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Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns Twilight and all its characters.

Bella

The mind is a jigsaw, always connecting one thing with another, sewing together memories with thread made for two.

It's how I associate the colours of spring with Edward's eyes, and how the sound of rain always reminds me of our history: washed out but still glistening with every tear shed.

I stare out at something blue, reminded of a day filled with sun freckles and underwater kisses, of you taste like salt, and smiling pleas of stop, people can see.

My tortured heart is led by the hand, still in love with that place, caught up in brushing lips of I don't care, and warnings of if you run, I'm only going to chase you.

I did run that day, and he did chase, but if I were to look behind me now, to the grains of sand my fingers itch to touch, desperate to search for his presence, I'd find nothing but passing time and footsteps that remain unfollowed.

My head gives way to ghosts, to accelerated beats and shivers up my spine, to war, waging and waging, a never ending battle between remembering and forgetting.

I close my eyes and try to stop thinking, dig out the weeds and ignore the wilt of petals. But there are roots around my ribcage, tethering me to the past, binding memories that can't be pulled: my choice sinks, anchored to the ocean floor—a side defeated.

Seattle remains unchanged while my heart beats a little different—too fast, too slow—brake wires cut as it races towards breaking.

This city was our life for a while, home to an apartment with tangled sheets and a shared bed; to hands clutching hair and breathless words that flushed cheeks and turned the whole world pink.

I like the noises here, these busy streets and rumbling engines; the sea of distant faces and yellow taxi cabs that trail the pavement.

I like the smell of saltwater and car fumes, the buildings that reach towards the clouds; the glass that reflects nothing but white; the ocean that shimmers in tones of royal blue.

It feels like home, especially with Edward here; two hearts secured within city limits.

There is a wedding here today, birthplace to the bride, sunshine-smile mementos and a riot of clashing wings; butterflies trapped within a fluttering pulse.

My dress will be peach, and not white, but I don't think my heart has received the message.

Its beats are made of lightning, bolts of nervous energy that streak through my veins, remembering vows born from my own lips and assurances that splash through puddles of red.

It knows Edward, and me—green eyes and dancing beneath a grey cloud—accelerates over a sparkling jewel and a soft kiss.

It holds our own day within its ruby trinket, breathing life into its lungs as I'm transported somewhere different, vision borrowed with the tickle of palms and words bathed in a whisper.

And for a moment, nothing hurts, wrapped inside the safety of this memory.

I don't want to leave.

I could close my eyes and pretend this new and fractured version of myself is a trick; a dazzle of cards and king of spades, shoveling earth into an empty mouth and trapping thoughts beneath a head of stone.



I could breathe and not choke, and convince myself these tiny little fragments that rattle inside a graveyard of bones are intentional; a mosaic of dreams kept alive and not buried beneath a wilting flower.

But belief is found in touch, in sight—in the press of palms and pebble of skin—in the blink of lashes and kaleidoscope of colour. And all I can see is liquid blue and towering grey.

No spring, no scotch, no hand-held pink.

No Edward.

He's beside his brother, bestowing words of encouragement; ensuring him with speeches that drip like poison from his tongue.

I wonder if he's hurting right now; if his throat is tight, his spiel stuck, words a choking punishment.

I wonder if he's thinking of me like I am him... If we're both standing inside the same memory... If he sees my face and senses the dictation he has over my heart.

I wonder if he likes my expression: the panic set within wide eyes and a heart laid bare.

Or am I forgotten. Is he staring at someone else, seeing the potential in another pair of brown eyes; ring removed and jilted by forever.

Will his fingers have a conversation with someone else's skin; atlas hands that map out endless possibilities despite his previous assurances of she's nothing and I love you.

He carries on running: scared, spiteful—in pain.

And I carry on letting him: fear-lit, stupid—frozen.

I blink back my tears and try not to sink as I focus on the dispersion of clouds and a sunshine blessing; as I try to hold on to hope and the pitter-patter beat that dances at my wrists.

In a matter of hours, ties will be formed; promises sealed with a kiss of lips where mine may tremble, cord cut and ends frayed. Irreparable.

