Still with me? :/ lol

My rec this week is one I've rec'd before, but I love it, so please to be reading 'Pocket Change' by aWhiteBlankPage. I love her lots.

Thanks so much for reading!

VHL xx

Hey everyone! Thank you so much for sticking with these two. I know it's not always easy to read, especially for those of you that have gone through something like this. Your PMs are both touching and heartbreaking.

Huge thanks as ever to Susan for correcting my mistakes. Apostrophes are the devil. And to Judy for pre-reading and always finding time. And to Jen for her little additions that always make me laugh.

Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. It's a good thing I've been spelling her name correctly all this time, right? ;]

Bella

Mornings bring doubt and despair; aching bones and a tiredness that seeps through my pores. I can feel it, cloying and unforgiving, all sticky toffee that adheres to my skin. And I want to shake it off, twists and turns and movements that scream of a gracefulness I don't possess; a complete contradiction to the heaviness I feel inside, lingering like ominous rain clouds ready to weep.

There is no soft bedding, no empty sides of the bed or sheets that smell of just him. There is only muted darkness and a shifting cold—a collection of painful reminders that blur and pattern my skin.

Time means nothing, minute hands that spin in endless loops as I wait for that first crack of light—that first sign of peaceful comfort that is nothing but a blinding lie. And it comes, silenced gold that spreads throughout the room; dust motes that look like glitter and suspended halos that breathe life into a space that is already full to the brim: photos and journals and worn-in baseball caps that would always end up mine by the end of the night.

My back aches and chest hurts, muscles taut and stretched, hours of bitter tears and shuddering breaths; my own stupidity, my own stubbornness. I woke alone, disorientated, carpet fibres imprinted onto my cheek, and I shouldn't have stayed... I should have run. The same as he did the night before. But I'm here and hurting and wishing I wasn't any of these things—wishing I was away from this house and the situation I find myself in.

I bring my knees to my chest, steady breaths and escape, escape, escape. I don't want to face this: reality and answers that have the potential to destroy, wildfires that leave nothing in their wake as they burn everything within reach. But I'm here, trapped, old chests with steady locks, keys forgotten. Hidden. And it feels like I have no choice.

Everything is too quiet, and the only sound filtering around me is the harmony of my own soft breathing—the very same sound I eventually fell asleep to in the early hours this morning, all handwritten lullabies and snowy down-filled cotton.

I don't know when being alone became such a comfort. I hate it—that I'm used to it, that I expect it—hate that it feels normal. It never was.

There was a time I'd spend my days with a boy who cared about me, a boy who showed me what he was feeling.

He was never good at hiding his emotions, my very own animated picture book, but it didn't mean he wouldn't try. He did, all the time, gaze withdrawn and back turned, the perfect picture of avoidance all wrapped up in a new suit and brushed down hair.

He'd tell me I was better—better at keeping things inside, better at hiding secrets. But how can you be better at something you don't even realise you're doing?

That's all changed now though. Now he's the master of a blank canvas, white brushstrokes on an already colourless piece of fabric. And I guess he grew up, no longer a boy with only one concern. That concern being me.

My eyes drift as I stand, and I can see everything that I hadn't last night, darkness no longer eclipsing an old world. Bare feet hesitate for the briefest of moments before they move, temptation and trepidation a heady amalgamation as I step forward and run my fingertips over spines of forgotten books—over postcards and photos pinned to cork above his desk.

My vision glides across different features, younger faces, a conveyor belt of bittersweet reminders. And scenes that laid dormant, flutter to life as they flit through my head and zip through my veins, all dominant heartbeat and electric pulse.

My gaze falters on a couple, arms around middles as waves hit mid thigh, one head thrown back—silly fear and exultation—another's straight with eyes that worship. I trace paper lips, laughter captured on film, a happy afternoon frozen for eternity in colours that burst. Blink and I move on, progression stuttering all over again as I'm hit with lips against cheeks as others stay pursed, suspended over candle flames that look so real. I close my eyes, breath gathered and held before I let go, wish sent to the ether.

It's like I'm looking at a scrapbook of our youth, and the memories these snapshots provoke... they're all here, swimming though me like bubbles beneath the surface, little translucent spheres of life that glisten.

I'm about to turn away when my gaze falls on wrinkled leather, once favoured journals creased at the spines. He only ever used to let me read bits and pieces, the parts he was willing to share. Never what I wanted to search for. What I wanted him to divulge. But he's not here... at least physically. I shouldn't do it, I should walk away, respect his innermost thoughts, but what difference would it make now? Everything has fallen apart, tears at the seams of our life. There's no taking that away. So I take, greed and need and a masochistic fascination as I reach forward and pull, dust coating my fingers.

