Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I just make them depressed.

Bella

I wake with a start, heart hammering inside my chest like the flyaway wings of a hummingbird as it stops and hovers, assessing a situation; bright coloured feathers and zippy movements that speak of unadulterated panic. Cotton sheets become fisted beside me, straight fingers to curling claws as my gaze begins to shift, searching for something I think I've forgotten, but can't remember.

I'm not sure what it is I'm supposed to be looking for, and the fear that builds inside my chest is on par with fluffy white in a sky full of cashmere slate; a great height, utterly unreachable, yet cruelly taunting with its presence.

My head pounds, drum beats resonating inside my skull like explosions in the sky, no colours, simply white. The light is still there though, bright and blinding as last night flitters, intermittent like bad reception, fuzzy to clear, over and over.

I remember darkness and cold and arms beneath my knees, scent and scotch and a warmth I want to cocoon myself in until it's safe to come out—until the world is beautiful once more... until I can fly. More wings.

I'm confused and so, so tired, and the urge to drift away like sailboats in the sunshine is wholly overwhelming, warmth on my cheeks as sounds fade. But that's never going to happen with this apprehension striking through my veins; lightening flashes and snapping whips that crack upon impact.

I picture brown hair tinted bronze in a certain light and I instantly know what's missing. He didn't stay. He left. And I'm lying here more confused than ever, waiting for everything to calm; waiting for the missing pieces to slot into place. But they're stubborn and won't fit, eyes burning and throat tightening, voice fracturing as a noise I don't recognise escapes my mouth.

Eyes squeezing shut, I remember stupid fingers and his face in the moonlight, the tone of his voice as he asked me what I wanted, his replies still evasive as ever. He came for me, his appearance never my intention, a sudden burst of warmth to my rainy days: I'd just wanted to speak to him, hear his voice.

I miss him every second of every day, and was so desperate... desperate for any kind of contact after days without it; craving and needing and hating this was happening to us.

It's so hard. I watched everything change before our eyes, forever a part of the scene that gradually started to unfold. But it was impossible to stop it, impossible to pause, like sand slipping through my fingers, leaving behind nothing but emptiness.

Time moved too fast, or maybe I was just too slow, and the outcome shifted—morphed into something I never wanted, yet am now stuck with; a daily reminder that pierces my soul and creates this half-person that, ultimately, feels dead inside, all fallen leaves and forgotten hollows.

I thought I'd have all the answers, that if the time came, I'd be fine. I'd know, and deal, and things would move forward, for better or worse.

But I never actually thought it would happen, and when it did, I couldn't make it stop. I was drowning and scared and wanted so desperately to fight my way back to the surface—where I could breathe and see and feel things other than fear and murky water. But that would all have been so easy, and in the end the answers that were never there to begin with were the things that kept me trapped beneath water, invisible weights secured to my chest as the fight ended.

My head turns on the pillow, gaze locking in on two white pills beside an unopened bottle of water. They remind me of nights just like the one last night, but different... different in the fact we weren't fighting—different in the fact I was sure he still loved me.

I sit up shakily; all newborn limbs and uncertainty as I try and remember the last time he did something like this for me... if it was even him at all.

My heart sinks, and I remember this is not our bed. This is not our room. And he isn't here.

My mind flashes to Charlie's face on arrival here last night and I know this must somehow be him, forever the concerned parent.

I reach out with disappointed fingers and swallow them quickly, forcing them down with mouthfuls of now tepid water. The taste instantly registers on my tongue, bringing a different kind of uneasiness to my stomach to the one that has been present of late; unwelcome house guests that take and take and take.

My bag is still on the bed beside me, contents now loose on cotton sheets, and my gaze is instantly drawn to my phone. It taunts me, and after last night, the message I know to be stored there starts to flash in my mind's eyes, red warnings and green clearances fighting against one another.

Without second guessing myself, I reach out with hands that shake and quickly bring up the message, hitting speaker phone as I drop it back to the bed.

