Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

The funny thing about life is that you never know when it's going to change. Sometimes a moment will hit you when you least expect it, knocking the breath straight from your lungs, chest heaving and heart pounding as you try to rationalise what just happened.

I was drifting, sailing on that rip curl with nothing but the endless stretch of ocean in front of me, daily affairs that looked like life staring me right in the face. And yet something was missing—that cerulean water wasn't calming... wasn't enough.

I was a robot, my movements programmed as I switched from one task to the next, the actions ingrained as if someone was controlling that part of my brain—the part that told me when to move, when to speak, when to shift my hand from a bare flame and not get burned.

I was switched off.

Then the wave hit full force, utterly unexpected, and knocked me completely off balance.

My world tilted and body swayed, frantic expressions that turned into desperate fear: the damage became irreparable. And it's not only the things around me that fell—photos crashing to the ground as they lost their place on their hooks, china rattling forward off the top shelf as it dropped with a shatter...

But I did, too.

And it's impossible to hold on, arms out at my sides as I grabbed blindly at someone that wasn't there, catching up with that shower of china confetti that met me halfway in stinging shards like icy rain.

Chest expanded, and eyes blinked open, and I was staring up, up, up, legs twisted at an odd angle with eyes full of a pain I never dreamt could exist...

Until now.

That's how I find myself waking up alone, one mug pulled from the cupboard instead of two, alone in a house that holds just as many memories as the ones closed off inside my heart—that's how Ispend my morning as I watch the kettle boil, steam blurring my vision. Or maybe I'm crying. I can't tell.

One is now the other, and I can't see.

I can't see.

And there are no arms to hold me as my tears run dry.

There's no one.

XXX

Weariness settles over my bones, thick and heavy like an unwanted blanket. I grip my mug between my palms as the morning chill kisses my cheeks with frozen lips, shivers that travel up my spine and disperse like an electric current.

Steam rises, its damp heat coating my chin as I bring the hot tea to my mouth. The sun is bright despite the chill, clouds hiding as greenery is at life all around me. And when did this happen? Spring is coming, new beginnings in bloom while mine continues to wilt, peach blossom turning to the colour of rust. Dying. And I am forever blind.

Thoughts of last night plague my waking moments, shadowy figures that creep from the worst breed of nightmares, the kind that finds you gazing at the ceiling at two in the morning with a racing heart and sweaty palms.

Edward. Edward. Edward.

He'd questioned what I wanted—questioned if I wanted to try and fix this shamble of what we've become—and I'd answered yes, slow and careful, holding back the desperation that pulsed inside of me like the blood in my veins. But when it came to my turn to ask him back—his answer something I coveted more than was healthy, a breathless anticipation—we'd been interrupted.

And I can't stop thinking about that, either.

Jasper rang just the once, no message left, and while I'm sure it was nothing important, I can't dispel the image of his name flashing across the screen as I waited for my husband to answer me.

It had passed at the time. Edward... he would always come first. Even now. But in the quiet moments in between, like this chilly January morning, it would sneak through the cracks, Jasper's name like a whisper on the breeze.

There's always been Edward. I've never had another boyfriend; never had another first kiss that really counted. It's just been him, all the time. And while I wouldn't have it any other way, a part of me can't help but wonder if we'd both be stronger if someone else had come before him. I would have had my practice run, would have known what to expect and how to respond to heartbreak and petty situations. I wouldn't have become so caught up in solely one person, especially the person that held my heart in the palm of his hand. I would have made smart choices... choices that didn't necessarily have to include him.

I both love and hate that our lives have been so entwined; it's given me something to remember, memories to cherish and smile over, even against the ache beneath my ribs. But then it's also why this has been so hard; why it feels like I've constantly been staring into night blindness.

He was all I knew at the time, all I had wanted to know, a shiny new penny that I couldn't stop admiring. And time hasn't dulled that, that glimmer is still there, it's just become a little hidden.

I'm not, however, Edward's first... anything. And maybe that's the problem. I don't know what I'm missing—maybe I'm subconsciously craving something I don't even realise I want. But he does. He knows there's something else out there... something potentially better: I can't help but wonder if that's why he's still so closed off.

And I guess he has choices, too.

My fingers find my hair, twisting at the roots as my gaze drops to the cement underfoot.

And then there's Jasper.

I don't know if I can call him a friend... I'm not sure what he is. He's just been there with a friendly smile and patient understanding without me even having to really say anything. I'm not even sure he knows Edward and I are having problems. Either way it feels nice... feels nice to have someone like that in my life again.

My friends from high school drifted to the larger cities after graduation, my plans to follow them dashed by devastating lazy smiles that tipped my world upside down. We catch up a couple of times a year by email, but it's not the same and always about inconsequential things, at least from my end. And when those personal questions arise, I simply lie, and type back that everything with me is fine, that awful word that is never true, relieved they can't see my face or the forced smile I would have to wear if they asked me this in person.