I would tease him sometimes, curious as to why he'd use a journal, and he explained that it was his way of expressing himself—musicians write lyrics, actors leave their own skin to portray another, artists paint, and everyone else simply wrote. I stopped teasing him after that, and even tried it myself once. But I didn't need to share my feelings with empty and ready pages. I showed them to the living instead.

I swear I can feel my pulse in my fingertips as I grip the book in both hands, a silent warning for me to stop. But I don't listen; I ignore and turn pages that are filled with scrawling words, ink-written murmurings of the soul.

There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the passages that stare back at me, simply puzzle pieces that have yet to fit together—random thoughts exported to paper.

My finger pauses on a particular segment, shaky breaths and goose bumps.

She doesn't realise how special she is, always hiding behind her hair or smiles. It's what first drew me to her—her blushes, her silent communication. Every time she flashed those dark eyes at me I'd think things I shouldn't, imagine her hair spread out on my pillows, lips parted and flushed for different reasons.

My eyes squeeze shut, blood warming, my pulse crazy in my ears. He was always so generous with his touches, always, but they gradually began to stop and I was left wondering what had changed. What I'd done wrong.

I'd asked him once, near the beginning and he'd told me I was imagining things. But... no, I wasn't. I used to revel in those touches, the simple skin to skin contact as he'd kiss my cheek or hold my hand. And he'd stopped.

You notice those things when they're no longer there. They're all you can think about, and you go looking for them, initiating contact that gets you nothing but a weak and distracted smile—a cold layer of ice that coats your skin.

I turn a page, and another, brows furrowing as my eyes scan the next words in front of me.

She has the biggest heart of anyone I know, that's so plain to see, so easy to read. She'll help anyone; do anything if you asked it of her. But when was the last time she did something for herself? Just for her? She's so concerned about making other people happy that I think she's forgotten to care about herself in the same way. I should ask her. Make her see.

I look for a date, a hint as to when this was written, but there's nothing, just negative space above a singular paragraph on an otherwise blank page. I swallow thickly and look away, pressing the journal closed with a resolute palm.

He never did mention this to me. Never did make me see.

I don't know what that means, and part of me wants to find him... ask. But that's not an option. I'm not supposed to know this, not supposed to have gone behind his back this way. Or any.

My throat feels dry, thirst and a need for something I can't have resulting in hasty decisions. I find sweats that are too big, ends folded as I enter the hallway, meeting nothing but silence as I make my way downstairs.

The stairs are the same, soundless, tentative step after tentative step as my gaze drifts from pictures of everyone but me. But then that's not true, as one appears, and it's one that steals the breath straight from my lungs—suits and dresses and flowers clutched in nervous palms, smiles that made my cheeks ache and looks that made that feeling inside my chest swell.

My hand finds solace against my chest, except it doesn't, not really. I can feel the thump, thump, thump as my heart takes flight just like it did back then, soaring wings spread as far as they can reach. But this time it's for different reasons. Remembrance.

It's all there in a gilded frame, trapped beneath glass, taking me back to fingers that sparkled in the light; back to rain that danced in puddles at our feet as we swayed, utterly uncaring.

A series of blinks until it's another face I see.

A series of blinks until there's no turning back and all I can think is: I'm getting married today.

~CitP~

The face staring back at me looks just like me: same eyes, same nose, same mouth, yet it feels as though I don't know her.

She's wearing the prettiest dress I've ever seen, a dress I immediately fell in love with, off-white fabric with long sleeves and a lower cut back, small beading details at the sleeves instead of ordinary buttons. No veil. No hiding.

It's simple and exactly as it should be. Exactly right for me.

There was no trying on hundreds of lace finished bodices or taffeta lined skirts before I found the right one. It just happened, which was both exhilarating and frightening. A chance passing of a shop window, lines of dresses calling me inside resulting in the perfect dress. Unthinkable but true.

We've been hiding our secret for months, rings always transferred to a chain around my neck or a safe pocket whenever family came around. It feels so good to finally be able to see the end result; see the dress and the ring and once the doors open, Edward, too.