Hey, Bella, it's Em.

There's a lengthy pause before he continues, and I have to resist the urge to delete the message more than once during that time, fear springing through my veins like metal coils, metallic and rust and flowing life force.

I was calling to check in, ask how you are, but you're not answering. And I get that. But, are you okay? I'm worried about you.

His concern warms my heart, but it also reminds me that it's coming from the wrong person.

You know you can call me, or come to the house any time you want. Rose and I will be staying at my parents for a few days while they're at the lake house in Michigan, so it's just us if you need to talk. Or just me, whichever.

I nearly stopped by your parents... but I wasn't sure if you'd want me there...

And Emmett isn't stupid; he knows I'd never be able to discuss anything with his fiancée. We've never attempted to talk, to get close, neither one of us seemingly interested. And that's fine.

The message pauses for a second time and I begin to wonder if he'd finally hung up at this point when his voice comes again.

Also, I called because... I'm worried about... Edward.

He sighs and my eyes squeeze shut just hearing his name, all trepidation and stilted breaths.

He's not answering his phone, either... not after that day...

He doesn't finish that thought, but then he doesn't need to. I know which day he's referring to.

The uneasiness Em's words would have caused if I'd listened to this message before last night isn't lost on me. And if I hadn't seen Edward only hours before, I'd no doubt be worrying right this second, too. But I did, and he was fine. More than fine.

He was evidently dealing with things a lot better than I was.

He looked like shit last time I saw him, and I don't know what's happening, but don't give up, okay? Just... talk to him.

I pull my knees to my chest, my cheek immediately finding solace against the curve as a frown plays across my lips.

Knowing that Edward has done a three-sixty in a matter of days, stings, and my throat tightens in response as his words sink in. Everything Em is saying is going against what I know to be true. What I saw only last night. So what's changed between now and then?

The very thought of Edward moving on crushes me, rubble and avalanches of white.

I'm gonna go, but remember, you're not alone in this. So if you need me, for anything, I'm here. I'll hopefully speak to you soon. Take care of yourself, Bella. Bye.

His words warm and shatter; open fires and crystal frames that crash to the floor, encased pictures unrecognisable behind a web of cracks.

I was hoping he'd have more to say, hoping he'd clue me in to how Edward was really feeling, because he'd not shown anything to me.

He'd always been so vocal, so loving, and it was like a switch had been flipped over night; on to off. Love to indifference. Words to silence.

Our lives are forever altered, and it feels like we've reached a dead-end. There are no crossroads, no safe lefts or risky rights.

There's nothing. Simply heartbreak wherever I stand.

And I don't know what to do.

XXX

Steam fogs the window as hot water boils, and I wish everything was as easily concealed as greenery beyond glass.

I'm searching for Mom's favourite recipe book when I spot it; a picture of Edward and me from Prom. It was the first and only dance I'd been to; the first time I'd danced, period.

It wasn't my last, though. No. I danced in off-white silk in the arms of glistening green on my wedding day, the two of us alone and perfect and so, so happy—euphoric.

I thought nothing would touch us. Ever.

How wrong I was.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I slam the drawer shut, angry at the world... angry at myself.

"Bella?" And I forget I'm not alone.

I know that tone; she's worried, and I have to hold back from telling her so am I, Mom, so am I.

It's unfair to keep this from her, my own despair becoming hers as she watches me day after day become this shell of a person that looks like her daughter, but acts like a complete stranger.

I know if the situation were reversed, I'd be anxious, too. And never as patient as she's been the past week. Never.

"I'm sorry," I say, wiping my cheeks. "I'm fine, honestly." But I'm lying. I don't even know what honesty feels like anymore. I don't know what anything feels like anymore.

Her fingers sweep my hair behind my ears as she quickly dries my cheeks, staring at me in that way that only mothers do when they feel hopeless.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, and I can see the pleading in her eyes, the let me share some of the burden.

I pull in a shaky breath. "No... Yes," I answer, tongue heavy.

