Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

The remnants of sleep lay heavily upon me, my eyes refusing to open, trapped within a dream. Here everything is pretty; fluffy white and golden like syrup, sticking me inside its regal bubble.

There are no worries, no smarting words or stinging hearts; no fumbling fingers or stony silence. Just light and honeyed warmth, shining behind my lids, all cotton-wool content and fleece-like comfort.

I think about last night, about the lowest lows and rising hope, tangled weeds and sun-tilted sunflowers; about heat-filled confessions and aching palms, backs against walls and wanting lips.

Whispered words that stuck to every part of me.

I open my eyes and everything feels hazy, milky white, my body heavy in the brightly lit room.

Paper crinkles beneath my cheek as I stir, a frown and lazy movements as I snatch and crease words that my eyes remember. That my whole body remembers.

Blinking lids and eyes that sweep from side to side, taking them in, over and over. They imprint themselves over my skin in his scrawl, in the beat, beat, beat, my own lips moving with their sound so I don't have a chance to forget them.

I reach below the other pillow and pull out his journal, sliding the little slip of buttercup yellow paper between words that weren't meant for my eyes; to keep it safe, to keep it company.

To keep it for him to find, just in case he ever forgets.

I flip a few pages, the book opening at a scribbled date I know so well: my birthday.

My gaze flies over his memory, and I remember this night, remember the tear streaked cheeks, the watering eyes that couldn't seem to stop flowing. The feel of the lipless, his excuses feeble and unheard.

He must have come back here, to this house, to this room that night, to a once favoured soul-baring ritual.

And I knew he hadn't been with me.

Because I hadn't wanted him to be.

~CitP~

"Bella?"

And his voice is quiet, whispered words in a confession box.

"I'm sorry," he says. And I've heard this so many times during the last eight months. So many times.

Tears squeeze from the corners of my lids, but I don't turn, don't speak; I pretend, I lie. I simply shut my eyes and hope for something else.

His breath hits my bare shoulder and covers my skin in prickly reminders—his touch is an even bigger one.

His lips trail down my arm and each little kiss is a stab in the dark—another stretch to the rapidly spreading tear in our relationship.

I waited all night; waited for him to walk through the door, waited for him to call me.

Anything.

Something.

He did neither.

The sun finally set behind the clouds, darkness creeping in like a thief in the night, concealing Edward within its inky blanket. It had left me with a pretty dress, ruby tipped fingertips—lipstick smudged from my lips—and a broken heart, the wages of war running down my face in black rivulets.

Lights put out, birthday candles left without a wish, without being lit, and I'd found cold sheets, alone.

"Say something... please," he begs, his presence the bolt of lightning in the middle of a storm.

His voice is all choked up, thick with hopelessness and despair. Guilt. But I don't want to speak to him... I can't.

I don't want him to touch me, sleep beside me, tell me that he's sorry. Because right now... right now his apologies... they would mean nothing; empty words and clear panes, shattering what little there is left of my control.

Shattering my carefully crafted composure.

I'm scared of what I'll say in return, bitter and hurtful words on the tip of my tongue, set back and ready to fly, ready to puncture.

His fingers grip mine; linking us as one, shackling me to him.

He's trying to mend, trying to maintain this messed up cycle: he comes home, apologises, and I say nothing.

He is remorse in the perfect package.

But my hurt is no match for his right now.

His ring presses to mine, lies and metal that suffocates, banded around my finger, shrinking and shrinking, pinching my skin. But his attempt has the opposite effect—this reminder is nothing but a gaping wound, a black and bottomless pit that is shrouded in ghosts.

"Don't do this," he murmurs, as if he's the one in pain, as if I've done this to him.

He is a liar pulled from the boy I once knew.

"Who are you?" I spit; distaste and fire and hurt. His presence is a physical pain I want erased from every part of me, like the inkless pages of a book.

"I made a mistake. I didn't realise what time it was. I'm sorry."

His words are so sincere; so rehearsed. I have been to this play too many times and I want to leave.

"I don't know you," I tell him, staring blindly from my position on the bed, encompassed in sweet smelling darkness. In him.

The front of his teeth press against my skin. "You know me," he says.

And who is he trying to convince?

I shake my head on the pillow. "I don't. The you I know... he would never have done this." I swallow against the lump in my throat. "You left me waiting for you for hours, Edward, sad and pathetic. You're cruel."

"It won't happen again," he assures me, his voice unconvincing the weakest at their strongest.

