Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters. I just like to make them cry.

Bella

Change is something that scares us all. It comes and goes like the seasons, leaving behind gifts of crystallised snow or sun split dirt; breeze-pink cheeks or sticky yellow pollen.

We can try to ignore it, pretend it isn't happening, but we can't discount the mark it leaves behind: the imprint of teeth against soft, pale flesh; the brush of swollen lips that kiss and purge—heart-shredding truths laid bare with a whisper.

We're tattooed from head to foot, detailed maps scratched inside and out, lead etchings that are as visible as the press of ink-dipped fingertips against brand new paper.

Immunity isn't an option—no amount of armour can ever fully protect us, no matter how strong it may outwardly look to those around us: stony faces held proud above dull steel, the tip of a heavy blade an unmistakable threat; its handle gripped within a locked fist.

Our breathing spikes, the fear of the unknown that lingers around this shift indisputable.

It's a hollowed out tunnel shrouded in nothing but shadows, one that doesn't appear to ever end—one that causes a shiver to crawl up our spine and pebble our skin from the unsuspecting rush of a wave, a detonation that chills instead of burns, like ice as it fights against fire.

It's the reason for each and every accelerated beat of our heart; the paper template dyed a dark crimson, sticky-backed and jagged around the edges that adheres itself to the rise and fall of real pumping red muscle.

It flutters like wings, trembles like the leaf still attached to the tempestuous branch during a storm, the one that refuses to break away despite the determination of the surrounding elements.

It's an insistence that, in any other circumstance, would be admired, grudging eyes that glisten like morning's first dew locked on forgotten lumps of coal.

All too soon, our lips press shut, whimpers sealed inside the cage of our chest as the very first lance comes.

We stare straight ahead, our eyes tearing, a translucent blanket that rises, swimming above little pockets of darkness that burst into a ring of colour.

Our vision blurs, raindrops pulled from between our lids as the weight of salt water becomes too much, eventually spilling over the edge with a blink of dark lashes that seep ebony hurt, staining our cheeks with tears that can't be concealed.

Dark crimson imitation crinkles once more, another lance that bleeds, the sting lingering like the hiss of a snake as the sound dissolves to nothing inside our ears, a mixture of salt and sweet diluted in warm, cherry pink water.

We forget that paper can cut, small little nicks that carry the affliction of a thousand more, a paper chain of bleeding hearts that leave a trail for a million others to follow, its path only wide enough for one: single file order to the murky depths of our own fears.

Our body stays so still as shock creeps into our system like a poison, nerve endings swelling a thick black: oil instead of skin tingling purple, toxic vines that sweep and slither.

Impulse screams at us to run, but our limbs haven't caught up, weighed down by life's thick and twisted roots that secure our feet to the ground in a variety of different colours—inside workings that carry a life force of a different kind.

Brown; green and yellow stripes.

But no blue.

There is no neutral here.

Edward is my change. My wounded heart.

And I'm his, love the instigator that started it all—the pretty pink box topped and tied with a bow made of split wire.

Razor sharp.

A warning.

Sweet-to-the-tongue tempting.

I want to reach out and steal back our happiness. Lift the lid with fingers that are in jeopardy of weeping bloodshot tears and carrying the scars of love, one that is still very much present, but heavily guarded.

And maybe with good reason.

Risk appears, tempting me with a curl of glittering gold fingers, leading me to cliff edges that crumble, to rope bridges that sway without a breeze.

The drop pushes back against my face, tilts my world upside down, eyes wide and wanting, fear a green landscape that gives way to consequences that are too far below for the eye to see.

I hesitate and risk parts its gold painted lips, attempting to stamp assurances to my thoughts, typewriter keys click, click, clicking away.

Jump.

Fall.

Don't be scared. Real love is the painful kind.

I'll heal your scratches with a kiss. I promise.

And the only one that matters...

Edward.

The pictures trapped inside my head are smoke, whispers, puffs of cloud that slip through the space between flesh and bone, fading to the stark reality of what will be left in front of me if I don't follow the glittering trail at my feet.

A life without him.

I'm terrified I'll forget. Terrified I'll wake up in a busy city filled with lonely people; with nothing but a nameless face and no memory of where it came from, a gathering pile of snapshots that don't look like mine—terrified for the periods of time where I won't think about him, distance releasing our hearts, blade to paper that gets sliced right down the middle.

It's that very concept that freezes my breath to solid ice, ship-big in a channel too small.

Fingertips that don't belong to me reach forward, leaving a trail of dripping gold silk down my throat, and suddenly, I'm choking.

I'm choking.

Panic rises, pushing, rockets into darkness and water levels that scale my mouth and nose, airways blocked.

Bubbles float, little pockets of translucent beads that reflect the colours of our life, that carry every good piece of ourselves further and further away, stolen by balloons that breathe fire.

I lose sight of them in the distance, blinking quickly as I try to bring them back, refusing to believe they've disappeared amongst golden sun rays that blind and burst into glittering dust.

I swallow back my tears, focus down, down, down, losing myself in ocean sadness, vision clouded by dancing kelp and scenes plucked straight from nightmares.

A scream rises to the surface as water fills my lungs, fingers reaching for outlines that fade to wisps of black smoke.

To shadows.

A trick.

My arm sinks back to my side, eyes stinging, defeat the steady beat of a drum that surfs through my blood—I'm all alone, and no one can see my tears.

The voice inside my head is a shout:

What have I done?

I look around blindly, panic seizing me once more, metal chains that shackle me to the invisible currents that push and pull; that take and take and take.

My thoughts begin to die, sail away on ships made of broken hearts, and this time, my voice is a whisper.

What have I done?

XXX

I sit and stare, fingers tight around a steering wheel, looking at a house that is mine, but feels so distant, foreign languages I recognise but can no longer speak.

The windows are locked up tight, blinds closed, shutting out the world... Shutting out me.

Hours pass and I'm not sure I remember how to move. My body aches, my heart in pieces, my thoughts a rotating cycle of kisses, Edward, touch, tears; lips, tongue, fingers, breaths, teeth. I love you. Don't. Please. I can't go with you. Yellow. Yellow. Edward.

I press my eyelids shut, again and again, a ritual that does nothing to stop the sting of tears. I want to block out the pain, eclipse the sun and hide the moon, sleep to forget, gift my dreams to someone else and expel my nightmares with a scream of lungs.