And maybe I do know what honesty is as the next words leave my mouth. "I just want things to stop hurting," I say, my voice breaking as sobs build.

I suddenly feel like I won't ever stop crying, and the look she gives me makes it worse, because I know I'm causing her pain, too.

"Oh, Sweetheart," she murmurs, pulling me into her arms.

I want to beg her to make it better, beg her to make it go away. I'm breaking down, terrified at what comes next; terrified by the idea of a ring-less hand and my name signed on a dotted line.

I want to be five and have her fix it with kisses to the forehead and my favourite flavoured ice-cream; swing sets and cartoons that make me laugh until I cry.

But those times have long gone. And they aren't coming back.

My eyes squeeze shut, and I'm trying so hard to stop.

She eventually pulls back and rests her hands on my shoulders, and I want to ask her when I became so grown up; when I started having real problems and feeling like I'd let everyone down?

"You can't work it out?" she asks lowly, brows furrowing. And I guess she already knows. Because what else could be causing this?

I shake my head, unsure. "I don't know," I admit. "It doesn't feel like it." And my heart constricts, hating the very sound of it.

"Bella," she starts, taking my face in her hands, sorrow and compassion lining the creases of her face. "If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that a love like that doesn't just fizzle out," she assures, her grip tightening as she gives my shoulders a slight squeeze. "It just gets a little lost, that's all."

I instantly want to tell her that she doesn't understand, that she doesn't realise just how bad things have become. Or maybe she does. I'm here, after all.

"And what if I'm the one that's lost?" I ask, swallowing heavily.

She smiles sadly. "Then I'd say you're just like the rest of us," she replies softly. "We all feel like that at some point, Bella. You just have to know how to move past it."

And that's my problem right there. I'm stuck; sinking sand and glass cages.

She takes my hands, support in the form of steady palms. "Do you know what you want?"

Do I?

I look away, down to the pristine floor that is now home to a few of my tears. "I think so."

"Then go find it," she urges. "Your father and I... we just want to see you happy."

Her words twist and turn inside me, dizzying cartwheels and candy on a stick.

I don't tell her it's not that simple. I simply pull away with a kiss to her cheek as something becomes overwhelmingly apparent: I can't stay here anymore. I can't continue to put them through this.

My parents have their own lives to lead, and I don't want them to forget about theirs while worrying about mine.

I have a house that is no longer a home, and at some point, I'm going to have to go back. Whether it's to stay or pack up what's left of my life into cardboard boxes though, still remains to be seen.

I know where I'm going and what I want to do; I know I want to talk to someone true and fair and on the outside looking in.

I grab my coat and forget my car keys, needing the short walk over to the Cullen house to gather my thoughts.

The wind is fierce, pulling me every which way, and it feels like my emotions are caught up in the elements, testing me and giving life to what I feel inside on a daily basis.

I pass neighbours I haven't spoken to in years as they secure their mailboxes and walk their dogs, hoping the smile I give in return matches their own. But by the look on their faces, I don't think I quite succeed.

I used to make this trip almost daily, and I know it like the back of my hand; maps embedded into skin in invisible ink. But I've never felt like I do now. And so this time, it's different.

I don't think about what I'm doing, I just walk, the need for answers pushing me forward. The wind further picks up and darkness falls, and just as I'm nearing the driveway that leads up to the Cullen house, all pebbled stones and pristine hedgerows, the heavens open and rain begins to fall.

Part of me wants to pause, take a breath and tilt my face to the sky as I attempt to calm, attempt to clear, but instead my pace quickens, all slippery soles and clumped lashes as the rain clings to my face, unforgiving in its free fall.

Light beckons, a reflected wall of glass becoming my very own telescope as it parades the scene beyond; carnival screams and mania as lines blur.

And the view I'm met with is everything I've feared and everything I want to forget.

Pain travels through me, poison to the bloodstream, and I'm waiting... hoping for the moment when it all just stops.