Lies, so many lies.

I feel a sob build in my chest and squeeze my eyes shut tight, building walls around me as I refuse to give it an out.

"Tell me you love me," he implores, his face hidden in the dark. But I won't. I won't make him feel better about himself. I won't take away his guilt.

"I don't like you right now, Edward," I tell him spitefully, uncaring of his reaction. Because right now, it's how I feel. Right now, he is the man who is responsible for all this hurt: all these bad decisions and ugly truths.

I hear his intake of breath, deep and hard—a time giver—and take one of my own.

"You don't mean that," he tells me, as if he gets to make that choice.

And... don't I? I think I do. I know I do.

"It was my birthday, Edward," I say, my voice both strong and weak. Flesh and bone. Distant cries and sing-song articulation.

His response is shaky. "I know," he exhales.

"You promised," I continue, all gritted teeth and swollen eyes.

Tightening fingers and, "I said I was sorry."

His fire is back, his irritation. I want to laugh, but can't.

"It's not enough, not enough, not enough," I list off, the words repeating themselves in my head long after I've finished speaking them out loud. "Not this time," I murmur.

The words sound so final; another nail in the coffin.

He's tense behind me, forehead against my shoulder, at a stalemate. There is no crack in my resolve for him to slip through tonight.

He is a man made of broken promises.

I am limestone eroded by channeling tears.

And he's hurt me one too many times.

~CitP~

And after a time, he stopped apologising for not coming home; for missing visits to my parents and meals I'd spent hours preparing.

After a time, I learnt that his promises meant nothing.

And I think this is what is so frightening right now.

Let me fix this.

I want to believe him, so much, anticipation as strong as the push and pull of the ocean.

And reading his words, his account and honesty on these pages, they threaten to excuse what he could not in person that day.

I purposely missed her birthday. We'd been fighting non-stop for months, and I was so terrified of seeing that look in her eye, the one that let me know her day was no longer special. The one that told me I knew I'd had a big hand in ruining it. I didn't want her to look at me like that, I wanted her to look at me like she used to, so I was a coward, and sat in my office, watching the minutes pass. I knew it would hurt her, knew it and still did nothing. I could have called. But then so could she. Every time I did something wrong... it was almost as if she wanted me to fail. Almost as if she was waiting for the disappointment. And I gave it to her, no questions asked. I became the person she wanted. The person she thinks I am now.

I'd rather she hate me for this, put the blame here, than have her look at me like she no longer loves me. Because I love her, I just don't how to stop it from becoming destructive. Her anger was better than her tears. Or so I thought.

When I got home, and found her in the dark, crying quietly so as not to alert me to her tears, I hated myself.

Knowing my wife was crying because of something I did was sickening. It made me feel less like a man and more like the child I really am inside.

She wouldn't talk to me. Wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't let me turn on the light so I could see her face.

And it was my fault, yet I wanted to blame her for all of this. Maybe hate her a little, too, just because I can't. I can't blame her. Can't hate her.

Our relationship has turned in to something I no longer recognise.

Who are we?

I swallow thickly, quickly slamming the journal closed. His words twist in my stomach, and I try to think, try to remember why I didn't call, why I just continued to sit there and wait.

I think it was just because I wanted him to want us enough. I shouldn't have to remind someone to love me.

And contrary to his beliefs, I never once wanted him to fail. I wanted him with me, smiling and laughing and holding my hair back as I blew out my candles.

It's another example of the damage silence can cause; the shot out into the night that you never hear coming.

There is a sudden knock at the door, my heart jumping to my throat as I hide the evidence that has my head spinning.

He doesn't wait for an answer, his body slipping through the gap moments later, dressed immaculately in his jet-black suit, devastatingly confident in his own skin.

I grip the bed covers between eager fingers as his eyes flick to mine, the very sight of him my complete undoing.

He runs a hand from his forehead to his hair before stepping further into the room, the slight hesitation in his movement vanishing as he looks away again.

He sits a little ways down the bed, mattress dipping ever so slightly under his weight, and I can't stop staring at the line of his jaw, the light layer of stubble that covers it, his mouth as his tongue comes out to wet his lips as he takes a deep breath.

His physical features still affect me as much as they did the very first time I saw him, his gaze piercing and provoking, his attention seat-shifting and antsy-exciting.

But it is nothing compared to what's hidden away inside.

Inside, he is the man that can make me burn with a single look. He is the boy who rode his bike to my house in the rain, the boy who chased me up stairs and kissed me until we were both breathless.