The breeze rustles my hair, strands swishing about my face as I bring my mug back to my mouth. It is distracting, hair sticking to my lips and cheeks, once hot tea falling over the brim of blue porcelain to stain my white sweater.

My gaze darts, looking for something to soak up the spill, and I'm shuffled back to a bench with hands touching an unfamiliar warm chest.

The moment had been awkward, held breaths and hasty getaways, and yet... somehow intimate. I haven't had anything like that in so long. And perhaps that's why the moment keeps playing over and over in my mind like a distant song on repeat.

Or perhaps it's something more; something that scares me, something that I don't want to address.

And as my gaze drifts to glistening white gold, I have to wonder... why do I continue to fight for something that brings nothing but a hopeless despair?

I want to turn away and close my eyes. But even then there's no reprieve, dreams infiltrated with upturned lips and a pair of eyes filled with so much light; happiness in the most expressive part of ourselves.

Don't I deserve more? Doesn't he? I want to be selfish and cling onto recollections gilded in starry gold and silver, but I hate seeing him just as unhappy. It tears me apart inside, a sad and sorrowful tale depicted in a slide show of pictures that begin to disappear, the development stage in reverse, fading to a blank roll of film ready to capture someone else instead.

My eyelids squeeze shut just as another gust of wind bites at my cheeks, and I hastily get to my feet, fingers tightening around my mug, looking for borrowed warmth... and maybe for something else, too.

But I'm good at ignoring. Good at pretending.

I close the door behind me, pausing for only the briefest moment as I stop and stare at the items on the shelves that aren't mine: patterned china plates that weren't a wedding gift to me. This isn't home... and yet here I am, living someone else's life.

I don't let the pain that accompanies this awareness distract me. I simply wash my mug, set it back exactly where I found it, and continue to get ready for work.

XXX

The bell above the door jostles, signalling my entrance with its piercing ring as it resonates throughout the space like dust being shaken from the pages of a long forgotten book, drifting through the air on a lazy wave. Weak sunlight tumbles through the double-fronted window, appearing in large rectangular patches between the bookshelves as I push the door shut behind me with the heel of my shoe.

I pause with the feel of the door at my back as I lean against it, the outside world momentarily shut out. I pull in a deep breath, an invisible weight lifting from my chest—I feel the most comfortable I have in days, cotton-like clouds shifting to show the gold tinged sphere in the sky.

This is familiar, and home, and holds no ounce of oppressing memories, good or bad. I shuffle forward and drop my bag on the counter, gaze assessing as my eyes travel over the loose sheets of paper scattered on the small desk attached at the back.

A gnawed at pen lid sits by itself next to the mouse belonging to the computer, alerting me to someone else's presence this past week.

I feel an irrational sense of irritation, of sadness; this building suddenly feels less like mine. Someone else has come along and left evidence of their attendance behind, stripping the last little piece of comfort from me like the tearing off of a heavily adhered band-aid. I grit my teeth and tell myself I'm being stupid, that I don't care about an inconsequential pen lid.

It's what that chewed upon piece of plastic represents that is bothering me.

The fact that someone has swooped in and been here when I wasn't able to face reality startles something inside of me; hands over hearts as a realisation springs to life, a too-pretty weed that wiggles through the cracks, gaze drawn and distracted.

It holds so much more meaning than I want to admit...

And maybe more than I want to address right now, too.

I take a longer look around, shoes tapping against the dark and aging floorboards as I alter things back to how I've always had them—how I like them—the need to fix, right, restore so strong I begin to feel a little shaky. I slump to the chair behind my desk and hold my face in my hands, the voice inside my head that whispered I wasn't ready to come back to work painstakingly dominant. But then I couldn't stay holed up inside all those walls either, the need to take a break of any sort fundamental.

My fingers crawl down my cheeks as my hands drop to my lap, eyes drifting to that pen lid once more. With a swoop of finality I brush it to the floor and will myself to forget about it; will myself to forget about unanswered questions and stolen touches—invisible fingerprints that I swear I can still see.

I get up and switch closed for open at the heavy set door, the practised smile I attempt straining the muscles of my cheeks as I return the upturned of lips of the shop owner two buildings down when he raises his hand upon passing.

I pretend I don't notice how the smile wilts as I turn back around; I pretend I don't notice that a gum wrapper has somehow made its way into the potted plant beside the door.

I simply practice my smile once more. And wait.

XXX

The day passes too quickly, or too slowly, depending on whether it's my head or heart truly in control.

I return to empty rooms that are in no way sparse, the smallest amount of hope I had falling away like the leaves in autumn when I realise Edward isn't here. I'm not surprised, just disappointed—I should have known last night wouldn't have changed anything. It was just one declaration; a one-word answer from me, not him... he didn't promise me anything.

We haven't spoken since, but I know where he is and what time he'll most likely return—the stars will be out, car engines idle in driveways. I start to wander from room to room, my brows pulling together as I question if he'll actually come back. This was his reprieve when things went wrong, his escape from me. But I'm here at his request and he has nowhere to hide.