A room illuminated with light and smiling faces becomes the worst kind of greeting card, reminding me of everything I no longer have and maybe never will—a room filled with loveas I stand here all alone in the freezing cold.

My heart begins to beat along with every stab of pain I feel pierce through my skin, tiny pinpricks that cover every inch of me as I watch my breath cloud before me, all white smoke that momentarily shrouds this picture of perfect agony. I should be worried at how fast it's coming, at how fast I'm drawing in breath after breath, but I'm instinctively trying to block this display as my eyes become traitors, stupid, refusing to clamp shut and protect, protect, protect.

My muscles turn to stone as my limbs stop moving, breaths shaky and vision blurred as the rain continues to hammer from the sky. It's like everything I've been feeling has been poured into this one moment; all my anxieties on display in the cruellest of ways. I've never been that girl, never had the full attention of a room. I've never wanted it, always shied away from it, but looking at a face with eyes that I imagine shine in the best of ways as company is shared, I've never wanted anything so much before in my life.

Edward is at the head of the table—Kate on one side, Emmett on the other—and Rose is beside him. They're all connected in the same way. They all appear happy. And if I thought he'd be alone, I was so, so wrong. In fact, I didn't even envision him here at all.

I watch brown locks and expressive hands and try to imagine myself where she's sitting, try to imagine what it must feel like to appear that wanted again. But I can't.

I thought he'd need time to himself, at least for a little while, because the very thought of pretending this way is inconceivable. But seeing him here, at his parents' house, interacting in a way I haven't seen him do in so long brings about a hurt and guilt that instantly smothers. It becomes apparent that perhaps there's no pretending at all.

Has he really been that unhappy with me? When did I stop making him smile?

I think back to when the problems first began, to all those long days and tired remarks, to all those jealous looks and bitter silence. We argued, and ignored. We hurt and fought. But did we ever just sit and talk? I'm not so sure. And if we did, they all turned out the same way.

How do you fight for something that was never meant to turn out like this? How do you get up morning after morning with renewed vigour when the depression you feel threatens to bury you alive?

You get shot down time and time again, gun wounds straight to the heart, making it impossible to continue.

Nothing was ever good enough, both ways. Nothing was ever enough in general. Cruel and desperate and cries that tore at your throat, black veils and dewy mornings spent crying over something that should never result in tears. They all took their toll. They all matter.

You never think life in general will be to blame. You never think that the smallest things will strip you of everything you once had. There has to be this big moment that changes it all. There has to be that driving force to split you down the middle. There has to be. Because how can anyone survive this otherwise? And when did life get so hard?

We let it become too much, not enough; ignore, ignore, hate, tears. I let myself become a stranger. And I watched as he became an even bigger one.

I want to turn around, need to, but when I finally think my feet will move, green eyes zero in on me, an arrow fired to its target, piercing me straight through the middle, straight through to red.

No one notices his diverted attention, no one notices me but him. The others fade to nothing as I become rooted to the spot, ivy that ensnarls, trapped in a snow globe of despair as the rain continues to fall all around me in a garden full of black.

I can't make out his expression from here, and wonder if he can see mine. I wonder what he feels right at this moment. I wonder if he even sees me at all. But that question is soon answered as he turns away, and this time I'm the one that disappears.

I tear myself away, my body finally recognising the need to protect itself. But I don't know where to go, where to escape to. The weather has worsened, and darkness cloys to everything in its path, making it impossible to turn back.

My legs threaten to crumble, but I grit my teeth, determined not to fall apart right now. My clothes are soaked through, sticking to my skin, and I begin to shiver, frustrated and scared and suddenly exhausted. I feel helpless, and hate it, because I'm not that person. And yet I am. I must be. Because I'm not dealing with this whole situation. I'm not coping at all.

A noise startles me, shoes crunching against the gravel from behind, and I'm not as invisible as I thought.

His shirt starts to change colour, light blue becoming darker as the deluge continues, little droplets of expanding ink on cotton.