The boy who captured my heart inside the palm of his hand.

And when the two are combined, he is unstoppable, unavoidable, overwhelmingly lovable.

Maybe too much.

His eyes cut to mine and my face feels hot, my chest, a butterfly trapped in a jar, wings to the glass as my heart beats crazily. I curl my right arm over my chest to my left shoulder, hand balancing on bare skin, fingertips still.

I've inadvertently created some form of shield over my wildly pumping red-beat muscle, and I wonder if he can hear it, almost certain that he can. It seems so loud to me, swallowing me whole like a pill, crashing over me like the single hit of a drum as it resonates through my bones like chattering teeth.

I'm not sure how to act, how to go forward, the very sight of him stripping my mind bare, leaving me with nothing but an empty blackboard, the white-chalk words wiped clean.

My teeth find my lip, remembering his lips on them, fierce desperation in the form of scotch kisses and warm tongues. Anger with an amber burn. It makes my tummy tingle, the feeling spreading through my chest on a wave, warming my neck, flushing my skin a consuming pink.

His fingers pluck at his brow, eyes diverting, but only for a second. And then they're back, looking at me, a question forming on his lips, blush like sugar-sweet candy.

"How did you sleep?" he wonders, studying my expression with careful scrutiny.

I take a deep breath, thinking about the note he'd left in here for me, the smile that had graced my mouth and made me feel truly alive. "Not that great," I answer honestly, swallowing quickly. "It took me a while to finally be able to close my eyes."

He nods, his palm moving from his thigh to his face—he gets it.

"I couldn't switch my thoughts off long enough to gain any momentum," I add, just to make sure he does.

He rubs his jaw and that scratch sound I love causes goose bumps to travel along my arms and up my spine. I want to reach out and create the same kind of butterfly-inducing music.

"Me either," he admits quietly, almost as if it's a secret, one that I'd been so, so desperate to hear.

Confessions slowly dimmer to a low drone and the following silence cripples. I want to crawl over the sheets to where he is, slide my palm next to his, fingers to fingers and let the fibres bind.

My head raises and I see where his gaze is directed, the mirror now free of a sticky-back square of paper. I want to bring it up, but I hesitate, unsure of how he'll react. I bite the inside of my cheek and find Edward staring at me as I divert my attention back to him, almost as if he's waiting for me to say something.

"This shouldn't be so awkward," I voice, hating how far away he's sitting from me; hating this second guessing that flourishes from seed to sapling whenever he's around.

"It's because it matters," he muses, sliding his gaze away from me. "If it didn't, it wouldn't be awkward."

I don't miss the 'because it matters'—don't miss the tone of his voice when he says it; don't miss the fact he was actually the one to make the effort and seek me out this morning.

I suddenly become conscious of how I must look, still in my pyjamas, tangled up in sheets with sleep-messed hair. A stark contrast to him. I look at the clock, noticing the hour for the first time all morning.

I need to get up, shower, head into work when all I want to do is sink back into sheets and dream of him.

Pulling back the covers, I slide forward and swing my legs to the edge of the mattress, conscious of Edward watching me, even after I'm on my feet in front of him.

His neck bends, head tilting as he looks up at me, his eyes green and black and staring at me with an intensity that makes my heart stutter inside my chest.

He watches me openly, making my cheeks pink, my mouth dry, my body tingle.

Making my lips part and words flow.

"Thank you for the note," I say, my voice little more than a whisper, unable to stop myself from telling him that.

Uncertainty hovers above the heavily guarded parts inside of me like mist, but I blow it away like bubbles through a wand, creating something beautiful and eye-opening instead.

His brows furrow, thick and low above his lashes. "I sometimes find it easier to write down what I'm feeling rather than speaking it out loud," he admits, and I want to tell him I know, but I can't let him find out that a leather bound collection of his thoughts have been my favoured reading material of late.

I decide to be honest in another way instead, knowing we need this; knowing we need to recover so much more.

"It made me really happy," I say, looking him in the eye. "You made me smile for the first time in so long."

His gaze moves around the room, scanning the bookshelf in front of him, breaking our connection. "I should have told you sooner," he replies, a shaky breath passing through my lips as he runs a hand through his hair.

I want them to be my fingers, and my hands squeeze into fists by my sides to quash the impulse before I do something stupid that shouldn't be stupid at all.