And surely he won't leave me alone; surely he isn't that cruel?

I don't want to worry, don't want to go through all this again, but I can't help it. Everything is still so up in the air, soaring balloons ready to be popped. He still hasn't told me what he wants and until then the anxiety that bubbles inside my chest like fizzy water is inevitable.

I pause at a particular piece of furniture that is nestled between the two curving paths of stairs on either side of the foyer, distant memories flickering like the bright flame of a candle as my gaze is drawn to black and white piano keys. My curiosity pushes me forward and I reach out with a steady palm, allowing my fingers to linger on the feel of the marble-like smoothness and outer ridges beneath their touch.

The notes are disjointed as I give in to temptation and press down hard, heart thundering at the noise that follows.

And pretty soon it's a different set of hands I see flying over the keys, playing much prettier music than the harsh and random notes dictated by my wayward fingertips.

~CitP~

"You're holding your hands wrong," he tells me for what feels like the hundredth time. "Here." And he's arranging my fingers on the keys.

He's been patient with me all day, softly reminding me when I've gone wrong—not once has he shown any form of frustration over my inability to play even the simplest of pieces. It's Twinkle Twinkle Little Star... my neighbour's cat could probably play it.

I suppress a scowl. "I'm no good at this," I sigh. "I'd much rather listen to you play something."

He gives me a look that lets me know he doesn't quite believe me, which is funny as I'm being completely truthful right now. "Did you or did you not spend an hour begging me to teach you how to play before I agreed?" he points out.

I bite the inside of my cheek, stubbornness coating my tongue. "I did," I answer grudgingly.

He smirks. "Then that's what I'm going to do."

"Fine, Tchaikovsky, what now?" I ask with a raised brow.

He laughs. "Oh wow, I didn't think it was possible for someone to butcher his name like that. How wrong I was."

"Shut up," I mumble with a smile, cheeks warming.

A sudden glint forms in his eyes and then he's moving. He turns my head gently to face the keys as he settles behind me, the inside of his thighs pressing against the outside of mine.

"What are you doing?" I ask weakly.

"Helping you," he replies simply. His hands rest lightly at my wrists, fingertips against my pulse points, and it feels like I've forgotten how to breathe. My pulse races, heartbeat crazy inside my chest. "Breathe, Bella," he reminds me, his breath ghosting along my right cheek.

"I... know," I mumble slowly, accidentally hitting the wrong key. "Remind me, how is this supposed to help exactly?"

I feel his smile against my skin. "Why wouldn't it?" he questions. And he knows all too well why.

"You know why," I say. "You'll distract me."

He chuckles, hands moving up my arms, pausing at the crook of my elbow, all soft skin. "I'm not even doing anything," he protests. And he's a liar, too.

"Uh huh," I sound out. "I'm on to you, just to let you know."

He sweeps my hair aside, revealing skin that craves his attention, his mouth; lips and teeth and kisses that bruise. "Inspector Swan," he murmurs, trailing his warm lips to my shoulder, hands now grasping my hips.

My hands are shaking, concentration floating somewhere that isn't here. My arms ache, my fingers wanting to play something else instead. Someone else.

And I forget all about black and white keys.

I swivel, climbing until my legs are now either side of his. My hands are in his hair and his are digging into my skin and it's perfect; his mouth is perfect.

I nip his bottom lip, tugging slightly. "Is this how you teach all the girls?" I breathe.

He licks over where my teeth have just been. "Obviously," he grins.

I smile and hit his shoulder, held in gazes that punish in the best of ways. "Kiss me," I tell him.

"I just was but you were the one who—"

And I cut him off, showing him just how much I've learned.

~CitP~

I'm pulled from my memories as the faint slamming of a car door registers in my ears, the sound hastily springing me back into the present like the snap of an elastic band.

I step away from the piano, an ache I push aside for later lingering in my chest as I move to peer through the window with a frown. I don't get very far before the door opens and Edward steps inside, his head tilted towards the floor as his eyes snap up to meet mine, seemingly surprised to see me here just as I am to see him home.

I immediately hold back a wince at my train of thought—this isn't our home. His maybe... but not mine.

I can't remember the last time he finished work before darkness had time to fall, a black cloak that did nothing to take away the ache that would hover like milky mist inside my chest, visible to me but hidden from everyone else.

"You're back early," I state.

He blinks lazily, keys jangling in fingers before he sets them aside. "It's five thirty," he says simply, as if this turn of events is normal. As if he does this day after day. "This is when I finish work."

He always appears so comfortable, so confident. I'm constantly left feeling envious and disheartened; wanting and humiliated.

I purposely glance at the clock, his gaze not following as I'd hoped. "You're back early," I repeat, and he isn't stupid. He knows what I'm referring to other than the obvious.