All thoughts vanish, and I want to go along with them, hating that they've left me behind.

We're chess pieces on a board, waiting for the first move, and in the end, it's him that makes it.

"Come with me," is all that's said for now as a hand encircles my wrist, and I go all too easily, his touch some sort of fire to my ice.

We walk around the opposite side of the house, away from painful glass reminders and up a set of steps that lead to a room that holds too much of us. If he feels my hesitancy, he doesn't let it stop him, and soon doors are open and I'm in a different kind of darkness.

His touch leaves as lamps are switched on, illuminating the room in a warmth I don't feel right now.

"What are you doing here, Bella?" he questions, levelling me with his gaze. And part of me never wants to leave.

"I came to talk to… Em," I say, watching as his brows furrow, as small creases form in the middle.

"You came to see my brother," he repeats, looking away from me to the darkness beyond.

I flex my fingers, trying to alleviate the numb. "I didn't know you'd be here... I'm sorry."

"You didn't want to talk to me?" he asks instead, standing a little closer than before. I had the best of intentions, but standing before him changes everything. It doesn't feel like I'm ready.

I shake my head, trying to ignore the urge to look around me. "Edward," I start, taking a quick, deep breath, "You stopped talking to me a long time ago."

I exhale, hating how weak my voice sounds against the rain that drives against the glass; a volley of angry little teardrops—an unrelenting torrent that momentarily drowns out everything but sight and touch and taste.

But there's no touch, no taste; there's simply green eyes in a land of grey and expressions that threaten to tear me apart.

"That's not true," he replies, brows pulling together again as heavy swallows are taken. "You just stopped listening."

I shiver and hurt, and hastily wipe the residual rain from my face, his gaze following the movement of my hands the whole while. We've had this same argument time and time again; a record playing over and over, broken in so many ways—the accompanying needle is still just as sharp and painful as it was that very first scratch and I can't hide the resulting wince.

I close my eyes, resisting the urge to find warmth somewhere that no longer exists. I want to press my face into his chest and beg for arms that used to hold me without needing to ask. I want to reach out and smooth my fingers over his face, his hands, the lips and cheeks that I miss and crave far too much. Weights are pressing down upon my heart, trembling red, and I don't think I'll ever stop feeling this... ever stop wanting all these things. Even when I know they're no longer mine to take.

"I'm listening now," I tell him, feeling a kind of desperation inside of me that scares me more than I want to address. But I know I listened. I was there, day after day, waiting for anything from him; a look, a smile, a word. Anything. And all I was left with was disappointment and a hole in my heart that continued to bleed.

I think I've shocked him, but he still doesn't give in. He still wants to hide from me.

"But maybe it's too late," he says lowly, gaze steady, right at me, filling me with empathy and passion and a smarting ache; emotions that completely overwhelm.

His honestly results in a pause, my words dissolving on my tongue, swallowed whole like a pill.

All I can hear is too late... and I swear my heart stops. No beating. No love. Just a dizzying silence that causes a ringing in my ears. Time is nothing as I try to look away, desperation and hopelessness a black veil covering my face.

"Maybe you're right, and I've changed." He pins me with his gaze. "And maybe you have, too."

Something twists inside of me, a reminder that it's more than a maybe.

I want to ask him if this is a bad thing, but deep down I know the answer to that. We wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't.

There are dark circles beneath his eyes that match mine, purple like bruises. And Em's words come back to haunt me. I'm worried about Edward. He still looks so heart-stoppingly beautiful to me, but maybe I'm biased.

A little bit more of me cracks inside as I look back at a man who has shared the most important parts of my life. He's been involved in them all, and fills my whole entire heart with just one smile.

But I don't think I'm that person for him anymore. And I don't know how to be that person again now.

I want to be, though. I want to be that same girl who made him smile; that same girl who made him laugh.

And more than anything, I want him to give me that look that will tell me everything is going to be okay.