"Rose called this morning," he says, changing the subject. I can't tell if he's embarrassed or annoyed with himself, but I don't push him to explain. I know I'm going to need patience... we both are.

I remember my agreement with her yesterday and shift my left foot a little on the carpet, wondering if he knows what our conversation had been about. "She said she would," I recount evasively, watching him closely.

"She asked if it was okay to come by after you finished work, and I told her that should be fine," he says. "Was that okay?"

I nod. "Yeah, that's fine," I assure him. He kneads the back of his neck with his palm as I regard him. "What time?" I ask, just to make sure we don't get any wires crossed.

"Six, I think," he replies, wetting his lips.

I take a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Okay."

He gets to his feet but doesn't leave, his hands sliding into his trouser pockets. "She asked you then," he says, clearing his throat.

It's more a statement than a question. It also gives me my answer.

"She came by the store yesterday," I confirm. "I was surprised to see her waiting there for me," I share, rubbing my bare arm.

His green is on me once more, his stance easy. "Emmett sees you as a sister," he responds. "You really shouldn't be surprised they asked you."

I wrap my arms around myself, all this talk of weddings making my heart ache. "I guess not," I say quietly, wanting nothing more in that moment than to be hugged.

He checks his watch, exhaling heavily. "I have to get to work, but... can we do something tomorrow, just you and me?" he asks, explains and wonders.

His words hold a cautious edge, almost as if he's afraid I'm going to say no.

But what he doesn't know is that my heart has already decided, long before my mind has had chance to catch up.

I'm also apparently taking too long.

"Do you have plans again?" he asks, his words a little harder this time. And I don't know where this is coming from, but I quickly shake my head.

"No, I don't have any other plans," I answer him, feeling my brow crinkle.

He pulls one of his hands from his pocket to run through his hair. "Okay, I just wanted to ask you beforehand... just in case someone else asks in the meantime."

I become all too aware of what he's referring to, or rather, who, and keep my mouth shut, that awkward tension rolling through his body as he looks back at me.

"I need to go shower," I tell him, turning to get my things ready.

His hand catches my arm before I get very far, his thumb against my pulse, his touch warm, bringing me to a standstill.

I look back over my shoulder, his body coming closer as he takes a step forward.

He looks at me for a long moment, his thumb all the while running across the thrumming in my wrist. "Have a good day at work, Bella."

He looks from my eyes to my lips and back again as I reply, "You too."

My hand falls to my side as he steps past me out of the room, my skin still tingly.

I quickly gather my things and step out too, not wanting to be late for work.

XXX

It's been busier today in the store, the good weather enticing people from their homes with the call of sunshine.

I spend an hour talking to a middle-aged woman about the lack of funding for books in local schools before stepping out for lunch.

I go to my local deli, smiling at Jacob who's already smiling at me from behind the counter.

"The usual?" he asks like clockwork.

I nod, handing over the correct money, knowing the amount by heart now. "Thank you."

Sandwich, coffee and pastry in hand, I make the brief walk to my spot, loving the feel of the heat on my cheeks and slight sea breeze in my hair.

A man who looks to be in his sixties is sitting reading a newspaper at the opposite end of the bench when I get there, and I set my things down at the other end, not minding the company or the rustling sound of paper as he turns a page.

I'm halfway through my lunch when my phone chirps with a text message, the mouthful of coffee in my cheeks swallowed slowly as I fish my cell out of my bag.

Jasper's name highlights my message box and I open the message with only a little trepidation.

I understand you've been recently promoted to bridesmaid. Good work, soldier.

I laugh lightly, shaking my head at his silliness before catching myself, feeling the ache in my cheeks.

Edward's words from earlier push themselves to the forefront of my thoughts, the look on his face when he asked me if I had plans.

This is where that second guessing comes into play. I feel like I'm doing something wrong... when in actuality all I'm doing is making a friend.

I think.

I'm so confused. I don't like Jasper... not like that. He's attractive, but so are a lot of people.

Whenever I'm around him, I feel simultaneously comfortable and uncomfortable, easy and awkward. I can talk to him openly, which is something that's been lacking in my marriage with Edward.

And perhaps that's where I'm getting caught up. He's laughter, a different type of connection, a feeling I can't quite shake off; raincoats that still carry the effects of the weather.

If he accidentally brushes against me, I feel my cheeks warm, all pink petal heat. If I catch him staring, however, I don't feel like I'll stop breathing.

It's different, and not better, but enough to get me all twisted up like a ball of yarn.