I left without a word; left with a puncture I'm not sure can be repaired, one I had a big hand in creating, in carving out with impulsive truths and skin-chilling desperation. I lift my palm to my chest, pressure hard against my flesh as I try to halt the ache, diminish the pain that makes me feel bone-brittle weak.

It's useless, a feather that tries to shift stone, failed attempts that crash and burn, breaths shaky and sore.

My chest hurts, ribs suddenly alive, living, aching for me. I want to break them apart and scatter them to the ground, bury them in soil where I can no longer feel them.

Early morning light creates a halo around the house, limbs tired and heavy as I blindly reach for the door handle inside the car, vision locked on bricks and mortar.

The scent of spring—cut grass and passing rain—immediately wash over me, attempting to clear out the old and replace with the new, keys gripped and steps hesitant as I make my way forward.

Churning metal and abandoned hallways, mail littering the floor like autumn leaves on a deserted October morning, dust that dances in the beam of weakened sunlight, an abandoned kind of beauty in an otherwise lonely space.

My feet are unsure, my legs shaky under the accelerated beat of my heart. I don't want to be here, not without him, but I have no other choice. He needs time, and I need more than he can give me.

Waiting is the cruelest game of all.

My shoes lay forgotten, my coat heavy across my shoulders and along my arms, my feet bare as I tread amongst broken glass, a war zone of torn up photos and smashed frames; of decanters and china and mementos that were once whole.

Each and every room is made up of broken memories, a kind of glinting and sorry destruction that bears our names and depicts familiar aspects of our faces.

My knees touch the ground, my hands clumsy as my fingers run through the ruins, teardrops a downpour of my own storm, of my own pain and torment.

This is what Emmett had meant in a call that went unanswered: I called because... I'm worried about... Edward. He's not answering his phone, either... not after that day...

He'd been too busy creating his own battleground, taking out his frustrations on pieces of me that could physically shatter; that could break beneath the eye and fall apart just like his insides.

This is his gift to me in return to the pain I presented him.

A kiss for a kiss.

A ring for a ring.

I clutch the glass a little harder...

A scattered heart for a scattered heart.

My fingers continue to make music and paint the floor a bitter red as I try to rescue the pieces we have left, box them up in pockets too small and hands too shaky while attempting to ignore the ache and sight of these broken bits of us.

Another watery hour passes, hands scrubbed clean and left to sting, stairs creaking as I make my way to a room that will further strip me bare, paint me in jumbled words and half erased promises, unreadable script left behind from the trail of his fingers—from the brush of his lips and tempt of his tongue.

I pause at the door, take in the scene, note the familiar bedding tucked around our mattress, sheets smooth and uncreased, bed unused. A lump rises to my throat as I spot his pillow on the comfy chair in the corner of the room, glass tumbler sitting on the table to its side, whiskey bottle empty, everything of his removed from mine.

I suck in a deep breath through my nose and lick my lips, sink into a favoured chair that is surrounded in reminders of him. I stare at the bed, at the cold, at my pillow as I lean down and rest my head against his pillow, trying to hold myself together with tape that has been pulled back and forth too many times. But then I find something, fingers catching the soft wool beneath his pillow, head lifted and eyes locked on something blue, something mine, an old sweater I stole from him years before.

My exhale is slow, my chest tight, my tears warm as they trickle into my hair, head back and vision up, painting me in my own regret—in pain and remembrance and rapid debilitation.

I slip the sweater over my head, hide my hands in its sleeves, curl into the familiar, shade my skin with the colour of additional hurt.

Breathe in more of him and wrap myself in punishing love.

XXX

The water rages today. It crashes against chiseled rock the complexion of dull pewter, fraying aside in bubbles of frothy white as it spits at the sky. I can hear its anger, roaring sounds that coat and tremble bone, fevered red clinging to brittle ivory with a wave of vibration.

The sun is out, but the air is cold, an icy wind that nips at my cheeks, fierce reminders with teeth bared.

My phone has been silent for three days, my own lips still, tongue confused and mouth sealed shut, heart set aflame and ashes scattered to the wind, left inside the pages of a book, bookmarked with a tear.

My hands want and my breaths need and my thoughts are all the same. I wait for decisions. I wait for stay or leave or take me with you.

I wait for Edward to give me an answer I'm not sure is coming... one that I know I'll have to draw from him and not the other way around, lengths of rope his hands will clutch too tightly, palms red and carrying the marks of fear.

He hasn't been home. He's stayed where he deems it safe—where choices are not his alone and responsibility lies within childhood dreams; within a childhood room where memories spin like a wheel.

Time crawls by with sharpened nails that tear at my skin and make my dreams weep. There is no respite in the closing of eyes, no pause in the blink-wide wonder of being alert.

There is nowhere to hide and no one to find me.

I'm lost all out in the open, blindfold on and spinning world stopped with the tip of a finger.

There I am.

Work now passes with a loud tick, the store erased of familiar faces, leaving behind nothing but words that belong to someone else—stories of growth and warmth and love; stories that tell a lie and hold the biggest secrets.

Stories that question our truths and discount the true meaning behind them.

Stories like mine, reminding me of promise rings and block-capital initials, like those that adhere to old leather spines and proud front pages.

Like those that are engraved inside precious gifts.

My fingers trace the heart shaped locket around my neck, this reminder made from shining silver and pictures that hide within, familiar faces printed upon once glossy paper.

This noose, I choose.

It's a piece of Edward, a piece of me—I draw the metal into my palm and keep us safe the only way I can right now.

The wind picks up, momentum gained as it shifts my hair up and back, strands spinning as they dance midair, twisting in dresses made of soft chestnut.

I allow my lids to fall closed, feel my lashes whisper in the breeze, and let the sounds of incensed blue as it continues to drive against immovable grey eclipse the murmured spiels of piercing doubts that press against my ears.

Minutes tick by and numb has never felt so good.

I leave the ocean for the road, the drive home quiet and already bordering on night, the sky fading from brights to darks, to deep turquoise and grey denim. I notice the birds in their nests and see the first signs of rain on the windshield as I head back to a house that I'm already ready to leave, engine rumbling and foot easy on the pedal.

I pull into the driveway, heartbeat speeding up when I spot a car I don't recognise parked in my usual space.

I take in the person standing outside, suitcase at their feet, curiosity potent in the way my gaze lingers as I step out onto the gravel.