He turns away, hand pulled through hair as he sets his briefcase down on the side table with his car keys.

This is different and familiar... but not too familiar. This awkwardness was never here before... No, I'd be in his arms by now, hands joined at the back of his neck as I'd reach up on tip-toes to press my lips to his, his hands a burning and solid cage around my hips and ribs, wandering fingers that always felt so good.

His fingers trace his bottom lip, or rather his thumb and forefinger do, squeezing inwards until his lip is pinching outwards just a little. Either way I'm like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. Or maybe he's the butterfly as I can't stop looking through the haze of conflicting emotions to the perfect symmetry of his features.

I want to ask so many questions, like, why now? and, what's changed? but I keep my mouth shut. I don't want another fight; don't want to be the one to start it; don't want to be the one who ends up in tears.

I watch as he loosens his tie and steps further into the room, his fingers deft and precise as he makes his way into the kitchen. I hear the refrigerator door open and close, my feet glued to the spot, and then he's back, almost as if he can sense I'm holding back.

He leans against the wall by the adjoining door, watching me as he comes back empty handed. "Have you eaten today?"

And is this all he's ever going to ask me? I know I've lost weight, but it's understandable. It makes me feel self-conscious... and I can't help feeling he's doing it on purpose.

It's funny how heartbreak will kill an appetite before it's even had time to build. I take a look at him and notice his weight doesn't seem to have altered.

"I ate earlier at work," I reply.

He brows furrow, but the movement is only brief. "You're back at work?"

I nod—what did he expect?

"I had to go back some time," I add. "It was only ever temporary." And the reasons for the temporary tear at my chest like the lashes of a whip, stinging red and breathless shock.

I bite the inside of my cheek and ignore the fact that he needed no time to ground, to breathe. Our marriage was crumbling, at its very worst, and he was business as usual; suits and ties and clicking briefcase locks. Pen in hand and advise, defend, speak. Just not to me. For me. But then everyone is different and the whole world can't crumble, too.

He says nothing more and I get caught up in green: fields of clover in summertime sunshine as dark and heavy blue skies lurk around the edges. He's my darkness and light, smiles and brooding stares, laughter and shouting words. Kisses and bites and utter destruction, both blissful and the kind that causes your throat to close up as you hold back tears.

The house phone rings, his body immediately tensing at the sound. Mine does, too. He's fighting the urge to answer it like I know he wants to, no doubt wondering if it's his boss. Maybe his parents.

And I'm sure his colleagues are just as surprised as I am that he's no longer sitting behind his desk.

"You can get that if you need to," I say. I feel like he's waiting for me to do something, but I don't know what that something is.

He gives a minute decline with his head. "I don't," he responds.

But what if I want you to? What if I can't handle you staring at me like this?

It's like he's sucking the very life out of me, and yet I don't move, don't break his stare... don't leave. I can't. My heart refuses it—it doesn't care, it almost welcomes the pain it knows it will feel. Its beats quicken, and that's me doing that... him... and I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" I ask, and the words leave my mouth with a frown, my head seemingly caring while my heart doesn't. It's being smart, trying to protect.

And I'm doing that, too.

He's standing there in his suit still, top button undone, tie loose... and I'm an idiot. He won't want to. His eyes regard me with a steady intensity, my face the focus of his scrutiny.

"What are you looking at?" I question stupidly, defensive, my pulse ringing in my ears. I can feel my cheeks heat, uncomfortable with his attention.

There was a time I craved it... and maybe I still do deep down. I want to be okay with it, but after so much has happened, after so many hurtful words have been shared, I know he's not seeing the same girl that would pepper his face with kisses every morning: Just like I'm not staring at the same boy who made me the sweetest promises.

And it's scary, fear suffocating and oppressing like thick, grey storm clouds that pledge rain.

"You," he answers without taking his eyes from mine. His answer shatters, simple truths that are obvious to the eye but not to the heart.

And more stupid questions; one divided by one equals?

Me.

Alone.

And maybe it's not so stupid. "Why?" I wonder.

He steps forward, closing the distance, and my heart is crazy, chugging away like the old fashioned steam trains I would look upon every time I went with Charlie to Grandpa Swan's. He's the reason for my love of books.

His lips part, breath drawn, my gaze stuck. "Because I can." And with that he passes me to the door, stepping out onto the porch as if I'm simply meant to follow him. I want to be strong and go out in my own time. But I don't. And I'm weak and tied in ways I can't explain.

He doesn't look at me as he slides his hands into his pockets, or when I lock the door behind us. I wish I'd grabbed my coat as a particular cutting gust of wind snakes up the sleeves of my sweater, but I'm unwilling to give Edward any opportunity to change his mind, so I grab a hold of my sleeves with locked fingers and make my way down the steps. I don't look at him either.

He falls into step beside me, and neither one of us speaks, the identifiable sounds being that of the gravel beneath our shoes and the cries of the birds from the tunnel of trees overhead as we make our way down the daunting driveway. Bits of debris from the dancing branches fall from above as we pass underneath, the light muted to a dull blue-grey as we get further in.