I slip my phone back into my bag without sending anything back, irritated with both myself and Edward for spoiling something that should be innocent.

But then, if that's truly the case, why am I getting so worked up?

I finish the rest of my sandwich and spend the remaining minutes of my lunch break watching the birds soar across the water.

XXX

I'm tense, glancing every few minutes at the clock above the mantle, like a swinging pendulum, back and forth.

Rosalie is running a few minutes late, and I'm wishing more and more that I hadn't agreed to this.

I'm considering phoning to cancel, my teeth worrying my lip, when I hear the sound of tires on gravel.

I get to my feet, rising on tip toes as I look out through the window. I hear a car door shut, followed by another, and another, and frown.

I was simply expecting Rose to show up here alone. Confused, I take another glance, and immediately recognise Emmett's car in the driveway.

My blood runs cold, the first fall of snow in winter, and I get that nauseous feeling in my stomach when I realise who else is with her.

The door opens, Emmett's voice echoing out in the foyer. "Bella?"

Taking a deep breath I make my way out of the lounge, forcing a smile on my face. "Hey, Em," I greet.

He kisses my cheek lightly, his arm around my shoulder. "Thanks for doing this," he whispers in my ear as I watch Kate close the door to the house.

Turning my attention back to him, I shake my head, letting him know he doesn't need to do that. "It's fine," I lie, not wanting to spoil this for him.

"Sorry we're late," Rose breathes, smiling at me as she adjusts the garment bag over her arm. "My car wouldn't start, and Jazz was out, so we had to wait for Em to get home." She gets this look on her face and sighs. "I have your number now, I should have called. I'm sorry," she says, a small frown forming above her blue eyes.

"It's fine," I answer, knowing it's not going be the last time I say this in the next however-many-minutes they're going to be here.

Em walks off into the kitchen and Rosalie's lips curl into a wide, excited grin. "Ready to see the dress?" she asks, frown gone.

"Okay," I answer, my eyes flitting to Kate as I notice she has her own bag over her arm.

She isn't looking at me, but then she isn't purposely not looking at me either.

The last time I saw her she had her hand on my husband's face. To say I'm comfortable with her being here would be a lie.

"Where should we...?" Rose juts her arm out a little, emphasising the dress, asking a question without fully saying the words.

I'm about to say 'the bedroom', when I pause, not wanting anyone else in the space that holds so many memories; in the space that holds so much of Edward.

"In here's fine," I say, leading them into the other room.

And there's that word again.

Rose makes quick work of the zipper as she lays the garment bag out flat on the sofa, her hands careful however, as she reaches inside to pull the dress out.

And it's even prettier in person than it was in the picture.

It's sun-blushed peach perfect that reaches the ground. The straps are thin, delicate, the material holding so much movement, reminding me of the weight of water as it falls from a towering height.

I'm hesitant to put it on, wishing I'd never agreed to this; never agreed to be paraded in front of a room full of people I don't know.

In front of a room full of people I do.

"Emmett, don't come back here until I say so," Rosalie shouts, her voice shocking me from my thoughts.

He laughs from somewhere in the kitchen. "You spoil all my fun," he yells back.

"Sorry," she smiles, noticing the expression on my face. "I forget how loud my voice can be sometimes."

She opens another bag, pulling out a stack of pins and the like. It suddenly occurs to me who's going to be fitting my dress, if alterations need to be made.

"You sew?" I ask, catching her off guard.

She wraps a fabric tape measure around her neck. "Not really, but I know how to pin a dress," she answers, telling Kate to slip on her own bridesmaid's dress for comparison. "I'll just drop this back at the store for them to fix tomorrow," she smiles.

I feel shy getting undressed in front of them both, but tell myself to stop being stupid. Rose buttons Kate up before they both come to help me.

Rose beams and Kate gets this soft look on her face, her now familiar red painted nails smoothing down the fabric.

"This colour is so pretty on you," she tells me, no hint of falsehood in her tone. "It really compliments your colouring."

I don't want her hands on me; don't want her giving me compliments. I don't trust her, so it changes things.

And if she thinks it suits me, then it definitely suits her. She's all polished lovely and long lashes. A kind face under any other circumstance.

"Thank you," I say quietly as Rose pins a few areas in the back.

She runs a hand over her own dress, swaying the ends of the silk gently at the bottom. "The colour is similar to what I had at my own wedding," she offers, and my eyes snap back up to her face.

"You're married?" I ask, not having to look at her hand to know she doesn't wear a ring.