Something flickers at the edge of my memories, candlelight bright and familiar, a dancing flame and melting wax as the girl turns toward me—deep blue eyes, just like one of her brothers.

It's then I recognise her, muscles locking, surprise stealing the conviction from my voice as I freeze, keys in hand.

"Alice?"

Her hair is longer than I remember, past her shoulders in a sleek dark curtain as she looks back at me, lips pursed and brow furrowed.

I'm not sure what she sees, what she's looking for, but her eyes pierce and prod, leaving me feeling exposed.

"Hi, Bella."

Silence gets carried away in raindrops that glisten in the fading light, her stare unnerving as she shields her hair with the newspaper I'd failed to see in her hand until now.

Her overall presence isn't that surprising—I knew she'd be in town for the wedding—but I'm not sure what she's doing here, at this house, instead of her parents'.

A lump fills my throat, but before I can say anything, the keys are taken from my hand as she walks up the steps and unlocks the door, leaving it open for me.

Nervous, but having no reason not to, I follow.

I find her in the kitchen, busying herself with starting the coffee machine, something I rarely use, her suitcase half blocking the doorway as I maneuver around it.

"Coffee?" she asks without looking back at me.

I find myself shaking my head even though she can't see me. "No, thank you."

She sets a mug in front of the machine before finally turning to me, hands still on the counter behind her, fingers drumming underneath the ledge. "You look tired," she notes.

She's always been like this, honest in her answers and the way she talks. We've never been friends—not that we've ever had any reason not to be, either—but I know this about her. I was witness to enough of the fights she'd have with her brothers growing up to understand that Alice is not one to hold back her opinions.

"I don't mean to sound rude," I start, "and you're welcome to stay however long you want... but why are you here, Alice?"

She cracks a small, sad smile before answering, "Because I need to be."

Her reply is evasive, confusing, my brows crinkling. "Is there something you want my help with?" I ask, thoughts a jumbled bouquet of letters.

She turns her back for a moment to fill her mug with steaming hot coffee before pulling out one of chairs at the table to sit. She arches a brow and nods to the one opposite, but I don't feel like sitting right now, wanting this small amount of space we currently have.

"I'm fine standing," I reply, tucking my hair behind my ears.

She blows on her coffee, her words shocking, electric bolts that flash in the sky, the thunder that follows, shaking, shaking. "Do you still want him?"

It all suddenly becomes so clear, her sudden appearance as she wastes no more time in revealing the reason she's here and not there.

"You've spoken to Edward?" I guess, the very thought of him trapping sounds and exaggerating beats.

"I've seen him," she corrects, pushing out the chair nearest to me with her foot, and this time, I do sit. "I arrived back from New York two days ago."

"Did he ask you to come here, check up on me?" I question, watching her face closely, searching for clues. She says nothing and I add, "What did he say?"

She takes a mouthful of her drink, assessing me with her denim blue. "He said a lot of things," she answers. Then, "You still love him."

It's not a question, but I answer it anyway, a truth shaped of hearts and stolen kisses in the rain. "Yes."

"Then why aren't you fighting for him?" she fires, response instant, explosions and too loud sounds, gun pointed, making me listen.

Her comment catches me off guard, my throat tight, bubbling words a length of burning rope around my neck as shock renders my tongue useless.

"I did," I press, feeling my insides twist. "You haven't been here. You don't know."

"Then where is he? Why isn't he here?" she shoots back calmly. Alice takes a sip of her coffee, her expression easy as she appraises me over the rim of her mug.

It must seem so simple to her, so easy, say a few heated words and our problems disappear. But that's not how the world works... That's not howEdward and I work.

"There are two people in this marriage," I remind her, feeling trapped, singled out. "Why don't you ask him."

"I did," she answers without further explanation, moving on to another round of bullets. "So, he left you?"

The way she's watching me... she knows what's happened... she knows and is doing this on purpose. "It's not as simple as who left whom," I tell her.

"Before now," she starts, pushing and pushing me, "did he once walk away?"

My chest hurts, fingers pinching skin and muscle. "No," I say thickly, choking tears that build like bricks, hating where this is going.

She doesn't say it, but she doesn't have to; I know what she's thinking: You chose this, Bella. It's your fault.

"He's different," she continues, all attack, attack, attack.

My breaths are shaky as I inhale slowly—she doesn't have to clarify who the he is. "I know," I say quietly.

"He looks like you... tired and hurting," she comments, reminding me of all my misgivings; ensnaring traps and holes in the knees of your favourite pair of jeans.

My eyes water, dams burst and confessions a desperate example of needing and wanting help, even if I don't always ask for it. "We're so broken, Alice," I murmur hoarsely, splintered hearts and shattered china, "and I don't know what to do... I'm not sure if love is enough to fix us anymore."

She doesn't reach across the table to grab my hand like my mother would if she were here, doesn't wrap me up in a hug and assure me everything will work out in the end; magic tricks and rainbows in the sky. She shares words instead, words that clear pathways and clean out cobwebbed corners.

"I used to be so jealous of my brother for finding love so young," she admits easily, scratching her nail over the handle of her mug. "I've never foundthe one, you know? And he did... he did when he wasn't even looking. It didn't seem fair to me, but then I guess that's how love works... it's notfair." She levels me with her gaze, reiterating what I already know but can't always achieve. "Which is why you fight and fight, even if you're exhausted. You take space, a breather, but you never give up, because any version of love is special, Bella. That ring on your finger is yours: don't take it off until you're sure you've done everything you can to keep it right there."

My tears fall freely now, tired to the bone and wanting to sleep away nightmares and complications that puncture and leave cracks. "Shouldn't he want all that too, though?" I press. "Shouldn't he fight back?"

"Yes," she answers, getting to her feet to dump her mug in the sink. "But," she adds, "it doesn't mean that you should stop. It just means you're stronger than he is... and sometimes that's how couples work, however unfair it may seem."

"I don't feel like I'm stronger," I confess, tumbling feathers and sea foam.

She shakes her head, dismissing my claim. "Bella, it takes a stronger person to admit there's a problem than those who don't say anything at all."

I wipe my cheeks, over and over. "But I did that for so long... I still do that now," I say.

She places a glass of water before me and says simply, "Then turn your whimpers to a roar and be heard."