Only then do I chance a glance in his direction.

He's staring straight ahead, focus contained, the muscles in his jaw standing out sharp almost as if he's biting down hard against his teeth.

I choose to finally speak.

"You didn't have to come if you didn't want to," I say. He seems tense, as if he doesn't want to be here. I'd rather he tell me now if this isn't going to work... It would destroy me, but I'd rather be aware than be kept in limbo, locked closets with the handle missing: trapped in darkness while still breathing.

His eyes cut to mine; a sidewards glance that is both brief and sharp. "I know," is all he says.

I hold back a sigh, frustrated, but underneath my irritation I'm also relieved. He's here.

We carry on walking once we get to the end of the driveway, instinct driving me to turn left as we head towards nothing but open road. I can feel his eyes on me after a few minutes more of silence and I tilt my head towards a small gap in the trees further ahead. We used to come here a lot as teens, days when we wanted to be alone; days when we wanted to escape from the constant scrutiny of our parents and friends. And I see the exact moment his face changes, hesitation lurking, creeping over his face like shadows.

He pauses, turning to look at me fully, but I quickly drop my eyes, not giving him chance to trap me in his gaze. I can guess what he's thinking, but I don't want to ask him again outright, I'm leaving the final decision up to him. Just like I did earlier back at the house. I'm so tired of being the one who willingly wants to right things all the time. It becomes exhausting... not to mention it continues to keep Edward's true feelings locked inside himself, his thoughts guarded by crossing swords, metal that shines to a deadly point.

He's suddenly all movement, ahead of me now as he starts to undo the buttons of his coat. I take a deep breath but don't linger, following behind as a sadness engulfs me like an unforgiving tide—I realise I can no longer talk to my own husband. Asking him small, couple-like things, such as if he's had a good day, seems so inconsequential in light of everything else. I don't want to fill the silence with words that mean nothing. But then I don't know how to ask him about the things that do, either.

Motion catches the corner of my eye. "Here."

His voice breaks me from my own thoughts, his arm outstretched behind him as he holds his coat out to me. My throat closes up as I look from it to him, emotion threatening to spill out from my open mouth; water plummeting to the ground from the highest peak of a waterfall, icy, forming a tight embrace around my chest as he shocks me for the second time today.

I shake my head, both to clear it and refuse, even though a part of me really wants to take it. "I'm fine," I murmur.

His eyes instantly dart down to my arms before coming to rest back on my face. "It's freezing out, Bella. Just take it." He sounds a little impatient but not unkind.

"What about you?" I wonder.

He shrugs. "I've been in an office all day... the cold feels nice."

I reach out slowly and take it from him, my knuckles turning white as I hold on to it tightly. "Thank you," I say gratefully.

He nods and turns back around, trampling down on a few overgrown thorn roots as he goes. I slip my arms through the sleeves, not realising how cold I'd actually been as I feel the residual heat warm my skin. His scent overwhelms me, cloying to my skin as I turn up the sleeves. And I'm already dreading the moment when I'll have to give it back.

The pathway has become a little overgrown, a once worn strip of dirt now covered in moss and dried leaves that crunch underfoot. Damp soil clings to my shoes, my heels sinking a little with every step.

I instantly spot the old tree swing in front of us, the once bright rope now a murky brown. It swings back and forth in the breeze, weightless movements like a descending feather as it drifts to the ground.

It had been here long before we ever found it, the rope having snapped three times since we'd made it ours. I would steal rope from the garage every time it did, and if Charlie ever noticed, he never once mentioned it.

I can't stop myself from going over to it now, palms pressing down up the base of the seat, the wood still surprisingly solid beneath my touch. I can feel Edward behind me, his own hand shooting forward to test its strength.

"It's fine," I tell him, even though he hasn't uttered a word. I immediately feel foolish... he may not have been planning to say anything.

I peek up at his face, his features slightly tight as he takes a step back, his gaze only lingering on mine briefly.

I turn around, hands grasping around the familiar feel of the rope as I hop on. There's a slight groan from the branch above but nothing to worry about, my hair flying back as I swing forward.

Edward stands a little ways off, hands immersed in his pockets as he watches me. I'm only moving slowly, his attention making me want to go that much faster and fly.

"You look exactly the same," he suddenly voices, no hint of affection or even soft remembrance in his tone despite his words.

My feet are on the ground as I swing softly, shifting from my heels to the balls of my feet. "I must look pretty silly in these clothes then," I say. I sometimes still feel as if I'm playing dress up when I look in the mirror.

His head tilts ever so slightly in consideration of my words, the only sign he actually heard me. "No... they look right. You've grown up."

I frown. "And yet I look the same?" I question. No woman wants to hear they still look like a child.

He turns his attention away, gaze upwards towards the sky. "I think you'll always look the same to me, Bella."