Her eyes meet mine for a moment before looking away again. "No," she answers as Rosalie pulls my hair out from the neckline.

"It's almost a perfect fit," Rosalie interrupts, and I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from asking the questions I really want to know the answers to.

Kate takes a step forward, turning to stand beside me as she and Rose switch sides. She's a little taller than me, her hair straight while mine curls ever so slightly at the ends.

"Perfect," Rosalie smiles, putting a few loose pins back into the bag they came from.

Kate turns and I'm about to ask one of them to undo the buttons when the room falls quiet.

I look up, all thoughts vanishing with a flutter of lashes as I follow the gaze of the woman next to me.

Edward is standing in the doorway, his eyes on me, moving up and down before pausing on my face.

My cheeks instantly feel warm and the look in his eyes makes my chest tight when I breathe, a feeling that I'd missed, different than the one that accompanies falling tears.

He traps me in place, all honey tones in the fading light of the day.

Words form awkwardly at my lips; stop and start and hide with a bashful glance.

His attention shifts to perfect beside me, immediately feeling that ache in my chest, knowing all too well what plummeting back to earth feels like.

The breath leaves my lungs and I can't stand to look at either of them.

"You all look lovely," Edward says, stepping further into the room.

I turn, my back to him, ignoring Rosalie's voice as she tells him she's in a plain cotton sundress, so to leave her out of the compliments.

Someone else enters the room, and thinking it's Emmett, I twist back around, needing to get out of this dress. But my feet are stuck and my thoughts calm as I watch Jasper leaning against the doorway next to Emmett.

His eyes flick to mine even as he addresses his sister. "I got your message," he tells her.

My own gaze naturally falls to Edward, who looks between the two of us with a cold stare.

The tension in the room threatens to suffocate and just when I think I'll stop breathing, Rose speaks. "Could you take us home, Jazz? Emmett needs the car."

He nods, looking at her this time as he answers. "Sure."

I heave a quiet sigh of relief at them leaving and make the mistake of looking back up.

"Did you get my message earlier?" Jasper asks, pushing himself from the doorway as he pulls his car keys from his pocket.

I resist the urge to squeeze handfuls of my dress, and nod instead.

Kate comes back into the room, putting an end to the questioning as she brushes past Jasper, her dress in hand.

I didn't even realise she'd left to change.

"Bella?" Rosalie says as she places a hand on my shoulder. "I'll come by for the dress tomorrow, and get out of your hair."

I nod, managing a smile. "Okay. Thank you."

I watch as Kate helps gather the few bags they brought with them before saying bye to Edward as she passes him by the door with a small smile.

"Bye, guys," Jasper calls over his shoulder as he holds the door open for his sister.

The house is quieter, the awkwardness still present as Edward remains silent.

"I'll meet you by the car," Emmett says to Edward before coming over to give me another kiss on the cheek.

"You going somewhere?" I ask, looking at Edward.

The front door closes behind Emmett as he answers me. "Em wants to go grab something to eat."

"Oh," I say, trying not to think about the last time I was left alone in a house wearing a pretty dress.

He doesn't offer for me to go with them and I don't ask. "Do you need anything while I'm out?" he asks me.

I shake my head. "No."

He licks his lips, hands back in his pockets. "Okay."

"Could... Before you go, could you help me with the buttons on the back of this, please?" My voice is small, nervous, the flapping wings of a bird.

He looks me over for a second time, setting me alight, my eyelids feeling heavy as I fight the urge to let them fall shut.

I don't know what to do with my hands as he walks over, my heart crazy inside my chest.

He steps behind me, his fingertips brushing my skin with each small button opened. I shiver, my breathe shaky as I try to calm, all contained vibrations.

I wrap my arms around the material of the dress tightly. It won't slip, the buttons don't fall that low, but I can't stand and do nothing.

His thumb brushes against the back of my hand as he moves to stand in front of me, his voice low as he runs his fingers through his hair. "All finished."

My shoulders lose their tension. "Thank you," I say, blinking quickly.

He's so close, unmoving, and I look up, meeting a stubbled chin and inviting lips. His head tilts, eyes holding mine until the very last second, the tips of his hair brushing against my own dark strands.

I'm frozen in place, unable to move. Not that I want to. His warmth is addictive, the familiar scent of his cologne adhering itself to my skin.

I want to slide my hands beneath his jacket, get lost in expensive comfort.