My pulse surges at his name alone and that nervous anticipation starts all over again, my eyes drifting to the clock by the door as I watch the minutes tick by, all stuttering heartbeat. It feels like I've had so much time to think, this past hour of waiting equivalent to years, and who gets what they want like this? You wish and want and suddenly someone grants it, no questions asked. The world isn't supposed to work this way.

I never thought I'd be that girl getting married at nineteen, that girl not long out of school and already so in love. But now that I'm here, I wouldn't change a thing, the phrase love conquers all ringing truer than ever.

Nervous butterflies fill my stomach—my chest, my throat—and I can't stop fidgeting. My hands want something to do; I want something to do. I want to see suits and smiles and say words that solidify everything I already feel in my heart.

This is right, I know it's right, but I can't help being a little afraid. It's scary doing it alone, no bridesmaids fussing over your hair or dress, no comforting words or teasing glances exchanged in the mirror. But then I remember who's waiting for me beyond a set of wooden doors, and those fears shift, cloud cover splitting down the middle.

A small part of me wishes my mom could have been here, but that would have had consequences neither of us were prepared to accept. And this is all too important to us both.

Doors open and a woman steps out, all friendly smile and short, blonde curls.

"You ready, dear?"

This is it, and I suddenly fear I won't be able to move, my heart hammering in thunderstruck avidity. But then my feet seem to know the way, as I find myself beside her, and all I can hear is that familiar music playing from inside.

My chest feels tight, and my breaths come harder, lump in throat and fingers gripping a bouquet of blush floral. My eyes glisten as I tell myself I'll be fine, and with one last deep breath I walk through, gaze low for the first few steps before it heightens and suddenly nothing else is important.

I can't take my eyes off him, and it doesn't matter that our family isn't here, that our friends aren't—this is our day, and he's the only one I need.

In a typical wedding it's all about the bride, all eyes turning back to stare at the lucky girl in white, but if they were here, looking at what I see, that would all change. He's never looked as good as he does in this very moment, black suit and matching tie, waiting for me. And it feels as if he's stolen my heart all over again, falling in the best of ways while standing on two feet.

The smile that spreads across his face as I meet his gaze makes me forget about every silly little worry I had. Because he's here. And I don't deserve to be this lucky.

I get to spend my life with a boy who loves me, who steals my breath in every possible way; who follows his heart and takes mine with him.

His hand finds mine, fingers entwining as I come as close to perfection as I'll ever get. His eyes roam, chest expanding as his lips part and lashes briefly flicker.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, secrets just for me, and I swear I don't ever want this moment to stop, this bubble to burst.

The judge's voice falls on deaf ears as I breathe, "You, too."

Rings are placed in the middle of an open book, and the words, are you ready? make my pulse fly.

"I have my own vows, if that's okay?" Edward interjects when it's time, and this shy smile graces his face, distracting me from the confusion I feel. He didn't mention anything beforehand, and I know I should be mad, but I can't find it in me to care, not now.

Left hand taken and ring poised, green eyes meet mine and he begins the sweetest words I'll ever hear.

"All that I am and all that I have, I offer you in love and partnership. You're my soul, my best friend, and I promise to honour and protect you; care for you until my last dying breath. I promise to be there for you, even when times get hard, and comfort you in times of struggle."

It's crazy, the feeling these words set off, like fireworks into the night sky. A wonder that appears never-ending. And this moment can never last too long.

"I'll spend forever trying to make you as happy as you made me the day you agreed to marry me. I'll spend forever hoping that I do. Everything that I have is yours," he says. "You're the very best part of me, Bella."

He pauses briefly, deep breath taken, eyes that pierce.

"I love you. Always."

His gaze is sincere and intense as he slides the ring onto my finger, happiness blooming inside of me, completely overwhelming as my eyes fill with unshed tears.

It's suddenly my turn, and I repeat when necessary, lost in green but meaning every word, especially when we get to those very best parts, when I get to push his ring onto hisfinger.

"I do," I whisper.

He smiles. "I do."

And seven words that change my life.

"I now pronounce you man and wife."

He steps forward, palms framing my face as his lips find mine, no hesitation. And they're the same, the best, but this kiss is just the beginning of many others, the very first one in this new chapter. And I don't ever want to forget it.

He pulls back, soft smiles especially for me, and mine turns into happy laughter as he lifts me from the ground, staring up at me as my arms wrap around his neck.

His gaze is so adoring it's almost too much, and I think I'll have to look away.

"Finally mine, Mrs. Cullen," he murmurs.

I stroke his cheek and trace his lips, touch someone that fills in those missing pieces you weren't even aware were missing. "You already had me, Edward."