There are no more words of wisdom, no sweeps of the hair or smiles of encouragement. She pauses by the door, by her suitcase, asks if she can take the spare room, waits for my nod, and heads for the stairs, leaving me alone with my thoughts—leaving me alone with a memory that spirals like a staircase, one that screams of possession and the language of the sun.

~CitP~

"You sure you can't go?" Mike asks again towards the end of class, pausing at the front of the desk Edward and I share. He wants me to go to this party with him tonight after the football game; I'm not interested in either: the party or him.

Edward's hands curl into fists beneath the table and I nod in reply. "I'm sure," I reiterate.

He sighs loudly but accepts my answer. "Okay... maybe another time," he says with a knock of knuckles to the wooden top before returning to his own seat.

Silence settles over us then, tense, like hot summer rays without that much needed breeze.

Edward and I have been messing around after school for the past week, ever since he kissed me in his room for the first time. We've done nothing more than that—kiss—and we haven't spoken about labels or anything else. It's been fine... but the awkwardness that lingers now is impossible to ignore, like ice cream as it drips down your fingers, melting before you have time to eat it.

"You could have gone with him tonight, if you wanted to," Edward says, clearing his throat.

Disappointment settles inside my stomach as I look over at him. He's flipping through his textbook, pages turning far too fast for him to be able to catch more than the odd word.

"Oh," is all I can say.

He runs his hands through his hair, his right knee—the one nearest to me—bouncing. "Don't all you girls go crazy over those blue eyes of his?"

I want to laugh, but settle for saying, "Bright eyes but a cold heart."

We've been reading Shakespeare, so I probably sound like an idiot, but I don't want him to think I'm interested in Mike Newton in... any way.

He looks at me then, eyes gliding over my features. "How can you tell?"

My pulse beats so, so fast, a runaway train and sparks to my heart. "Because I don't feel warm all over when he looks at me," I answer.

I see the start of a smile start at the corner of his lips. "No?" he questions, his voice lower... lighter.

"No," I repeat, trying to stay cool when the side of his hand brushes against mine, branding my skin with the burn of his touch.

The left side of his mouth pulls up higher, taking me with him. "What do you feel when you look at me?" he asks.

My tongue feels dry, butterflies set free inside my chest. Nerves take over and I feel like I've forgotten how to speak, especially when he holds me hostage in his green, green, green. "Sun-kissed," I answer him eventually, smiling at how silly I sound. But it's true.

I feel my cheeks flush, his eyes lingering, making it worse, and then he's glancing towards the front of the room—once quickly—before turning back to me, his lips finding my cheek.

I can sense stares at the back of my head, but I don't turn to look at the faces I know are watching. "Come over tonight?" he asks me, still so close, making me kite-high dizzy.

I say "yes" and surround myself in summer.

~CitP~

Now it's more sunburnt than sun-kissed, pain along with the good, the sometimes rainbow after a storm.

I finish the whole glass of water and replenish my tears, all while my thoughts are a whirlwind of I'd do anything to go back to that time.

XXX

Alice and I rarely speak the two days that follow. I work during the day and she's busy, always taking calls in the evening. I find I don't mind it, having her around, even if the silence does feel a little awkward sometimes.

I'm staring at the clock, watching the minutes aimlessly tick by with the phone in my hand, searching for excuses that won't come to mind, that evade like the moon come daylight.

Alice left hours ago for the wedding rehearsal while I stayed home with messaged apologies that promised I'd be at the dinner tonight. But now the time has come and my feet are cold and the prospect of seeing Edward shreds my resolve to flashes of confetti.

I'm scared of what I'll find; scared of what time has decided. I'm not sure I'm ready for choices that will shape the course of my life; not sure I'm ready to potentially be alone.

It's as I'm debating avoiding the situation until tomorrow—the actual wedding—that Alice knocks on the door. She's already dressed, her hair in soft waves, her expression leaving no doubt in my mind as to what she's about to say.

"Why aren't you dressed?" she wonders, stepping further into the room.

"I don't think I can go," I whisper, hating the sound of my weakness.

She pushes open the doors to my closet, shifting through the clothes on the hangers, pausing once or twice before selecting a strapless blue dress I haven't worn since last year, during a birthday dinner that ended in tears of the wrong kind for gifts and celebrations.

"You can. And you will," she assures, pulling me to my feet before pushing the material into my hands. "You've got five minutes, and then we're leaving. No excuses."

It's hard to argue against the kind of surety she possesses. I want to steal some of the strength from her eyes and carry it around in the palm of my hand; keep it close, keep it mine.

She leaves me alone to change, locket on display, swimming above a crest of blue: I test its hinges, look inside, and it's all the incentive I need.

The drive to the Cullens' passes by in blurred scenery and the sound of spinning tires. It causes the apprehension in my stomach to jump to my throat, nightmares of dark browns and haunting blues, remembrance of the last time I was here an ache that smarts between my ribs, knife twisted.

Fairy lights adorn the trees along the driveway, branches aflame in golden warmth, matching the glow of my fear. The engine cuts, its rumbling still present in my ears despite the quiet that has now replaced it: its sound accompanies the bumpy drive of my pulse, the pitter-patter of my heartbeat.

Alice steps out from the car, door clicked shut behind her, darkness a blanket in which to hide, a respite for closed lids. I think she'll leave me to make my own way inside, but she surprises me by waiting for me outside, a look shared between us that speaks more than words.

"What if I'm not enough, Alice?" I say, the crash of noise that hits us from the entryway a wave that swallows the momentum of my words.

She smiles at someone who passes before giving me all of her attention. "Why are your eyes already saying goodbye?" she says with a frown.

"Because there is about to be a before and an after and I'm scared of both," I answer, voice trembling like the string of a violin.

"No one else can give you what you want," she reminds me, giving me a pointed look.

I let my eyes travel over the people around us, recognising some faces, discounting others. "I know," I say quietly, watching Esme and Rose laugh at something from the corner of the room.

I briefly wonder if they know... if Edward has said something to someone other than his sister. He's been staying here for the past week without me—I'm not sure what excuses he could have given this time that would have discouraged anything but the obvious.

"Then don't let this," she says, interrupting my train of thought, her voice bringing me back to the present as she taps her temple with the tip of her pointer finger, "affect this." She briefly holds the heart shaped locket around my neck between her fingers before letting it drop back to my chest.

She gives another smile to a nameless face that passes and I say, "Thank you."