His tie grazes my shoulder as he steps closer, goose bumps prickling my skin with a cold shiver.

His lips at my ear, whispering words that are the best kind of sunrise. "You look more than lovely. You look beautiful."

For just a second there is only me and him, a second that is worth a thousand others.

His lips brush my cheek, feather soft light, and I finally let my eyes drift closed as I hear the front door close behind him.

XXX

Sleep won't come. My eyes close, fluttering lashes, a blind search beyond, but I can't switch off.

The night is still; no wind, no rain, no creaking floorboards. Only restless limbs on dark cotton sheets.

There is no peace here, no reprieve, just sleep-lusted electric thrumming through my veins: vibrant blues and purples that fizz like sherbet.

I think about Edward's lips on my cheek earlier.

I think about a line from his journal I'd read before attempting to sleep.

We're us, no one else can change that.

Maybe not anyone else.

But we could.

We did.

We let ourselves get to this point. Not to hurt, not to spite, but to guard, protect what scared us the most.

Life is hard. Marrying so young, becoming so utterly consumed... any little change, any little chip to that bubble is seen as an attack, a poison that seeps its way into the bloodstream.

The small things get blown up; a balloon to the lips, and blow, push, bigger and bigger until it bursts wide open: a shocked silence, a thumping fear-beat heart.

Shaking hands and fleeing words, and all that's left behind is this shell... this pretty, pretty shell that promises so much.

And I think that's the hardest part to deal with.

There was no one else. Just us. Just life. Just a flurry of every day obstacles that hit over and over, their point accurate and sharp, knowing just where to hit.

Knowing just where it would hurt the most.

And it's terrifying, because you want an instigator, a life-course changer... something, anyone else to blame but yourselves. That way you can fix it. Have a mark, a starting off point: head bent, gun fired, and fly.

Run.

Off.

But without it... it's impossible to hide from. Because you can't hide from life. You're forced to live it. One way or another.

And now... the doubt is at its strongest, even though there is nothing more I want in this world than for me and Edward to be okay—for our hearts to mend themselves and go back to the beginning.

Because if we weren't able to handle it together before, if we let it defeat us once, what's to stop it from happening again?

What are the signs, the flashing lights and screamed warnings that burn inside your lungs? The heat on your finger before a flame?

Myself. Myself. Myself.

It's me. I'm my own warning.

Edward, his.

I just hope I'll know what to look for this time, cross that finish line and push aside the false starts.

Because we'll have them.

It just remains to be seen how we'll deal with them this time around.

Those self inflicted wounds.

I swallow back the salt tears in my eyes, from the back of my throat and roof of my mouth, and pull in a deep breath through my nose.

Time is lead in my hands and I just wish these ghosts were gone.

I try to clear my head for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, the ticking clock in the room a time bomb, counting down the seconds until my imminent implode.

My body feels heavy and my chest feels tight, and I hate that the space beside me is empty.

And closing my eyes to think of somewhere else doesn't help me this time.

I know what's keeping me awake. It's the same thing that has been for what feels like an eternity; an eternity of hollow hearts and empty lungs. An eternity of smiling eyes and kissing lips.

An eternity of pretending neither of those things exists.

I think about reading. I think about sitting up and drinking the glass of water on my beside table. I think about doing a lot of things. But only one seems to matter. One that both terrifies me and fills me with warmth, flushing my cheeks with the hue of a multitude of reasons. One that is screaming and screaming and won't be ignored any longer, tattooing itself beneath expanding ribs.

I count to thirty—count my breaths and wish for lullabies—but the sheets are cold. And I don't want to be alone.

My toes curl into the carpet as I perch uncertainly on the edge of the mattress, my fingers tugging the end of my tank top back over my stomach as my hair falls over my left shoulder. It tickles my skin on its descent and adds to my nervous longing.

Edward would always play with my hair while I was sleeping; while we both drifted to dreams that were never as good as that moment right there.

His touch was always gentle, swirling finger tips like plant life in the ocean; comfort and serenity and easy love. Long nights in summertime heat. Cool cotton kisses. Matching heartbeats.

I run my hands through the strands and it isn't the same. It will never be the same.

I push myself up, muffled footsteps that seem to know the way, leading me through the door and into the darkened hallway.

It's here I pause, wondering where he is, what room he's closed himself off in since coming home.

I start to move once more, knowing hesitation will only cripple what impulse I have left—crush it to ash within a steel grip—and walk quietly down the long corridor, and another, until I'm at the opposite side of the house.