Or maybe they do.

My heartbeat stutters inside my chest but I don't dare to hope. I can't.

"You look different," I state as the wind picks up, carrying my words over to him. "Sometimes I can still see the same boy who sat next to me that first day in class... but he doesn't appear very often."

His eyes are back on mine. "And is that a bad thing?" he asks.

I stare right back. "Yes and no," I answer honestly.

"Why no?" he questions.

My lips part, the air cool on my tongue. "Because that boy never once broke my heart."

He holds my gaze and it feels like I'm shattering into a thousand little pieces. I'm letting him know I feel... but it doesn't necessarily make me feel any better. Not as I thought it would. Everything I want to say is going to end in pain for one of us. There is no winner here.

He tears his eyes away, and my stomach sinks in both relief and distress. "No, I guess not," he says eventually.

I'm not sure what to say after that, the conversation dying just as suddenly as it started, sinking ships and cries for help.

I watch as Edward paces in front of me... more strolls. He's not walking back and forth, just forth and around, shoes shuffling as he kicks the occasional small rock in his path. I imagine him behind me, pushing me as high as I can stand, excited squeals that are mixed with exultant fear. If I close my eyes I can almost feel the wind driving against my face.

"Do you remember the last time we were here?" he asks. It feels as if it's merely a statement than a question, but it must be, there's no one else here but me.

I swallow heavily, recalling past memories. "I remember," I answer. It was the day he told me we'd be getting married, just us, without telling anyone else. Not even Emmett.

"You were so afraid," he recounts and my feet slow in their momentum once again so I can focus clearly.

I shake my head. "I don't remember that," I say. "I remember being excited... and maybe a little nervous."

"You were more than a little nervous," he interrupts. "Your hands couldn't stop shaking."

I frown. "I don't remember that, either."

He comes to a stop at my left, and I crane my head up a little to look at him. "Just because you don't notice something doesn't mean that someone else hasn't."

"And that's all you remember? Me being afraid?" I wonder. What about the good parts?

His lids lower as he looks at his feet, leaving me nothing but lashes. "No," he replies, ending it at that.

I want to push, and ask him to continue. But I don't. I add my own part instead.

"I remember your cheeks being really flushed," I say, feeling the onslaught of a smile. "And your hair was crazier than usual."

He gaze snaps back up to meet mine. "It was windy," he states. And my smile deflates before it even really forms. My heels drag in the dirt as I fully bring myself to a stop, rope imprints on my palms as I get to my feet. "I also hadn't been able to keep my hands out of it all day," he adds.

"You were happy," I voice, fingers hidden beneath too long sleeves.

I watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat. "I was terrified," he corrects.

"I just remember you being happy."

He looks at me for a long moment. "I was," he agrees.

And where is his heart? Is it here with me? Or somewhere else... with someone else? My chest constricts, the thought bringing about a physical pain that makes me feel breathless, steep hill runs that make your legs ache.

I fumble with the buttons on his coat as tendrils of wind weave their way around my torso. His fingers flex at his sides, a minuscule movement, but I see it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his breath a puff of white in the air, and I want to step into it... step into him. I also want to pound my fists to his chest and tell him to stop, please, go, because he's making me feel too much. All things he can't give. All things I shouldn't want.

He reminds me that I'm weak when I want to be strong. And no matter how I act on the outside, armour in place, it doesn't change how I feel on the inside. I'm still that scared little girl just wanting to be loved.

"We should get back," he breathes out. And the moment is gone, the moon sucking up the sun's rays as night falls.

For the first time my plea has been answered when I want it to be ignored. "Okay," I nod, not waiting for him to follow me as I take one last glance back at the swing before retracing our steps.

He catches up to me quickly, his legs longer than mine, the bottom of his coat occasionally drifting out to brush against his leg as we make our way down the narrow walkway.

"Edward," I say when the house is in sight, the driveway not seeming so daunting this time around. I don't stop moving, his only answer a hum in return as I take a deep breath. But I don't get to ask him what I wanted, remind him that he still owes me an answer, because I spot a figure with fair hair walking down the front steps of the house.

This time I do stop, surprise freezing my muscles into blocks of useless ice.

Edward nearly runs into me, my pause abrupt, his brows drawing together as he looks down at me.

Jasper notices us soon enough, about the same time Edward becomes aware of what has garnered my attention.

His hand is immediately at the small of my back as I push forward, unsticking my feet from the gravel, and I'm instantly both angry and disheartened: angry that he's playing this game, sad because he shouldn't have to.

Jasper lifts his hand in a wave and I give him a small smile in return, tension surrounding me as the feel of Edward's palm burns through his coat to my spine.

We come to a stop by Jasper's car, or rather I do and Edward pauses with me. "Hey," I greet, taking a step to the side, Edward's fingers ultimately sliding from my back.

He gives us both a nod as he jogs down the last few steps to where we're standing.

I feel ten times more awkward standing here than I ever thought possible, my fingers squeezing together in front of me.