Her blue eyes drift over my face before pausing on my own gaze for just a second, dark lashes now still. "I didn't do anything," she dismisses, straightening out her dress. And then, "I'm going to go say hi to the bride-to-be. Are you coming?"

I shake my head. "In a minute."

I watch her go before turning to the side, the hem of my dress brushing against my legs as I stand in the open doorway, fabric dancing in the breeze to music that does not exist. There are voices and there is laughter, but their sounds are not songs, despite their high octaves.

It's nowhere near enough to make my feet want to move in any other way than run.

A hand rests on my shoulder, a weighted palm that is light in touch but heavy in meaning.

Its size is familiar, and I'm reminded that, for now, I have to be here.

"Rose wasn't sure you'd show," Em says conversationally, his voice not particularly loud, but not low enough to draw attention to maybe secret conversations, either.

"I said I would," I say, tilting my head to look up at him, gracing him with a smile I hope doesn't come off as anything but happy for him. "You're getting married tomorrow, Em. You're family... Of course I'd be here." I squeeze his hand like he has for me so many times over the years, resting my palm over his knuckles for a few extra moments, a silent thank you for a lot of things.

He kisses the top of my head and my arm drops back to my side, gaze drifting, instinctively searching for green eyes in a sea of others.

It's almost like déjà vu, this scene to me now. The one where Edward stands off to the side with a pretty girl with big brown eyes and a red lipped smile. The one where he smiles and laughs and tips his head further back to accept the contents of his glass.

The one where her eyes don't leave and my heart breaks and nothing will ever feel the same again.

The recurring nightmare.

Edward looks at me then, straight from across the room, my heart stuttering inside my chest, mismatched beats catching up to an unsteady rhythm.

His lips move, answering questions I'm not privy to, but his eyes are all for me. They pass along the exposed skin of my arms and slow across my chest, trail up my throat to my mouth, pause on my wide and wanting brown.

He takes a mouthful of amber liquid and I burn right along with the taste, blood warmed and singing for more. This situation reminds me of the first time I saw him here with her, in this house, close to Christmas—to a special season that had lost its sparkle, like the night sky missing the twinkle of stars.

I feel Emmett shift beside me, feel him watching me. "Come on, Bella," he says softly, trying to persuade. "Let's get a drink."

I shake my head, keeping my gaze exactly where it needs to be as the familiar signs of stinging tears form at the inner corner of my eyes. "I'm not thirsty," I answer him distractedly.

Edward continues to stare back at me, his fingers working over his jaw as he nods his head to whatever is being discussed. "You know that means nothing, right?" Emmett says, referring to where my attention is directed. "Don't upset yourself."

"I'm not," I lie, swallowing against the pain that rises inside my chest like a cloud of smoke. Then, "Do you like her, Em?"

He's quiet for a moment, but then asks, "Who? Kate?"

I nod even though I'm not sure he's looking. "Yeah."

He sighs, the sound of his suit jacket brushing against his shirt accompanying the sound. "I like her enough," he answers. "She's good to Rose, which is the most important thing, right?"

"I guess," I answer quietly, wanting to pull my eyes away from the scene across from me. I feel trapped, vulnerable under Edward's fixed stare. He's beside a woman he knows tugs at my securities. A woman who touches him like he's hers; a woman who can make him smile; a woman who is so pretty I can barely stand to look at her.

But I do. I turn my whole focus to her and look so hard, feeling that bubble build in my throat as I wonder what it is about her that draws him in, a bright spark in the dark.

"Do you think she likes him?" I question, giving life to words that scurry through my head every time she's near.

"It wouldn't matter if she did," he answers me. "Edward's only ever loved one girl."

My throat is painfully tight, sugarcoated lies the hardest to swallow, their taste sweet and tempting you to believe: more than anything I want to savour their truth.

"He told me he'd thought about her," I respond, dropping my eyes to stare at the patch of skin between Edward's undone top button. "He told me how easy it would be to be with her."

I'm under no illusions of how light and simple it would be between them. Kate is innocent touches and serene smiles and evidently something I'm not.

"But that's just it," Emmett interjects, pushing through the fog of my thoughts as he slides his arm over my shoulders. "Love isn't supposed to be easy. It thrives off passion, which is fierce. If there's no passion, it can't exist." He gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Does that look anything like that to you?"

"Love is different for everyone," I say. "It never works the same way twice."

"I know my brother," he insists quietly, pushing my statement aside. "He's always been crazy about you, ever since we were kids. You've got nothing to worry about."

I know Edward loves me, but I'm not sure it's enough to heal these wounds; not sure it's enough to close this hole that has opened up inside of me.

Emmett murmurs more assurances, and I'm maybe about to concede, but then Edward slips his arm around Kate's waist, drawing her near as a server passes her from behind, his hand lingering afterwards, lower spine and all too intimate.

He knows I'm watching, is sure of how this will look; certain this will affect me.

My heart hammers and confidence breaks, flames dulled down to a low ember. I press my teeth together and close off my gaze as he strips me of his absorption, eyes lost behind a curtain of mahogany strands.

"Are you sure about that, Em?" I say sadly, looking up at the sweet man who is getting married tomorrow, my throat thick with tears as I finally turn my back to a scene that makes my chest feel like it's caving in. His brows pull low, his inhale deep, and it's not fair, lodging this bitterness inside his happy moments. "I'm sorry, forget I said anything."

Tables start filling, lighthearted rings of smiling faces that threaten to crack the forced one that plays at my mouth. I'm jealous of each and every one of them and hate myself for it.

"Come find me later, okay?" he says pointedly, his gaze flitting to his fiancée, the worry momentarily leaving his expanse of blue as happiness radiates across his face.

"Go," I urge, holding my smile in place a little easier this time. He kisses the top of my head and I take a deep breath once he's left, eyes scanning the placards for my name.

I find it soon enough, next to a surname I carry but don't always feel as my hands curl around the back of the chair. I look at the other names around the table as best I can, my smile falling away, hiding amongst boxes labeled 'lost and found' over the familiar names I see.

I'm instantly wary while distant family members continue to pass me to take their seats. I think about slipping outside, but my pulse starts to race and I understand why. The thought grinds to dust, lips locked and vision stuck on my own name.

I feel him before I see him, electric to my skin and jolts to my heart. Warmth kisses the back of my neck, but he's not touching me, his presence more than enough to blush-burn.