I will wear the face with the smile, and try to ignore the tightrope of feeling that threatens to push me off balance; try to avoid the eyes I know will be watching... the pair that decides just how far I'll fall.

I wonder if his pain is as consuming as mine.

I wonder if he's still talking and talking; I wonder if Emmett believes him.

I wonder if he believes himself.

He's a master at pretense, worry lines hidden behind a mask of green-eyed indifference, his silence a loaded weapon.

Until now.

Now there are moving lips and open fire, tactics changed and ammunition switched.

I stopped talking; stopped calling out for someone who forgot to answer. But something has changed, strings plucked and notes a travelling vibration. He's shouting back. Or maybe he has for a while. Maybe his words have been tucked behind my ears this entire time.

He makes me feel alone.

He makes me feel lost.

He makes me feel like my heart is brand new.

I feel it all the time now, feel its each and every break, awareness a cruel form of crimson bleeds and ruptured stained glass.

It screams of his kisses, his raw touch, walls engraved with his intended words, its beats a rhythmic reminder of questions still unanswered and thoughts still unsaid.

I know that lives can change, moods and feelings flipped with a switch, but I'm not ready for this glow to leave. Because where there is suffering, there is also comfort, and when present, those moments eclipse the darkness and shine so bright.

I can't accept that we're over... I don't want to accept it. I want this warmth to stay where I can still feel its residency inside my chest; where I can taste its spice and watch its growth through the eyes of its maker.

I don't want to share its heat, or pass the flame to someone else... I don't want another girl to experience the intensity of its burn or worry over its flicker.

My palms are needy, my heart a cage—I want to keep it mine, keep it always.

He makes me feel like lullabies and goodnight.

He makes me feel safe; my never-leave-me blue sky and always-stay sun.

He makes me feel.

And how do you say goodbye to that person... How do you ignore the pleading murmurs carried within a crimson maze; the sound of cracking bones and music that splinters?

How do you ignore love?

I send my questions to the wind, thoughts expelled like shooting stars as I wait for them to spark: explosions of green and bronze and heart-blood red.

I stare out at blue, at a gold rising, and wait for answers that I know won't come.

Not until he's close enough to touch.

Not until he's holding my heart in the palm of his hand, dictating the placement of each and every crack.

XXX

I often wonder if the people around us ever truly take notice of our expressions.

Their eyes may pass over our features, occasionally lingering like the stubborn clouds marring a perfect day, but do they ever really see?

Because right now it feels like I'm screaming inside, and no one can hear me, no one is watching.

Their attention is focused solely on the bride, exactly where it should be; on beauty personified and a glow that can only be captured on a day like today.

Rosalie Hale is sunray perfect. She radiates happiness, her cheeks flushed with nervous excitement, blue eyes gleaming like ocean crystals.

Her smile is soft, a keeper of secrets, her breaths deep, searching for calm: she is a coma of dreams that bring forth my own nightmares.

I feel awkward and out of place, unnecessarily sketched inside the corner of a drawing as I stand inside this small circle of women who speak in hushed tones and excited whispers.

Their smiles threaten to disarm the mask of control I cling to with each staccato beat of my heart, its thread thinning with each new look bestowed to a girl that is breaking under the weight of too many painful reminders, chest tight and breaths a forgotten prospect as I think about the green-eyed boy that made my own dreams a possibility.

The atmosphere in this room taints my blood and gifts my tongue a veil; wedding jitters that tremble through bone and nerves that affect speech.

Expectancy is a cloying layer in a too bright space, my lungs made of glass, my heart a vibration of repetition.

I'm scared that if I open my mouth, my screams will no longer be silent.

"What time is it?" Rose asks softly, glancing at her mother whose adoration is a voice all without words, its tenor loud, its hue silvery white.

It shines, and almost hurts to look at, this love, the kind of special that rivals the lone star in an otherwise empty sky.

It makes me wish my own mother were here so much I almost think I'll stop breathing.

This soft-centered, jagged-edged reminder resurfaces forgotten guilt that pierces flesh and squeezes lungs; a tangled noose and form of suffocation without the addition of palms.