"Rose mentioned you were here," he explains as he comes to a stop, his attention solely on me now. "I tried ringing you beforehand but didn't get an answer."

"I forgot to take my phone with me," I explain, but the look he gives me lets me know he wasn't talking about this instance. In fact, I'm not even sure if he's phoned since last night.

A throat clears. "I have a few things I need to do," Edward interrupts and my shoulders tense at his voice. "You staying, Jasper?"

Instead of answering straight away his eyes dart to mine as if they hold all the answers. "I'm not sure," he replies after a moment.

"Okay, if you need anything..."

The offer hangs in the air around us as he ascends the steps and opens the front door, and I want to tell him, no, don't go, but then I think it would be worse if he actually stayed.

And suddenly I'm alone with someone I've been thinking about today more often than I should have been.

"You look a little windswept," he laughs, and I find myself smiling at the sound, a bit of the tension dissolving.

My smile still in place, and, "Comes with the territory."

He nods in understanding as he scratches his chin.

"You've been avoiding me," he states, changing the tone of the conversation, light curls sweeping across his forehead as a gust of wind picks up and rattles leaves about our feet. His eyes are on my face, and as I look back at his, I can see I've hurt his feelings. He's not hiding anything from me... not like Edward. I find I have to look away.

"I'm sorry," I answer, my voice low. "I've been going through a few things."

I see his head shake from my periphery. "You don't have to apologise," he states. "I just wanted to check in, see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," I say instinctively, contradicting my words from moments before.

He studies my face before nodding to the steps. He sits down and I follow his lead, drawing my knees close to my chest, still wrapped up in Edward's coat.

The fabric brushes my nose as I bury my face a little deep inside the collar, and I resist the urge to close my eyes.

"Listen, Bella, about that day we met for lunch..." I want to interrupt him or run inside. Anything so I don't have to confront or put a name to the thoughts and feelings I've been struggling with in light of certain events. "I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. It wasn't my intention."

He pushes air through his lips and I quickly look away.

"You didn't," I lie. At least it's only half a lie. It was my own revelations that had made me feel that way. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"You left pretty soon afterwards," he reminds me, and I want to tell him to stop.

I lower my legs until they're straight in front of me. "I had to get back to work," I say in explanation.

And he won't let it go. "You'd only just left for lunch, Bella."

I feel irritation prickle my skin, the area behind my eyes. He's forcing me to deal with things I don't want to talk about. Both about myself and Edward. Him. My life as a whole.

I can't say anything in return, my eyes trained on a particularly green pebble in a sea of grey.

Or maybe I can.

"You're making me feel uncomfortable now," I say, and it's disconcerting how I'm able to be so honest around him sometimes, especially at times I don't want to be.

I can feel his gaze on the side of my face. "I'm sorry."

I turn and meet his eyes, his cheeks a little red from the weather. He's also a little less tan than usual. "I know."

There's no denying Jasper's attractive, his look both a little rugged and soft. His mouth always looks like it's about to quirk up into a smile which I think is why others seemingly find it easy to be around him.

"Are you busy tomorrow?" he questions, staring straight ahead with his elbows resting on his slightly raised knees.

"I have work," I answer, focusing on his profile.

He tilts his head slightly, catching me staring at him. "What about after?" And I freeze.

My mouth suddenly feels dry. "I'm not sure," I say, unable to find an excuse. I look down at my left hand, the biggest one of all staring back at my face accusingly.

But then I remember how lonely I've felt, for so long, and think about how it would be nice to have someone to speak to if I needed it. Someone that wasn't Edward or his immediate family.

Emmett has always been my biggest confidante, but it's gotten harder to talk to him since his engagement. He's been so busy with wedding preparations and I don't want to worry him any more than he already is.

"It's just coffee, Bella," he says, his tone nothing but sincere.

He gets to his feet, standing at the base of the steps, facing me. I bite the inside of my cheek and look up, decision made.

"Okay," I answer slowly.

He smiles softly. "What time do you close the store?"

"About four thirty," I say.

He nods, car keys in hand. And I realise I never once asked him if he wanted to go inside.

"I'll come by a little after that," he voices. "Is that alright?"

"Yeah," I say, swallowing heavily. I push myself up and hover on the step as he opens his door.

He looks at me seriously for a moment, wavering. "You know you can call me if you need anything, right? Any time."

I feel the lump in my throat get bigger, emotion smothering like a too hot day. I give a quick nod. "Thanks, Jasper."

With one last small smile he closes the door, gravel ricocheting from the tires of his car as he disappears down the driveway.

I stand outside for a little while longer... until I can't feel my cheeks, my fingers, the icy wind howling around me, a taunting torrent that whips my hair across my face. And all the while I start to doubt my decision.

I hate that I'm thinking like this though, like I'm doing something wrong. My confidence has faded from sight, ghostly expressions and empty spaces.