"Are you going to sit?" he wonders, caging me in as he takes a step closer, hands either side of mine on the back of the chair.

"I'm not sure," I answer, glancing around me, resisting the urge to turn and find his eyes, lose myself in green intensity.

"You want to leave?" he questions, his breath so hot against my skin.

"I thought about it," I reply.

He doesn't move, his voice a murmur, his words sarcastically cruel. "I would say that's surprising, but then I'd be lying, and we've used up enough of those."

He's still angry, still hurt, but so I am. So am I. "You lie all the time," I remind him bitterly.

He shifts a little closer, his chest flush against my back. "You want something true?" His skin burns through the cotton of his shirt, branding me his, flames that trail my spine and spike my blood with the shape of his name. "You're beautiful," he whispers as Alice sits down across from us, his words dissolving the ones poised on the tip of my tongue.

My voice feels unused, frayed cotton that will unravel to nothing. "Who else have you said that to tonight?" I ask.

I feel his inhale push against me, my fingers tightening in their grip around wooden slats. "Just you," he answers.

Alice eyes us for a moment before resting her elbows on the table, head turned to the side, giving us her form of privacy without drawing any more obvious attention to us.

"Tell me something else," I say quietly, blinking through the moisture trapped between my lashes.

He fills me up and strips me bare, my love for him burning bonfire bright, a match that burns everything else to the ground.

I hear him swallow, watch Jasper pull out his chair, ignore the way Kate strikes up a conversation with Esme on her way over here.

"I want to touch you so fucking bad," he says lowly, a secret just for me as I tell myself I'll be brave and not fall apart, gun loaded and bullets a metal band around my wedding finger.

My lips tremble and I want to ask him to hold me like he used to, when stars were still a wonder and he could never get enough of my mouth—when the words I love you didn't mean living them alone.

His lips brush my hair and I wonder if he remembers when marriage wasn't a curse of physical aches and exchanging vows were the most beautiful declarations we'd ever make.

"I think you've held enough girls for one night," I push out, feeling the rawness of my words inside my throat.

His knuckles turn white, grip strengthened, refusing me my escape, my cheeks flushing further. I place my hand on his arm—over his jacket—and turn just slightly, finally meeting his eyes: he takes me away with a look and it feels like I'm stardust. "There," I say quietly, "now you've touched me."

His lips part, his breath hard as I uncurl his fingers and push his arm down, stepping out from him before sliding into my seat, my heartbeat racing away from me.

Jasper meets my gaze and gives me his smile, my mouth lifting at the corners just slightly in response as I hold my hands together tightly underneath the table, feeling so shaken up inside. Fingertips graze the side of my neck and my already waning smile falters, my breath caught as Edward leans down to brush his lips to that sweet spot just beneath my ear, his touch a whisper.

His following words are the lightest breath, their meaning a storm. "Is he the only one who gets your smiles tonight?" he asks of my skin.

Goose bumps sweep fast as I shiver. He's not playing fair, but he never has, not even when times were easier and lightness filled our every touch, sun blushed and dizzy high.

My words feel swallowed up, my tongue overused. "Give me a reason to smile," I tell him, "and they're yours." There's a slight pause—from us both—in which I glance back up at Jasper. I find his eyes still on me, his smile no longer present, but I don't want to focus on the reasons why. Instead, I shift my attention to the pretty pink napkin on the table and keep it there.

"I could say the same thing to you," he replies, pushing my hair over my shoulder, out of his way, the table now full apart from the empty space beside me that belongs to him.

"I don't want your smiles," I say, the very core of a lie, my voice rusty copper and stubborn hinges—it's something I'll never not want.

"I love you," he murmurs, his thumb ghosting bones that feel too weak and skin that feels too hot: chills and ignitions and my three favourite words. "Is that better?"

No. He continues to touch me in too soft ways—I want to hate him. My blinks are quick and I'm trying so hard not to fall, fall, fall.

"Tell me again when you're not trying to prove a point," I say with a forced smile, trapped under the weight of his stare, "and you'll get a real one."

His lids lower to halfway, my heart beating high and fast in my throat, fingertips holding its vibration for safekeeping. He presses forward, just a little—just enough—for his lips to find mine, feather soft pressure that makes me want to weep—that is crushing in its fragility.

I want to fade, erased strokes and clouds threaded pink and grey. I'm aware of the people around us, aware of the eyes that watch and wonder; that burn in green flames.

Edward's actions are not out of the ordinary for a married couple. We're supposed to be this: kisses and whispered words that look like affection but carry the driving force of sparkling resentment.

My fingers curl around the sides of my chair, breathing shallow and shared with another, pulse a flyaway bird in a travelling circus of wires.

"One for the road," he says, his words twisted and cruel and coming straight from that dark place inside of him that is desperate to gain control.

There is a noose around my neck that is made of the expression in his gaze and the residual effect of his pain. I turn away, break the chain and pull and pull at the braid of rope that tries to leave patterns around the skin. "I wish I could hate you," I breathe out.

He straightens, hand curving around the back of my neck as he takes his place next to me, his reply driving right through my chest, leaving me exposed. "I know you do."

His touch finally leaves and I look up and around at the faces that surround me, the shape the base of a dome: I wonder if we were to shake, would the roof give way to snow, blanketing us in flakes of sorry and saddened ice.

Kate is on the other side of Edward—next to Jasper, who is opposite me—and Alice sits to my left, a silent table of five. I reach for the glass of water in front of me and swallow down against the ache: dissolve it, drown it.

"Your dress is pretty, Bella." The sound of her voice makes me feel sick inside.

I pass Edward's eyes—ignore the way they flit to mine—and focus on the girl beside him. My nails dig into the tablecloth as I tell Kate, "Thank you."

"I picked it out," Alice interjects, twirling her glass of wine from the stem. "You've always liked blue on Bella, right, Edward?"

He turns his attention to his sister, his expression stoic. "Yes," he answers. And then, "Isn't your luggage blue?" to me.

Jasper leans forward in his seat, reaching for his drink. "You're going on vacation?" he wonders.

I look up, skin prickling as Edward answers for me, his gaze steady on the boy with pale gold skin and hair. "A permanent one." He downs the entire contents of his glass and briefly sucks his lips to his teeth as he asks, "Right, Bella?"

My heart is drumming so, so hard in my chest, marching to my throat, my tongue, my lips as I press them together, fighting against their vibration.