"Are you happy, Edward?" I ask, body trembling, all frozen fingers and ice. The question comes from nowhere, or maybe it's been building all this time just waiting for an out.

He stares for the longest moment, silence suspended above our heads, ominous like rainclouds on sunny days. "No," he answers, all dark lashes in a sea of green.

I blink, and force breath into my lungs. "Do you want to be happy... with me?"

And it's out there, and I can't take it back; the panic coursing through my veins causes my heart to race.

I've shocked him, caught him off guard, and maybe I've stunned myself a little, too.

He doesn't answer though, and my heart crumbles, falls to dust; powdered sugar dyed a striking red. But there is nothing sweet here, it's bitter and pain and an ache that lets you know you're alive when inside it feels like you're dying.

My chest hurts and strains as I try to act normal, act strong. But there are pangs at the base of my throat, and my eyes burn and sting, all wanting-to-flow hurt and saltwater lakes.

"I just need you to be..." he stops abruptly, eyes leaving mine as they press shut.

"Be what?" I ask, shivering. The wind continues to howl, cries into the night, controlling the branches on the tree outside the far window as they snap wildly against the glass, almost at one with my own need.

"You should get dry. You'll get sick," he answers instead, instantly shutting me down. The moment is passing me by, the mist clearing, and I want it back.

I shake my head. "No, Edward, don't," I plead, trying to reclaim his gaze. "You need me to be what?"

I know I sound desperate, but I don't care. He's backtracking, I can see it in the way he eyes the door, and I want to scream for him to look at me. To stop. And maybe I do, because green eyes are suddenly on me once more.

He studies my face, lips licked as he searches for whatever it is he wants to say. And I think he finds it.

"You once told me you forgot how pretty my smile is," he starts, my own words rolling through my head as everything fades but him, as everything screeches to a halt like rusting wheels on a track. "But I can't even remember what yours looks like."

My throat constricts, and my eyes begin to fill.

I've forgotten, too.

But there's one smile I haven't. There's one I see far too much of late.

"Why is Kate here?" I ask, swallowing back tears and a cloying hurt as her presence becomes apparent once more. She's my sore point, my everything I'm not.

His lips part and I'm breaking inside, because I've forgotten what they feel like, too.

"I didn't know they were going to be here," he says, walking over to the chair in the corner of the room where he picks up a once forgotten towel. "I knew my parents were going to be away, and needed to—"

He stops, but I don't ask him to finish this time. I'm not sure if he's lying or not.

"Are they staying here, too?" I wonder, hating the very thought of the two of them under the same roof together. Innocent or otherwise.

He swallows, and his eyes flit to the door. "I think they were going to, but... maybe not now."

"Because you're here," I finish. And it's not a question.

He nods.

"So the other house... it's empty for a few days?" I question, breathing heavily.

His gaze burns, sunrays that kiss every inch of my skin. "If that's what you want," he voices, his tone devoid of all emotion.

"This was never what I wanted, Edward," I breathe, shaking my head. How can he think that?

I hate the part that comes next, but I know it has to happen. "We need to talk... about what happens now."

He looks away, and I'm so cold my teeth begin to chatter. "Not tonight," he replies, and I want to ask him to stay with me. "Not with the others here." And it hurts that I'm not a part of them. I've become exactly what I came here looking for; an outsider.

I nod and glance outside; I can't find the stars, even they've deserted me. "I should head back home... speak to Em a different time."

His reply is instant. "You're not going back out in this." He stands in front of me, the towel in his hands pressed into mine. "Just stay here for tonight."

I watch as his hands drop to his sides. "I can't," I whisper, false hope blooming inside my chest.

The sound of a deep breath before, "Why not?"

And I pinch the skin between my thumb and forefinger, "Because it would be too hard."

He frowns as his hands find purchase in his pockets, his shirt moulded to his skin, giving me glimpses to what I already know lies beneath. "You can stay in here. I'll take another room." And I instantly want to ask with whom.