I took this moment away from myself the day I agreed to marry Edward, constellations experienced a different way as we lay side by side on grass that still held rain.

We were young. We were carefree. We were happy.

We told no one; fingers to lips and a sparkle hidden beneath drooping lashes. The secret became a rising bubble that never quite reached the surface; voice boxes zipped closed and sounds mislaid with a pull of metal teeth.

I don't regret it, my yes, yes, yes and truest words of I do, but that pinch of guilt has never quite gone away, an otherwise invisible tattoo that sometimes catches the light and glows ember red like a burn: like today, like now.

It rouses like morning—like a ghost—waking up sleepy aches and tired limbs; a sudden burst of too much feeling where numb used to reside on floors softened with dust.

I breathe slowly and stare at the stars, at a mother telling her daughter, "There are still twenty minutes yet, sweetheart. Take deep breaths."

She's encouragement and soothing spiels, straightening already perfect curls for a third time with light touches.

And I'm stupid, ashamed, the storm cloud that pledges rain in a sun-spun sky. But I think I'm drowning, heartache swallowed down, down, down, securing me to an agreement I want to take back with spinning hands and a constant tick of I'm sorry, I can't.

This is all too real, this quiet hum that cloaks my skin as my fingers curl and hands shake; as a faint smile spreads across an already happy face.

"I'm not nervous." Rosalie's reply is filled with so much assurance I can taste nothing but envy at the back of my throat.

My own confidence is a blur of unspeakable love and teardrop mementos as I press my lips together and try to ignore the resulting ache that blooms to life in an already flowering chest.

It is one breath at a time, one blink: anger, betrayal, calm and fear.

It's found as I slowly slip into dreams, folded in that place between wake and sleep, heavy limbed and weightless with dreams.

It's also knowing that at some point, Edward wanted to keep me.

He gave me a ring and promised me forever, sold his love with words that hit arrow-straight to a red middle; to the crux of my feelings for the boy with the crooked grin and open arms that have since become closed.

He stops, I start.

He loves me, he loves me not.

The thought is impulsive, an evolving weed that reaches for the sun, its presence as unbearable as a cage of thorns: tissue scarred and palm to palm warfare.

And yet, I'm unable to think about anything else. Unable to stop.

I take a deep breath, a pushing weight against ribs that make my eyes want to close, doubt swept aside with a brief flicker of lashes as cobwebs clear.

No.

I don't need to pluck petals to discern Edward's feelings for me. Not anymore. His love overwhelms; fevered skin and the retreat of shadows, pledges of you're my girl and groans of I told you everyday.

It turns his sounds to acid and his touch to flames, desperation eating away at us both until breaths grow ragged and pain becomes the tear-streaked cheeks of compromise.

His passion is alive, a flurry of vines that tether two aching hearts as one; his beat my echo and thorny words my careless palm.

But just like the fear that runs through my veins, coating red blood cells black, it's present in his, too, shrouding rationality in weeds—in regret—smothering the beauty beneath: maker to a falling winter in spring as blossom melts from above.

I know he's here, in this building, his presence a rush to the heart—his indecision a wound that weeps scarlet tears.

He's so close, heartstrings tugging for their other half, ends fraying in their hurry to form knots and keep him near.

I both need him and want him to stay away; a stitch of lips and a fading moon; the grapple of palms and a steely gaze.

I want his voice but not his words, his warmth but not his touch. I want to go back to the start and tell him to hold me, no matter what, even when I scream for him not to, because silence is just another lie and being here alone hurts.

This room is filled with daylight and warmth not just from the sun, filling my veins with liquid gold that my body tries to reject in its cold distrust of what this day may bring.

Lashes flit and Esme catches my gaze, giving me a smile that is laden with meaning. But she doesn't attempt to approach me. Not yet. I know she will though. She's been staring too much, her attention too obvious, curiosity tattooed within her stare.

Her dress is expensive lilac, her hair silky caramel; she's a sugarcoated shell with a hidden center, her eyes giving away nothing other than the fact she's noticed me.

She must know by now, the troubles that don't seem to break, stretching like elastic between Edward and I.