He carries me outside and sets me to my feet, looking the happiest I've ever seen him and my heart feels so full, ready to burst, all sunshine patterns in shadow.

"I love you," I say, reaching up on tiptoes to place a soft kiss to the edge of his mouth, his chin, his jaw.

Smiles that blind and, "I love you, too."

Light rain starts to fall, tiny pitter-patters at our feet as he takes me into his arms, swaying to a tune that only he can hear, lost and home and so very happy.

And it doesn't matter that it's raining, as I soon find myself beneath warm skin and fevered caresses; love and lust and beating hearts, kisses that steal my breath, joined in a different way to a ring on a specific finger. And still just as special.

~CitP~

I blink back memories, distracted by a noise coming from the very room I'm headed for. Part of me wants to turn back, in case it isn't him, but it's still early, and instinct tells me otherwise.

I descend the remaining few steps and turn the corner, hands clutched together as I tell myself to stop, pause, calm.

But what I see stops me in my tracks, ice seeping through my veins at the speed of light. Fingers on skin, near lips, removing traces of crimson sugar, eyes trained and unblinking. Touches so soft, the barest hint of fingertips, but it's enough—enough to shatter every last bit of false hope, enough to remind me I'm replaceable.

He's not returning her touch, her sentiment, it's just breakfast, but then he's not stopping her either. It feels like I've walked in on a private moment, one that is only shared between those in like... those ready for that next step. And it hurts.

Why hasn't he pushed her away? Can he not see this is more than a friendly gesture?

I must make a sound, I must, because the next thing I know I'm drowning in green and choking on tears I can't cry.

His gaze burns, vivid green that screams back at me as fires get lit within. There's no surprise, no guilt or hasty retreats, there's simply strained silence and steady holds—a resounding echo as I swear I hear my heart crack. It's impossible, that sound, but the feeling of it... that's all too real. Fragility and crumbling stone that gets blown away on a whisper, lips pursed into a deadly kiss.

I kept thinking... kept wondering if I would ever get to this moment where I'd see him like this with someone else; comfort and the sweetest touches that aren't hers to take. Gifts that used to be mine.

Her head turns, interfering distraction followed, and she's the one to react, the one to take that step as the smallest bit of distance is created.

She doesn't give me that coy smile or any of those other things that would suggest ulterior motives, and yet that sting is still here inside of me, thorns of a rose, all red imperfection as skin is pierced.

I hate her. I hate him. I hate fingers and lips and weak and pathetic hearts that want to weep, eyes that want to tear. The word inevitable begins to suffocate, to float, higher and higher like air-fired balloons as I stand in woven wicker and look down, one last farewell to something that I will always carry with me but have to cut loose. One last kiss blown to someone that let go of me long before I ever did.

And does she know... know that she already has him, know what this feels like? She can't, she doesn't. Otherwise she'd never be here touching something that her eyes want, that her heart craves. And it must... why else would she be here? She can see something that I can't, something that is driving her to be so forward when she knows he's already taken. But then she evidently sees things that I can, too. The outer package is unquestionable, that smile contagious, puppet strings that dictate. Can I blame her?

Yes, it's easier. An escape. An excuse. Something to hold on to. Something to ground.

This moment would be innocent to eyes that do not know, but to me, eyes that do, it's the exact opposite, the other end of a rainbow, colours drained as you climb from one side to the other. It's intimate, gestures that are only shared between two that are connected. If you don't care, don't want, you don't react.

Forms have been tied, a familiarity like this doesn't just appear from the sky, puffs of smoke and tricks pulled from a hat. This isn't recent... whatever this is.

And am I brave enough to ask? Strong enough to withstand the answer? I want to close my eyes and click heels that glitter, slow motion rewinds that make sure every step back is the same as the one forward—take comfort in blissful ignorance as I tell myself I'll simply go home, that I won't get caught up in spinning funnels that destroy. I'll have no reason to care, to panic. But never to doubt. That's unavoidable, whether I bear witness or not.

I'm frozen, unsure how I'm supposed to react. Do I still have a say? The ring on his finger says I do, but does that really mean anything to him anymore? Does it to me? Instinct brings my right hand to my left and I twist metal that feels colder than usual... even more so when his gaze descends and abruptly stops, spectator to my inner turmoil.

I unconsciously begin to pull it forward, the space where it laid feeling exposed without it. I feel exposed without it.

It doesn't get very far though; my attention is captured elsewhere.