I shake my head again, feeling so, so much. "You're everywhere in here," I whisper, noticing the music on the shelves and the unmade bed. I see young faces and smiling kisses and touches that say everything. And I want to run.

His eyes flash, something I can't quite catch. "And that's a bad thing?"

No. Yes... My words are coming out wrong inside my head. "For now it would be," I eventually answer.

He doesn't show me anything this time, but then maybe he didn't before. Maybe it was simply me hoping for something that's no longer here. "No one should drive in this, let alone walk," he says, the sound of the rain driving his point home. "No one will bother you, if that's what's stopping you."

That's not what frightens me: loneliness is like an old friend at this point. It's being so close to you when I no longer have you that's tearing me apart; torn paper floating downstream, the words eventually bleeding, blue tears as ink meets water.

"Do they know I'm here?" I ask, fisting the towel so tight that my knuckles begin to ache.

He pauses. "No."

"Oh."

He's back to watching, gauging for reactions I don't want to give him. "And unless you want them to, they won't." His voice lowers, and I get caught up in his stare all over again. "You know that they won't be able to hear anything from this part of this house," he adds.

And this time I have to look away, because I know what he's referring to. Nights spent in this very room unbeknownst to his parents... unbeknownst to mine, too. Skin and touch and faster, please...

"Okay," I breathe, ignoring every part of me that screams against it. "I'll stay."

He takes a step back, which soon turns into another as he turns for the door. His need to leave is apparent, and it answers every question I still have. "I'll... see you tomorrow."

I don't say anything more, I simply nod, because I'm not sure I can speak right now—everything feels too raw, and I'm afraid I'll breakdown if I try.

The door closes behind him, and I immediately start to panic, to over think. I'm torturing myself by being here, because nothing has changed. And I'm starting to think that nothing ever will.

I look around me, every item soon becoming tied to a memory. I smile at some, hurt at others, and run my fingers over books that he would read to me over and over.

I open his closet, searching for something dry I can change into, when I spot a suit and tie in a smaller size than what he is now.

My heart takes flight, the action bringing forth memories I don't want to be bombarded with right now. But I can't command them, and they hit, destroying everything in their path; barren trees that burn to the ground, leaving me with nothing but smoking ash as my pain becomes evident for all to see... smoke signals written in the sky.

~CitP~

"Shhh," he whispers, finger to smiling lips as he closes the door behind us. My feet hurt, and my dress is a little wet at the hem from running through the grass in bare feet, but I feel light and so happy in this moment that I don't care.

"Are you sure your parents won't hear us?" I ask, suddenly feeling a little nervous.

I lied to my Mom and said I was staying with Jessica, and she in turn told her mother she was staying with Angela. It's a rite of passage, sneaking around after prom. And one that I never thought I'd partake in. Let alone want to. I think Renee knew I was lying though, but she didn't say anything. She's letting me have this moment, and my resulting smile must have said it all.

"No," he assures, taking my shoes from my hands as he sets them on the floor. "We're fine."

I nod and put my hands behind my back, fingers twisting together as my bottom lip becomes caught between my teeth.

"So," he smirks, coming to stand in front of me. "What do you want to do?"

I can feel the blush rising to my cheeks as I attempt to look away, but then his thumb is against my lip, pushing down until it's free. "I don't know," I breathe, knowing exactly what I want to do.

His blinking seems lazy, his pupils bigger as his hands find my hips. "No?" he whispers, his mouth brushing against the edge of mine, setting off sparks that tingle.

I shake my head, lashes fluttering as he pulls me closer, flush against his chest. I can feel his heart beating crazily beneath my palm, and I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling a little nervous. But this time, it's for different reasons.

He's suddenly serious, green eyes intense. "You know I don't expect anything, right?" His voice is low, soft, no hint of falsity present. "We can do anything you want. Watch TV, sleep, play a few games of chess..." His smile is back full force.

I focus on the buttons on his shirt as I reply, deciding to tease him right back. "Chess sounds good," I say as seriously as I can manage, peeking up to see his eyes glint.

