoned. Twice. And both times I've ignored his call. I know it's cowardly, a lion running scared, but I just couldn't bring myself to answer. And not only that, the realisation that came with his phoning me, showing he cares, while Edward stays silent—it hurts more than words can express.

He'd left a message the second time, but I have yet to listen to it, and that was two days ago now. It's obvious Edward's spoken with him, otherwise there's no way he'd know. Or, worse, he's already spoken to his parents without discussing anything with me first, and news has travelled fast. Evidently I'm no longer his main concern. I don't think I have been for quite a while.

I'd taken a week off work, no fuss made, cover found, easily replaceable even there. But at least I know I'll be returning come Monday. It's a constant in my suddenly ever changing life.

This makes me think of Jasper, and that awkward moment we'd shared. This is the first time I've thought of him since then, and I briefly worry that I may have burnt bridges there, too, especially with the way I up and left. But that's so small to the other things going on right now. And I guess I'll have to see if that bridge is still standing when and if I get to it.

I come to the end of the road, my breath evident in the night, chalky exhales in the blackboard of the sky as my eyes get drawn to the lone building that stands out like a sore thumb in the otherwise empty road.

The Lodge is exactly that. It's all deep, dark wood and rich in colour—a sturdy and rustic building that speaks of what home should feel like. Smoke billows from the lone chimney, filling the night with off-white clouds that hide the stars. I don't mind; none are for me anyway. I step closer, drawn in by the windows illuminating the copper warmth from inside, reminding me of autumn leaves and hot cinnamon drinks; comfort and palms against rosy cheeks. And I need that right now. Need it in the most basic form apart from another's touch; liquor and open fires and something other than heartache or numb.

And while feelings can change, memories don't. And I can't stop falling back into one now.

~CitP~

Flushed cheeks and scotch and home... that's what Edward represents to me right now as he sits beside me, coaxing with lips and smiles and lazy lids.

"Bella," he breathes, leaning closer. "Please."

I shake my head, face warm. "No."

He tries again, hair tickling my skin as his lips press to my neck. "Just a sip... I want you to taste like me." And he isn't playing fair.

"I don't like scotch, Edward," I whisper, lashes fluttering shut as he sucks on my skin, teeth grazing and tongue warm, before pulling back and exhaling right over that spot.

Hand on my knee under the table, sliding up and up. "You don't like me?"

"I don't like scotch," I clarify, gripping the edge of the bench, conscious of the people that can see, but uncaring.

"But that's me right now," he smirks, all dark green amusement and tempting pink.

He's silly and drunk and I love, love, love.

I shake my head, a smile of my own forming. "I don't like the burn."

His gaze flickers down to my mouth, his lips parting. "But that's the best part. It lets you know you're alive."

My bottom lip becomes trapped between teeth as his fingertips dig into my thigh; lust and heat and oh God, touch me.

No, yes, please. "Okay."

Kisses against the edge of my mouth, not close enough as he brings the glass to my lips. "Just a little. You're not used to it."

"No, I don't like it," I laugh, holding the other side of the glass.

My lips part and I can already taste it on my tongue: tip and taste and crinkled brows. He smiles, lazy and happy.

"Yeah... No," I laugh, feeling the heat inside my throat as I push it away. "And stop laughing," I say, shoving at his chest.

More kisses, hand higher. "Your face..."

"Shut up."

Lips find mine; tasting tongues and nips and hands pulling hair. Soft, once more, and away. Breathless.

"Again?" he teases, licking his lips.

I smile, focusing on the buttons of his shirt as my fingers play. "I don't think so."

Hair pushed behind my ears, "But it makes you mine."

I look up, lashes tickling. "I was already yours."

Heated stares and fingers on my own. "I like to be thorough."

And he does, which he proves to me when we get home as he makes me burn in a whole new way.

He lets me know I'm alive.

~CitP~

Before I think about what I'm doing, I'm inside ordering that very same drink. Remembering. Fighting tears as I sit at the bar and keep going until things become hazy and my tongue feels numb.

Minutes pass and no one pays me any attention. They simply do the same as me and try to forget about their day while trying to remember the good.

Then I notice a couple in the corner, as a song I recognise plays softly from the speakers, acting like the kind of love that tears at your soul—puppet master strings, pulls and twists, soon acting out a scene of jealous heartache.

I look away as my heart beats, beats, beats... crazy and fast. I pick up my phone... and I'm stupid. Stupid fingers and stupid need; stupid names and accelerated heartbeats. I scroll through contacts and stare at a name embedded into every part of me, especially the parts that pump and hurt; a melancholy tempo that follows and moves as I do. Twists and twirls, wisplike smoke; pointe turns and spins, over and over, my world dizzy without him.

I press my lids closed, hoping for focus when lashes lift and colours hit; hoping for normal. But I blink and blink, and it's not. How can it be? I don't have the person who should be beside me, here.

Green button pressed and I wait... doubt, but still listen, each ring seemingly longer than the previous. But no one answers. And I want to sink my head to the table and close my eyes, sleep through this until things get better. Because surely is has to—surely it can't get any worse?

The ringing ends and a voice I recognise but don't know starts to speak, and this is the time I should pull the phone away, but I can't, and deep breaths are taken before a tone sounds, and then words... they flee.

"Why didn't you fight?" I say, and I know no one is listening right now, but someone could... he could, and it's somehow easier to speak to him like this, without the sight of him to distract me. "You gave up, and it hurts... It hurts so much."