My eyes adjust to the dark and the thump of my heart is thundering in my ears. His parents' room is empty, door open and still the same. My fingers curl around the handle to Emmett's old room and there is nothing but boxes and an unmade bed, a forgotten poster tacked to the wall that I can't make out.

I pass Alice's room completely, knowing he wouldn't be in there; he didn't talk to his sisterтall that much when we were growing up, so he wouldn't find solace in there now.

And that's when I see it, that tiny fragment of light coming from the room at the end of the hall.

I push the door open slowly, the natural light of the moon bathing everything in its pearl-like glow. Edward is sound asleep on top of the covers... or so I assume. The rise and fall of his chest looks even, and I'm afraid to wake him; afraid he'll open his eyes and question why I'm here. Because I don't have an answer, I just have a feeling, an inherent want that won't let me sleep, crushing my chest with the weight of its desperation.

This shouldn't feel wrong, I shouldn't feel fear. This is normal, natural, a human comfort. He's my husband, my tether, the person at the other end of the string. I just want to sleep... be near him. If only for a little while.

The room is practically empty; it's cold and bare and holds nothing of anybody in his family. I don't know why he's here.

I close the door softly behind me, not quite letting it catch, leaving it exactly how I'd found it, not wanting to create another shift in our already spinning world.

Shivers tremble across my skin, like the breeze through the trees on a tempestuous day. And before I can change my mind, I carefully lower myself to the mattress beside him, immediately struck by his warmth and scent and the relief inside my chest.

The urge to get closer and closer and closer, like magnetic hearts, a matching pair, is an insistent tug, threatening to overpower me.

He shows no signs of being aware that I'm here, no shift of his body or change in his breathing.

His face is turned towards mine on the pillows, and I'm afraid to touch him, afraid of what will happen if I do.

But that urge won't let up, and I can't stop myself from reaching out.

I start off small, running my fingers over his hand between us, over the ridges of his knuckles, half reassured that he hasn't woken, half scared that he will.

My finger tips slide over his jaw, feeling the scratchy stubble on his skin, finally getting to make my music.

My touch is feather-light and pulse-racing, and I'm unable to look away, unable to stop.

They sweep down the bridge of his nose, down his throat and back up to his chin, pausing at his lips. My hands are nerve-shaken with so much want, so much need, so much unplaced fear, adrenaline a circus ride inside my veins.

I pull my hand away a few moments later, feeling the onslaught of tears burn my eyes. I don't know what I'm doing here, hate that I feel so misplaced, and am about to leave when I notice his eyes are open, staring right at me.

I stop breathing, eyes wide as embarrassment heats my cheeks in the dark, his gaze a green-spun web that holds me in place.

Time slows, becomes meaningless as I get caught up in shadows. He doesn't say anything, just looks, and I'm too shocked to move.

The sheets stir as he shifts closer, his hand finding my cheek, thumb lazily stroking my skin before he places his palm over crazy, crazy, crazy.

"I can feel your heart," he whispers, hand on my chest. "It's beating so fast."

It knows him. Likes his attention. Loves his palm right there.

He picks up my hand, placing it over his own heart, and I still, feeling that tick-tick, thump-thump beneath my palm.

His eyes hold mine, and that beat is so fast, fast, fast below my touch.

"What do you want, Bella?" he asks. And it's not unkind, just a question.

But does he mean now?

Tomorrow?

Forever?

"I just want to lie next to you," I tell him with a whisper. "I just want to sleep."

His breathing is loud in the quiet of the room. "I can only give you what I've got," he says, his eyes showing the first hint of vulnerability I've seen in a long time.

He's scared, just like I am.

My lips part. "That's all I want," I answer, trying to make him see.

He studies my face, gaze back and forth between my eyes. "What if it's not enough?" he questions, his hand still keeping mine in place on his chest.

I blink back tears. "It will be," I tell him. "I'll make it enough."

He removes his hand from my skin, and lifts his arm in silent invitation. I curl into his warm chest, burrowing my face into his t-shirt, my hand still over his heart, there with his.

And just as I think he's fallen asleep, his breathing now even, his other hand moves to my hair, playing with it so softly, the very best of aches blooming in my chest.

It's like first kisses. First embarrassed glances. First smiles.

His breath is hot on my skin, his face closer, the best kind of I'm here. The best kind of burn.

I close my eyes and feel my cheeks become sun-kissed by his lips, on and off until I eventually fall asleep.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 614