"I don't understand," Jasper replies, watching us both carefully.

Edward pushes out a humourless laugh, releasing more breath than sound. "Stop it," I tell him, swallowing back my tears.

He refills his glass, the muscles in his jaw ticking. "I thought you wanted us to start being more honest," he responds just as Alice starts firing questions at Kate from across the table, attempting to break up the tension with inconsequentials.

"Not like this," I say thickly, biting the inside of my cheek, refusing to look at him.

He's on the attack, lashing out, gifting me his pain with open palms and cutting sounds. His chair shifts closer and he twists in his seat, elbow on the table, half covering us, creating our own little bubble: he's so close, so hatefully beautiful. "Why?" he wonders, his eyes running over my face. "We're with family... with friends." He emphasises the word friends as his hand finds my thigh, his jaw clenching again. "Jasper's your friend, isn't he, baby?"

I can do nothing but look, his pupils hard granite reminders, etching me in shadows. "Why are you doing this?" I whisper, voice stripped down and raw, like sand rubbing against sand.

I think I see a sudden change in his expression, a breakdown of a wall, but his fingers tighten, his words dark, fleecy clouds that smother. "Because I love you."

His face blurs for a moment before tears fall, and I reach up quickly, discreetly trying to brush them away. "Get away from me," I say quietly.

He swallows thickly, each pass of his eyes tiny shards of glass to my skin, slicing open old wounds. "Why, so you can leave?" he questions, his voice strained.

My chest hurts, blooming aches and ink smudges. "Yes," I tell him, wanting to hurt him back. "Yes, so I can get so, so far away from you."

He cups my chin with his thumb and forefinger, pinning me in place, green eyes shackles around my wrists, lips so close, breath my own. "You don't want to go upstairs, break me a little more, fuck one last time before you do what you do best, and run?" he questions, his touch burning my skin.

I hold back my sobs, paint him in watercolours. "Go to hell," I breathe.

His gaze shows its first sign of weakness, a wave of watery pain. "You're leaving me... I'm pretty sure I'm already in it," he confesses, secrets to the grave and the cold dead of night.

My hands shake, ring heavy on my finger, promises we didn't keep. The clear distress on his face: the anger, the hurt, it all crushes my insides to fragments of dust. I need space; I need him to not be touching me. I need to walk out of this room and breathe.

I give him no warning, no chance to hold me back as I shift out of my chair, my eyes meeting Jasper's for a fleeting second before I'm on my feet, weaving my way around the tables, amongst the lingering stares and eyes that pay me no heed.

My walk is steady despite the race of my heartbeat, freedom in the form of ascending stairs and an empty hallway, a small alcove that hosts a window seat with floral swirl patterns on its cushions.

It's then I finally let go, lean back against the wall, let it be my strength as I crumble. My breaths come shaky, my pain silent, my lips parted, sodium pink as they collect my tears.

I feel tattooed with invisible bruises. Every muscle aches, especially the one pounding out its tortured beat. My lashes meet, lids closed, caught in a daydream of bleeding hearts and pained expressions when I feel the press of a palm to my shoulder.

I jump, I shiver, words caught in my throat when I come face to face with Jasper, his concern present in the pull of his brows and frown that plays at his mouth.

Silent communication and slow blinks pass between us before he asks, "You're really leaving?"

I don't like the sounds that come from his lips, shaping words that feel like screeching metal on the back of my teeth: living, breathing indecision. My tongue won't work and I can do nothing but shrug.

His arms wrap me up against his chest, my body stiff as my cheek meets his warmth, the sensation against my skin reminding me of hot summer air. He tells me everything is going to be okay, his words meant to reassure and comfort, to deceive with blankets made of tempting fleece.

But he doesn't know, doesn't realise, could never understand.

He strokes the back of my hair, touch gentle, reminding me of different hands and moments that squeeze at my heart—a revolving door, scenes trapped within the glass.

Kiss me... I'm going to marry you someday, you know... I told you I'd catch you... You have a little ink on your cheek... You don't like me?

My favourite part of the day is waking up with you right next to me... I want the kind of forever that makes others jealous... You don't love me?

Please... Bella?

My vision blurs and tears trickle down the sides of my nose as my head tilts, desperation clutching at me with shaky palms.

Anger suddenly clouds my judgment in stormy greys and bitter yellows, the recurring nightmare back, Edward's words meant for someone else, his smiles for another, his self-doubt crushing another girl's heart.

And, no, Jasper doesn't know... but he could take it all away.

A sob builds inside my chest and pushes its way to my throat, lips pressing shut against this idea that causes the ache beneath my ribs to intensify, colouring me with fear.

I can't. I won't.

"Don't cry, Bella," Jasper says quietly, blanketing me further in his soft appeal.

His sweetness only makes it worse, my swallow like sandpaper. And how can I not, I want to scream, feeling so broken down inside, mismatched and lost pieces of a puzzle.

How can I not?

My face turns, pressing into the white cotton of his shirt. He smells like scotch, memories lit in bronze, bile rising to my throat as I remember amber kisses and declarations of but it makes you mine.

It's this that makes me take that much needed step back, flesh tingling as Jasper's palms slide down my arms, a quiet moment that carries far too much misplaced expectation.

His face is closer than I anticipated and guilt sticks to every section of my skin that he touches. But at the same time, something whispers that it's just so nice to be held, to be comforted—to not have to ask for either of these things.

It murmurs that if Edward can take comfort in small touches from another, why can't I?

Jasper's gaze lingers on my face, the look in his eyes changing from concern to something else; something I want to wash away with tears made from stupid decisions.

What am I doing?

I should move, I know I should. He's too close, suffocating my thoughts, the expression on his face familiar, stirring something inside of me that flashes in warning-red.

Tears continue to cloud my vision, but not enough that I can't see his features are different, wrong—he's not the boy I want.

His eyes are sky grey and not canopy green. His hair is longer, the wrong hint of fair. His smile doesn't lift at one side, setting my world alight.

It's not my love for Jasper that rips me open day after day.

His thumb sweeps across my skin, softly, softly, all without that spark, that all important flutter that makes me crazy, crazy, crazy.

I feel wetness ghost down my cheeks, remembrance and realization chilling me to the bone.

I have no love for this boy at all.

And yet, part of me can't help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss him, kiss someone who isn't Edward, break that bond.