My voice drops and I pick up my drink, draining the rest, lips pursed against the taste as I feel the heat bloom inside my chest. "I'm missing you, and drinking things I don't like. Do you remember? Scotch... and now I feel sick and can't feel my fingertips. But I think that's a good thing. Numb to the world," I breathe, hating the tears that spring to my eyes.

I'm quiet and embarrassed and despise my weakness. I should hang up.

"But the worst part is that I don't know how to be someone you miss anymore. And I wish I did, because then maybe I could understand why."

My voice breaks, and I hate it, not that it matters, because I don't think I can say anymore now anyway. I hang up, red pressed and order one last drink. More minutes pass, but this time I don't touch it. Because I still don't like it... I just wanted to remember what it felt like to be his.

The door opens and chills surge... and I panic, because I realise where I am, and I doubt I can walk home like this. It's pitch-black outside, the hour late, and I don't want to have to call my father. I'm not a little girl anymore, despite feeling like one right now.

I go to leave, but pause as my eyes meet the person's by the door. My heart skips like stones across the water: once, twice... three times. Until it sinks, falling like saltwater tears.

Jeans and shirt and hands in pockets... simply watching. And there's no way I can stand now.

He makes his way towards me, pausing as he gets within touching distance, close enough but still distant.

His eyes drift to my drink and away again. "Did you drive here?"

It takes me a moment to answer him, because I should have known he isn't here for the same reasons I am. "No." And my voice sounds hoarse.

"How many have you had?" he asks, still not looking at me.

I grip the sides of my stool. "Enough."

His chest expands, deep breath taken. "How did you plan on getting home?"

I look away because his words hurt. I shrug.

"I didn't think you could be so stupid," he tells me, stepping forward as I go to get down.

I blink, lips dry and parted, my voice sleepy. "I didn't know you thought of me at all." It's bitter. I don't care.

He breathes, slow and deep, face a blank canvas. Calm. He looks like always. "I thought..." he says lowly, hard and smooth, melting into my skin like liquid silk. He shakes his head, and I want to close my eyes and burn along with the fire of potent amber in my glass.

He reaches for my things, not finishing his previous sentence before he starts another. "I think it's time for you to go home."

I feel angry and humiliated, but I don't argue. I'm too tired.

My feet find purchase on the ground, but things start to sway and I stumble forward into arms that haven't held me in so long.

He rights me instantly, and my fingers grip his shirt as I try to steady. "I'm sorry."

"Just hold onto my arm if you need to," he murmurs as he leads us both out, the cold hitting me instantly as I try to slide my hands into my gloves. He watches me struggle for a few seconds before helping, brows drawn together as he concentrates.

I follow him to his car, hesitating briefly before getting in, but once I do, I fear I'll not want to get back out. It's warm and smells like him, and the sleep that has been weighing down the past hour or so threatens once more.

My eyes drop closed as the engine starts, the sound somehow comforting, and all too soon it's off again, my door opening as arms lift me out.

"I can walk," I say half-heartedly. It makes no difference.

The door opens and I feel Edward pause as he looks towards the kitchen to where my father is standing in his uniform, no doubt having just gotten home from work.

"Charlie," he greets, and I see my dad's arms cross as he looks back at the two of us.

"Edward," he nods after a moment before heading back into the kitchen.

I can feel the tension in his arms as he continues to carry me up the stairs, and I realise this will be the first time we've been in this room together in almost a year.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, no directions needed as he sets me gently on the bed.

Moonlight pours through the window, highlighting his face in marble white; ghostly shades and surely he isn't real?

I get caught up in green stares, traps that lure and hold—one that I don't struggle to break free from. I look and look, falling for his eyes all over again, and feel that stab in my chest that reminds me he may no longer be mine.

He looks down after a moment, and I'm met with shadows.

I swallow hard, struggling to keep my eyes open, sleep threatening to pull me under; waves and sand and dancing kelp. This is the closest he's been in months while still keeping that wall up, and I suddenly don't regret stupid phone calls.

He's back to watching, almost as if he's memorising my face, which brings a new bout of panic and fear. He'll leave, just like I did, but with Edward it's different—I get the feeling if he walks out right now, he won't be coming back.

Yet, what else did I expect?

I go to sit, but strong hands push against my shoulders, warmth to my skin. It's what I've been seeking, which tears at my heart, because it's from the one person that I know can't give it. And despite my mountain of wanting him to, I'm not sure I could handle it either. I ignore the shiver that travels through me, the goose bumps that attack my skin, and rest my head against the pillow.

My eyes start to sting and I can't stop the few stray teardrops that escape from the outer corners, sliding down my temples before they get lost to chestnut waves.

"Was it so easy for you to let me go?" I whisper, rawness and pain continuing to drive the hurt from my eyes. I'm so tired, and want to sleep, but I'm scared, too—scared of waking up and having to repeat this day over and over.

I swallow thickly, and lashes meet and tangle as lids briefly close. I'm not sure I can.

He turns his focus to the window, staring out at a moon that must hold the answers he wants to give, but doesn't divulge.

"Is this what you want?" he wonders instead.

My lips part, shaky exhales lost to the room. "How can you ask me that?"

And words that are straight and sharp and cut right to the bone, "Because you're here."

Quick glances over that settle and stop. "Because I need to be, not because I want to."

I'm waiting for his reply, but he's taking too long, and I can no longer keep my eyes open.

Whispers from open windows, breeze tickling softly at my cheeks.

"What about what I want, Bella?"

But I'm not sure I hear that right, as sounds become hazy and I think I hear a door open and close as I get lost to a film of smiles and twirls, frame after of frame of someone that looks just like me. Someone that is me.

And someone else I know, too.

Stop. Start. Click.

Again.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 641