"You're up early," he announces, hands in pockets as hips get pressed against counters. He's all nonchalance in a wrinkled suit.

I want to be bitter, be cruel, rant and rave and accuse. But I don't. I take a calming breath, I settle. I take time to think.

"I've been awake for a while," I answer instead, separating my palms, watching as his gaze drops once again. "I couldn't sleep and didn't think anyone would be up yet."

This gets his attention and I watch as one hand finds his hair, fingers tensing against the back of his neck.

I don't know what his creased shirt suggests, a heavy contrast to her unwrinkled slacks and blouse, but it doesn't mean I don't stop looking for answers. I look down at my borrowed shirt and rolled up bottoms, so different to prim and perfect in cerise silk. She's not parading around in short skirts or tops that show skin—she doesn't need to. And I think that makes it worse.

She goes about finishing her breakfast, her features showing the same controlled expression as always. It's almost as if that moment was nothing, routine, seemingly not upset that I've ruined an opportunity for her. And was that what it was? She doesn't seem to react either way. But then she isn't giving me any attention either, focus elsewhere, pretense or an embarrassment that doesn't exist.

I can't get a clear read on her, don't understand her. So do I want to make a situation worse and demand answers about something as simple as breakfast? Am I seeing things I want to see, so caught up in a demise, that I'm looking for that inevitable out I seem to so strongly think is out there?

The whole time Edward does nothing but stare, and my anger and hurt finds a target, my ability to remove myself from a situation the only calm in the storm ahead.

He notices my retreat, watches it, but this time instead of letting me go, he moves and I don't want to do this in front of an audience, feet swivelling as I turn and try to escape. And I do for the most part. I'm just past that very same wedding photo from moments before when a hand clamps around my arm, a warm chest to my back.

My teeth grind, anger surging. "Get your hands off me," I warn, glaring at objects that can't feel my ire.

"Then stop running," he presses, breath warm against my cheek.

I can feel that burn in my eyes, but I refuse to let it come to anything—refuse to give in to basic desires. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore. And especially not right now."

He steps closer, chest now flush, "When did I ever?"

I laugh, a sound without humour. "I did everything for you. Everything."

"No one asked you to." Bitter words and winces I can't hide.

My head angles to the side, bringing his lips inches from my skin. "That's so unfair," I accuse, my hand moving to the one of his that has found purchase on my hip, my nails digging into his skin. "We both know I had no choice. You win. You always win."

His grip tightens around my waist, fingers pushing into flesh as he puts his lips to my ear. "No, Bella, I don't. Not always."

And love hurts, pane after pane of glass shattering, a steady stream of dying pieces.

I stare down at his hand, at wedding bands that lie. "We both know that's not true," I push out.

My heart is pounding, and I briefly wonder if he can hear it, feel it.

He says nothing and it's the same as it's always been, fights that start and get nowhere, nights where I can't see through the tears.

"I'm going to walk home," I say, trying to move away again to no avail. I'm not even sure how hard I really try.

"That's not your home," he replies, his voice devoid of any specific emotion. It was... is more than the one I share with you, that's what I want to say. The words are on the tip of my tongue, ready to inflict to a man I'm not even sure can feel anything anymore.

I say nothing, eyes pressing shut against the battle wagering inside of me, his choices from before not in sync with his closeness of now.

"What do you want from me?" I ask shakily, wanting to pull and push and run. "I stayed last night, just like you wanted, and then I find you..." I don't finish. I don't even know what that was.

All I know is that I hated seeing it; hated the feeling inside of my chest. Hated that it was even a possibility.

"Stay with me this week," he says in a rush, or maybe it just sounds that way to me. Either way it shocks me into silence. "You said you wanted to talk... so stay."

I swallow heavily, hanging on to my emotions, invisible threads that tether. "I don't need to stay to do that," I point out, hating this game he's playing with me.

I feel his chest expand, deep breath taken. "No... you don't."

I want to lean back, sink into an embrace that feels more like a shackle. "Why now?" I wonder.

And words that confuse me more than ever, light stubble grazing sensitive skin as he answers in a murmur that sounds so loud. "Because you won."

He leaves me alone at that, retraces his steps, and I'm left alone staring at a progression on a wall of the man who controls my very being.

I pull away, back up, but I can't stop asking those silent questions even though he can no longer hear me, the ones that I'm too afraid to voice out loud.

Can you still be that same person I fell in love with?

And more importantly, can I?

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 616