I want to ask her if she's happy her son may no longer want me; ask her if someone has ever dimmed through her tears and screamed through the bars of her chest until her voice breaks from matching that very sound.

Her attention flitters, and I am once again forgotten, cradling questions with a quivering desperation; fear licked stamps pressed to envelopes devoid of an address.

I take a deep breath as voices die off, the room becoming quiet of whispers—for just a second, there is no sound, no excitement, no pain: there is simply this delicate bubble that shimmers and feels like it's about to burst.

I look around the room, the air speckled with dust. I want to float and soar and not care. I want these particles to take me with them.

The weight of seconds pass, shifting like the kind of hands that don't have fingers and the push of tide that refuses my escape.

I feel another loitering glance, another pair of eyes leaving their passage of time, their burn scarring my face.

I know who that fire belongs to, who has ignited that match, and don't want to look. But this effort to stay neutral is using up too much energy, its wavering flame of curiosity a distraction where I already have too many. So this time, I turn, and look: brown on brown and lashes made of the finest razors as her gaze cuts into my flesh.

Kate's expression is a grazing palm, nails bared as she carries on staring, her outward perception of soft and roses no match for the barbed wire that slices through too small tubes with her presence.

Our dresses may match, our blinks synchronised—a reflection that moves as I do—but our insides differ.

My walls are closing in while hers are stretching out wide, space big enough for two, enclosure covered in wallpaper I picked out, that I still want; that has begun to peel in my once happy home.

She is the bitter pill I can't swallow—the girl I tell myself I hate, but know I fully can't. Because how can I hate the person who has brought smiles to a mouth that, when pressed to mine, is both my poison and waking kiss; who, even if just for a moment, eases fears within a lost boy and offers him a place to go where nightmares can't follow?

Truth hovers just out of reach, but there's a reason Edward likes her company, her soft and roses not lost on him, either.

I watch as she tucks her hair behind her ears, my own hands stagnant down by my sides, my thoughts torn between a confused and sickening thank you and a powerful and agonised need to hate.

And I think that's what I hate, the fact that I can't hate her with everything I have; that I can't place the blame at her feet and walk away in a different pair of shoes.

However hard I try, I can't disconnect the good she has gifted another from the pain she has caused me; can't halt the tight curl of my palms whenever she speaks my name, or the sharp twist of breath that becomes trapped inside my chest when she touches what is mine.

She reacts and smiles, her expression kind, a light sketch that leaves behind traces of lead in my system.

My mask is hanging by a thread: too much, too much, too much.

I'm jealous, and scared, her attention making me want to get out of my own skin.

I don't smile back.

I don't live for her to like me; for these women to hold my hands and tell me how pretty I look with an unblemished form of admiration.

I'm here for the boy she's trying to take away from me while I remain muted, frozen, locked away behind layers of ice I'm desperate to break free from.

I want my heart to be red and not blue; I want to watch my fear melt away with brave lips and honest words... I don't want to be scared of the future anymore.

So my mouth doesn't move, and my heart beats too fast as I look away from matching eyes while a solitary smile begins to fade.

But perhaps I've been too hasty, because the scene I'm met with now is so much worse, splitting my chest wide open for all the colours of my envy to spill out into a room bathed in gold.

There are two mothers, one of blood, another assigned by pride as I stand opposite a girl who seals my silence and transitions my thoughts to suspicious misery.

Mrs. Hale stands to the side, a spectator who smiles instead of frowns; who is not hurting or feeling so very small.

She is my very opposite right now, cloaked in precious metals, watching as her daughter is gifted similar decorations—as she is trusted with a memory that I know is going to sparkle.

We all have our hiding places, somewhere we go to lose ourselves—I want to crawl into mine and erase this scene from my vision with a close of lids and pull of breath; tug and inhale until there is nothing left but a distant, indistinguishable flicker.

Esme has a box in her hands, her hold gentle, sentimentality turning her touch delicate. Her fingers lift and open treasure chests that are palm small as I bear witness to the familiar ache that takes up residence inside my chest; the one that pinches beneath bone after viewing a moment shared and love gained—the one that sparks with the hiss of realisation and sinks like ships with tokens I did not receive, all through fault of my own.