"Is that so?" he murmurs as he starts to unknot his tie. I watch his fingers, a little unsteady, but mostly confident. And I know all too well what they can do.

"Or sleep. I am a little tired," I say, unconsciously glancing at his bed.

I can feel the full force of his gaze as he shrugs his jacket from his shoulders and down his arms... and my hands suddenly want something to do. But I have no jacket to remove, no shoes to slip off—just a blue dress that begins to feel too tight.

"Bella," he voices, fingers under my chin until I meet his eyes. "I'm serious. Anything you want."

I take a deep breath and lick my lips, fingers twisting buttons through holes as I free him of his shirt. "I'm fine," I reply, and this time I mean it. I think. But then his mouth is on mine, and I know that I am. This is Edward: perfect, sweet, and mine. He'd never hurt me.

He pulls back and searches my face, the look in his eyes and expression on his face causing my pulse to race. "You looked beautiful tonight. Did I tell you that?" he murmurs, pushing my hair from face.

I wrap my hands around his wrists as his thumbs stroke my cheeks, and get lost in green. "You did. Three times already," I whisper, engrossed in the feeling of his skin on mine.

He looks back and forth between my eyes, and I'm his, completely. "Well, now you can add another... and another," he promises as he whispers beautiful against my skin over and over.

He sets me on fire, the good kind of burn. "Edward," I exhale, fingers on stomach muscles that contract at my touch. "I want to." And I feel his breath hit my neck as he stops kissing, lips simply hovering.

"We can wait—"

"No," I interrupt, chest heaving. "I'm ready."

"It's still early, so we could always play that game of chess first if you really wanted to," he smiles, all crooked and teasing as one side of his mouth lifts slightly higher than the other, but his eyes say something else, and I'm starting to think maybe he doesn't want to.

"If you don't want to..." I let off, trying to shift out of his hold, embarrassed and unsure.

He laughs, low and breathy. "I'm a boy, Bella. Believe me, I want to," he assures, his cheeks turning a slight pink.

And I feel mine match in response. "Okay."

He watches his fingers slide down my neck, and I'm completely spellbound, magic and pleas that glitter.

I reach behind me, deep breath taken as I find and pull on the zipper, urging it down as my dress starts to fall. It lands at my feet, and even though I've been mostly naked in front of Edward before, this feels different. His eyes don't leave mine, not once, and for that I'm grateful.

His hands are back, but so are mine, and every inch of skin feels his touch even though he's simply framing my face.

He looks nervous, lips parting as his forehead falls to mine. "I love you. Did I ever tell you that?"

Everything suddenly seems quieter than before, and no, Edward, you haven't.

I need to hold, to ground, fingers fisting waistbands as my whole being feels like it's swaying. "No," I breathe out, chest against chest, hearts adjacent... and mine feels like it's about to burst.

"It's true," he professes, soft and caressing, silk confessions that make you feel so, so special. "You were mine before you knew it."

His hands curve around my hips as unexpected tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I want to wrap my arms around him and never let go.

I've wanted to tell him for months, but held back; scared he wouldn't feel the same, and so incredibly happy that he does.

I don't know why I don't say it now. Because I feel it, so much it's like I can't breathe. Words don't exist as my throat closes up, connected in a sense that doesn't feel real.

He pulls his head back a little, his features clearer, but I hold tighter, refusing distance that results in soft smiles and eyes that adore.

I want to say so much, but am quieted by kisses, one after the other as we sway to soundless notes.

But it doesn't matter.

Because the only music I need is the beating inside my chest. Singing just for him.

~CitP~

I don't remember when I'd decided to sit, knees to chest inside the closet, comfort and protection.

I don't remember finding old cotton that smells just like him.

And I don't realise I'm crying until I feel tears trickle across the bridge of my nose to bare knees, creating my very own live piece of art; watercolour paintings in red and black as I breakdown for all the lost everythings.

Reviews will get a teaser for the next chapter. :)

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 614