With one last look up at the sky I belatedly follow Edward inside.

But I don't know what I'm now supposed to do now the door is closed. I think about just going upstairs but quickly change my mind. No. I tug on the buttons of the coat as I walk, slipping them through their loopholes as my eyes search for the thing it wants most. Him. Always.

The material is sliding down my arms when I find him standing in front of the glass wall in the dining room, his form my bright spot in an already darkening day. He's slightly cast in shadows, an inky grey that does nothing to hide his features, the exact shading of stubble that graces his jaw.

I hold his coat to me for a few more seconds, fingers tight around the material, a very dominant part of me wanting to hold onto it and not give it back. It's stupid and yet I can't help feeling it. It's warm and smells like him. It both heals and stabs at something inside me and I feel like I'm suddenly being swallowed by grief.

I pause beside him, the dimming light reflecting in his eyes as he continues to gaze ahead. I look down at stupid fingers and hold out his coat. "Thanks for this," I say softly, not wanting to disturb the quiet that surrounds us in its translucent bubble.

His eyes cut sideways to meet mine before dropping down to my hands. "You can put it anywhere," he murmurs distractedly.

"I can hang it, if you want?" I offer.

He turns to face me fully, throwing the garment on one of the chairs behind us without looking. "It's just a coat, Bella."

The way he says it... I only just hold back from telling him it isn't to me. And that's only because his hand is unexpectedly reaching for my face, fingers under my chin as he tries to capture my gaze. I stop breathing.

He wears no particular expression and it's killing me. I'd give anything for him to look at me the way he used to. Just once. Anything.

His fingers linger at the edge of my mouth. "He makes you smile," he says. And I didn't know he was watching.

I swallow heavily, his touch like a bare flame to my skin. "You always did, too," I tell him. Sometimes all he'd have to do was give me one of his own and we'd match.

His thumb begins to trace, my lips wanting to part. "Not for a long time."

I look away, his words a hurtful reminder.

"You could though," I breathe. "If you want it enough."

He presses right down on the middle of my bottom lip, my breath catching in my chest, my throat.

And I'm torn—torn at what he wants, torn at what I want; lust and love and kisses that consume, hate and tears and screams that make my throat feel raw.

I want to ask him what he's thinking, but I'm scared he'll pull away. Or maybe I'm not. I'm so confused, so unsure of what I should be feeling... so unsure of what he's feeling that I can't do anything but wait, my mouth refusing to move under his touch.

And it feels like forever before he says anything.

"I want it," he responds.

He stares into my eyes and I think I'll burst into flames, red heat that dances around my feet before spiralling upward to colour my cheeks.

"The why don't you?" I murmur, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me, shaky like jelly.

"Because I'm not sure how to anymore," he admits, shattering me further. Tears fill my eyes and I can't stop them. I can't stop. "And I'm so tired of making you cry," he continues, his face troubled.

His hand drops from my face and I eventually give in, wetness rolling down my cheeks like the single lone droplet of juice from a bit into peach.

I shake my head. "Then stop it," I plead, hastily swiping evidence of my hurt from my skin.

He's silent for a moment before, "I'm not sure how to do that, either," he exhales.

I bury my face in his chest, forgetting, but too tired, too scared to move. His fingers find mine at our sides but he makes no move to hold me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I feel his breath stir my hair as words get whispered to my skin. "I'm sorry," he says lowly.

I don't ask him what he's apologising for, but then I don't need to. He's pulling away, his fingers sliding through mine like the descent of sand trapped within an hourglass.

"I'm sorry for these," he elaborates, his fingertip catching a teardrop as it clings to the base of my chin.

The house phones rings again, and this time I know he's going to leave to go answer it. I don't even have to tell him it's okay. Not that it is—I want him to hold me, really hold me this time—but I just know. It's been a long day. For us both.

"I need to get that," he says, and I nod, because I get it. It's hard. "It could be my parents." And the same problems are still here.

I watch him walk out of the room, hands in his hair. The ringing stops and his voice drifts back to me in a muffled murmur, too quiet for me to pick up what he's saying. The sound of the office door clicking shut lets me know our time is over for today. He's not coming back.

I stand in front of all that glass, watching the world going about life beyond, remembering I was not so long ago in its place, looking in.

My fingers and lips still feel tingly, a warmth of excitement left over from his touch. And I'd forgotten just how much I missed it—forgotten what it felt like.

Just like I've forgotten the taste of his kisses. And the feel of his breath hitting my lips as he moves above me.

The look in his eyes when he does.

Kind of like trying to look through water.

But there are a lot of things I'm also remembering: shaking hands and flushed cheeks, fear and messy hair. Happiness.

And hope... I'm remembering that, too. That it exists. That it can be mine. That it's okay to let it bloom into a garden of delight: bright colours and sweet pollen and sun kissed cheeks. That it's okay to be scared.

Because love wouldn't be real if it didn't hurt.

And that's something I don't ever want to forget.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 621