A necklace is cushioned against satin the shade of sapphires, its chain silver, its gem small and clear.

It is simple beauty for someone who already has enough.

My vision blurs, inhale shaky as I breathe through my nose and press my lips shut tight against this feeling that tears through me like a tornado of hurt, destroying everything in its path.

There are soft smiles and more adoration; watery gazes and kleenex pressed to palms.

Pale pink nails touch, hesitant yet wanting, reverent gazes and bright eyes while my mask continues to crack; whilst my hands suddenly feel so, so lonely.

They tremble along with my lips... and maybe I do want them to be held after all.

Rosalie's cheeks bloom, smile growing as whispered words are exchanged and cheeks are kissed, their hugs and affection my frozen beat and shivered bones.

I wonder if she's being told she's pretty... I wonder why I continue to lie to myself, assuring my shattered heart that it does not need that sweetness.

This feeling has never truly gone away, the one that wants Esme's approval. It falls and whispers like autumn, adapting with the scene, a sickness that isn't really a sickness at all.

It's simple; it's sadness. It still hurts.

My eyes continue to sting, and I want to cry, but I can't, not here, in a place where everything has to be locked up tight; where emotions are encased behind walls built with my very own hands.

"This was my mother's," Esme says lightly, her voice slipping through brick; cotton filled clouds and summer-sky blue as she lifts the necklace from the box, securing the clasp beneath golden hair with gentle hands. "And now your something borrowed."

Rosalie's slow exhale and choked up thank you fills me with shame, her laughter honest as she blinks up at the ceiling, ensuring her makeup stays perfect and her tears don't run.

It's not the first time this afternoon that I have to remind myself today is not about me, but about her, and Em: confetti celebrations that rain from above without the grey clouds.

I force myself to look away, my focus dropping to the cream carpet beneath my feet as I concentrate on keeping my breathing steady and my eyes dry.

I used to be so desperate for Edward's mother to like me; for her to show me an ounce of affection that wasn't born from negativity. But that need gradually started to burn out with the flicker of another flame, the word forever that would part from alternate lips far more important to me in the end.

I was that young girl caught up in old love that felt brand new with the addition of a ring, eternally desperate to be good enough for someone who I always viewed as my better half.

He would calm me down when I became upset, assure me with promises that were too big to swear—even for him. But I would believe him, bound by the invisible chain that connected our dreams.

He would hold me in the dark and stroke my cheek at sunrise, making me feel safe, special, and above all, needed.

But not anymore.

"Bella?"

Rosalie's voice filters through my thoughts, distancing me from the past and back into the present with a light squeeze to my hand.

Her contact shocks, her smile hesitant but true as I meet her eyes and take a deep breath. "Sorry, I was just thinking," I tell her quietly, finding my own smile.

She nods, but doesn't ask me to elaborate, for which I'm grateful. But then we both know she doesn't need to; my silence speaks for itself and she isn't stupid.

I pull my hand away, shifting the focus onto her as I ask, "How are you feeling?"

It's a benign question prompted by discomfort, but her smile is still there, only more natural this time, lips curving upwards with happiness that can't be contained.

"I think I'm a little nervous now, actually," she admits, smoothing her hands over her dress as her brows begin to furrow, cheeks flushed with the speed of her pulse and race of her heartbeat.

This is a side of her I haven't seen before, her easy confidence put on hold with the exchange of upcoming vows.

We've been in this room for hours, making our lips pinker and our eyes stand out; our hair shiny and nails perfect—she's been snowdrop serene the whole time.

But now her nerves have finally caught up, fraying her patience and testing her breaths as her hands refuse to stay still.

"It's the waiting," she says, glancing at the clock once more. "I just want to be out there."

She slides her palms over the material of her dress again, and remembering the anticipation and nerves I felt waiting outside a room alone, wishing I had someone there to distract me from my thoughts, I take her hand this time, halting her movements.

She gives me a long look, lashes stock-still in her surprise before accepting whatever this is and exhaling slowly.