Jasper is nice, lightweight cotton and kite-high smiles. There's no darkness. No crazy. No all encompassing need that makes my pulse try to push itself up and out of my skin.

This boy would never have the potential to break my heart.

His hands are on my arms, his hold gentle, my body trembling as I blink. "Bella..." he whispers.

My name suddenly feels dirty, his mouth even closer, my inhale held. I think he's going to speak again, say something else, but remaining distance diminishes and his lips are on mine, the prospect of words dissipating with the press of his mouth.

Surprise races through me at the speed of light, his kiss soft and slow—foreign—like wilted passion and the death of the sun.

I don't move, don't kiss him back, eyes open and lashes stock-still.

His breath washes over my mouth as he pulls back just enough to push forward again, a little harder this time, his palm now cupping the side of my neck: I'm ice, his thumb brushing the line of my jaw as he tries to get me to melt.

I think about letting my lashes fall shut, close myself off from everything other than the feel of his kiss, the way his fingers curl around the edge of my waist, the moan I hear and feel vibrate against my lips—question if this is what it felt like for Edward to kiss the girls that came before me.

Or, unbeknownst to me, the one that also maybe came after.

It's here I feel the pressure of my ring on my left hand as I grip the front of Jasper's jacket, my response taken for something else, something wrong as he brushes his tongue to mine, trying to get closer.

Self-disgust coats my thoughts and taints my blood, that sob releasing now as I rip my mouth away far too late.

My eyes sting and my skin crawls, pinpricks of guilt that I want to scrub away until I bleed; until the poison seeps out and I feel like I'll be able to breathe again without wanting to stop.

"I'm sorry, I can't," I choke out, hating the sound of my voice—hating the red of his mouth, his lips slightly swollen because of mine.

This feeling is more than guilt, it's a cloying thickness that spreads through my insides and disbands like the birth of a new tree, branches reaching sky high towards the sun, in danger of catching fire.

He runs his hands through his hair, his swallow thick. "I shouldn't have..." he says, trailing off. But he doesn't apologise, and I don't expect him to.

I meet his gaze, that look still present in his eyes as tears continue to coat my cheeks—I need to kill it, smother it with conviction. "I'm in love with Edward," I say slowly, surely. "I'll always be in love with Edward."

He looks at me for a long moment: rise and fall, rise and all. "Even if he no longer wants you?" he questions.

I take a step to the side, feeling my face crumple. "Yes," I assure him. "Even then."

He turns his focus to the hallway, brows furrowing, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. "I didn't say that to hurt you," he says lowly, the first shown sign of guilt—mine bubbles under the surface, destroying everything in its path, a fiery orange heat that races through my veins like lava.

"I know," I tell him, hollowed out and filled with an empty kind of sadness that claws at me from the inside.

I watch the way his chest expands with his breath, fading away and caving in. "If you were mine, I wouldn't treat you the way he does."

That ache spreads, blooms with a flourish of freshly painted words as I attempt to wash away the dampness on my cheeks with palms that feel foreign against my skin.

"It's not that simple," I tell him, feeling that sickness resurface. "I'm hurting him."

He shakes his head, maybe the first time I've seen him angry. "That's no excuse," he says, resting his hands on my shoulders—it makes my skin itch and I want him off, off, off. His gaze drifts between my eyes, searching and searching, and then, "You could come with me, back to California."

Shock registers, disbelief ignited, a flurry of sparks through the bloodstream. "You don't even know me," I insist.

"I know enough," he answers, silvery-blue persuaders watching me closely.

Hopeful to my denial and, "You don't," I counter softly.

"And you think you know Edward?" he presses, setting my insecurities alight. "How well can we ever really know the people in our lives, Bella?"

Shaky truths and a desperation to be right, to want to, force words from my lips. "I've been in love with him for ten years. You learn things. They don't just disappear," I say, feeling the heartbreak in each and every second that passes where he says nothing in return.

He licks his lips. "I'm leaving in three days. Think about it."

I shake my head sadly. "There's nothing to think about."

"I care about you," he professes, bringing a new round of tears to my eyes.

He looks at me in ways I used to adore, and maybe still do, but not from him. Never from him.

My eyes are sore: shuddering breaths and stone grips. "I can't be what you want me to be." I wrap my hands around his wrists and pull him away, leaving his arms by his sides. "I can't do this," I choke out, ashamed and regretful, unable to carry any more of this guilt. "I'm sorry."

My thoughts are a cloud, fuzzy and wool-like, obscuring rationality. I feel numb; exhausted limbs and a secondhand heart. He expresses hurt and I drown in sounds that crash inside my chest. "I'm sorry," I say again before walking away, removing myself from a situation that adheres to me like burnt sugar.

I want to erase the last five minutes from my mistakes; erase the feel of his mouth, his tongue, his disappointment.

Tears streak down my cheeks, a never ending river of hopes dashed and dirty secrets. I feel so lost, sick to my stomach and in shoes too high. I feel like a child, unsure of the world and the bright colours that decorate it—I feel like my heart careens itself through my ribs and tries to push its way through my flesh at the sight of Edward walking towards me from the opposite end of the hallway.

He looks surprised to see me, his eyes darting back and behind, suit jacket lost and eyes suspicious. I don't turn to see what he sees; don't turn to see if Jasper has followed me, not ready for the events that are sure to ensue.

We've both come to a standstill, chess pieces on a board, King to his Queen, evaluating our next moves.

My initial reaction is to retreat, retreat, retreat, but I have nowhere to go and everything to lose. Edward seems to sense this, step taken to the thump of my fear. His gaze is assessing, then frozen as he abruptly stops moving again. And this time... this time I know. I know who he sees behind me and what he's thinking; know that I'm a coward and can't face this.

His hands clench into fists and I start moving again, reaching for the nearest door, handle gripped and swinging shut. But I'm not quick enough to click the lock into place, pressure more than I can fight, defeat palpable in the muffled sounds that leave my mouth as I press my lips to my shoulder, wanting so much to rewind clocks and disappear with a snap of heels.

I turn to the sink and turn on the faucet, watching the water circle the drain as I uselessly attempt to wash my mouth clean of foreign kisses, door slammed and locked, reverberating inside my chest.

I don't want to look, don't want to speak. But choice is a gift I don't deserve. "What were you doing with him?" he asks, his voice loud—a demand.

I push the hair from my face and meet his eyes

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 651