Her eyes close, fingers tightening around mine as she takes a moment to calm. We aren't friends, and I'm not sure if I fully trust her, but I can press pause on her building panic, and be who I'm supposed to be for her today, even if neither of us are entirely comfortable.

"The waiting is always the worst part," I agree, drawing her gaze back to my face with my assent.

Its meaning holds more significance to me than gifted comfort and misplaced understanding. It tears open old wounds that haven't had enough time to heal; that rest awhile in a heart with too many cracks.

It's a reminder of the state of my marriage; tongues locked and truths of all sizes left unsaid.

Rose looks and looks, her assessment seemingly final as she tells me, "You look really pretty today, Bella."

Her features are gentle, her words cushioned with sincerity as she gives me something neither of us could have anticipated.

My throat threatens to close, pulse soaring with sweetness from an unlikely source. "It's a pretty dress," I agree, untangling our hands with a soft shake of my head.

"It's more than the dress," she says, but my focus has already shifted, paused on the girl who wears its exact match.

Kate is deep in conversation with the other two women in the room, my emotions a tangle of ivy that wrap around my heart; a spiral of envy that flourishes with the surge of my own insecurities.

Unable to carry on looking, I revert my focus back to a white dress and thoughtful expression, my assurance true as I clear my throat and say, "Trust me when I say all eyes are going to be on you, Rose. You look beautiful."

Her stare lingers, and I begin to feel self-conscious, my dress now smoothed with restless palms and unease that eats away at me from the outside, in.

"Maybe," she answers after a few seconds, her eyes carving trenches along my cheeks, digging and digging as she shapes routes and learns features. "But I know one pair that won't be."

My hands stop moving, boundaries formed as apprehension creeps into my system, shadows haunting my inner fall of intricate red with practised ease.

I wonder how much she knows... I wonder if Edward has confided in a new found sister; secrets shared with a stranger in both blood and name, his words confetti, his sounds made of air.

My pulse blusters at my heart to calm: she doesn't know, she's just being kind, it murmurs. But its sounds are made of my own thoughts—fears and hopes and desires—my lips known to lie, honesty not always truth.

My reasoning is shaken, hourglass twisted, notions shifting with the descent of sand.

She shakes her head at my silence. "He loves you," she decides.

She says this so easily, and with so much conviction, blue eyes like winter but not as cold.

I shovel snow and clear a pathway over my tongue as I tell her, "Yes." I say this slowly, quietly, scared of my own confessions as I find that thread of courage that leads me over floorboards that creak. "But sometimes love isn't enough; sometimes it's the thing that drives us apart."

"It doesn't have to," she responds immediately, her voice insistent, the love she carries inside her own heart soaring high and tainting all she hears.

"But there's nothing I can do to combat that." I pause, not sure why I'm choosing to say this to her. "Falling out of love is not something I can choose," I add. "It either happens or it doesn't. In my case, it hasn't, so I'm stuck with this tangible feeling that is out of my reach. And I want it, I don't want it to go away... more than anything I don't want it to go away."

She breathes out slowly as my words drop away, trickling down the back of my throat like water against glass.

"Bella, it won't if..." She starts, but doesn't get to finish.

We're interrupted, her lips stitched shut with the appearance of another, their presence the deadweight inside my chest and sticky-honey that courses through my veins.

Esme's smile is warm, her tone light when she asks to speak to me alone for a moment.

I immediately feel on edge, the sensation similar to waking up alone in the middle of the night with this awareness that doesn't have a name.

I can feel it though, its vibration a driving rhythm that carries its own beat, forcing my pulse to go faster and faster until there is nothing left but the sound of my racing heart.

It becomes all I can focus on, erasing logic with rapid blinks and a fistful of chalk as I convince myself of things that may not be true.

"Of course," Rosalie says softly, gifting me a fleeting look before heading in the direction of her friend.

Silence immediately settles over us like the cover of night, words reduced to stars that refuse to be parted with until the sun rises, stubborn silver chased away with the advance of gold.

There are no exchanged glances or words to ease the quiet as another box is opened and set aside.

There are, however, hands in my hair, comforting in a way that reminds me that they're not the ones I want.

"He doesn't talk to me anymore," she says suddenly, sadness enveloping her tone as she delivers the first part of her speech.

I look up, watching the scene through reflections, her fingers gentle like before as a hair-comb is slid amongst soft waves that are already pinned half up, half down.

My throat closes with her gift, her admission the lyrics of a song I can't get out of my head, repeat hit over and over.

Her words are not what I expected, surprise a scratching spindle that fills the background with noise, my pulse receding before rushing forward as I think back to endless phone calls that began with a mother's voice and diminished with a son's good night.

I was sure Edward discussed our problems with his parents, his absence explained away with the need to talk to someone who wasn't me.

"I'm sorry," I say thickly, maybe because, for just a moment, she looks about as lost as I feel.

Her hands leave my hair, her attention suddenly full as her eyes meet mine in the full-length mirror.

My skin prickles, my unease searching for safety it won't find beneath those dusted lids.

"I know you love him," she murmurs, her expression soft and smile sad, its appearance hinting to the tone of her next words. "But you also make him hurt. So much."

I feel everything inside of me crumble; soot and ash and flames that leave behind charcoal expressions.

My lungs squeeze, searching for breaths that don't remain, time a punishing existence and voice a bed of nails as my reply crawls up my throat.

"I know," I say weakly, powerless beneath this adhesive guilt.

"I can't help him," she breathes out while squeezing my hand. Her palm lingers, fingers tightening, offering me strength where I do not want it. "But maybe you can."

My eyes close; tears swallowed instead of released. "What do you mean?" I murmur, even though I think I know. My free palm forms a fist, half-crescents branded along its seams.

She says nothing for a moment, her other hand moving to frame my forearm, attempting soothing circles that evoke the opposite of their intention.

"You're smart and beautiful, and have a good heart," she responds, her voice gossamer light. "Which is why I think it's maybe best for you both if you end this now... before it gets any worse."

I bite the inside of my cheek, vision blurred with the weight of watered sadness. "Better for whom?" I whisper, holding back the sounds I can feel building inside my chest, climbing a trellis of stitches and a ladder of thorns.

Her steady features falter for a second, pity prominent in the pained and sympathetic expression she wears... the one I don't want anywhere near me.

"I know we've never been close, you and I," she says while continuing with her arm strokes and wary beginnings, "and I think there's mutual fault there."

I absorb her meaning, but say nothing, my eyes cutting across the room to rest on the colours of spring that linger beyond glass.

"There is nothing more important in this world to me than my children," she says, the lightness in her words vanishing with an unbreakable bond of love. "Their happiness is paramount... If you ever become a mother, Bella, you'll realise just how hard it is to stand by and watch when one of them is hurting."

I shake my head. "He's not a child anymore," I remind her, pulled back to our reflection with her statement, my anger blurred with a sudden flare of heat, its validation torn with her interference.

She gives me a steady look, lashes dark and unblinking. "No, but he'll always be my child, regardless of his age."

I show my dislike of her response, arm shifting from her hold, hands lonely once more as I attempt to detach myself from this woman that wants to tear my heart right down its middle.

Seconds pass and my voice escapes with the shackles of fear wrapped tightly around its ankles. "Have you spoken to Edward about any of this?" I ask.

Her eyes leave mine, curiosity blooming as I turn to face her with a twist of feet, apprehension the question mark in my spine as I waver with the lingering taste of dread still present on my tongue, knowing the influence his parents have over his decisions.

Esme reaches forward before I can step away, her fingers tucking loose strands of hair back into place as she avoids meeting my eyes. "You're both still so young," she answers. "You have time to start again... start over," she says encouragingly.

Her expression is still sincere, still soft—she's saying all the right things. But my heart is disagreeable, her words toxic, responsible for an ache that has all the potential to flourish with a repeat recurrence.

"It's not that easy," I tell her, taking that much needed step back, feeling trapped inside this conversation where I have to watch, and listen—stuck like the bird inside my pulse that cries for its escape. "I know he can be cruel, and that my words can be careless, but I don't love him any less."

Her gaze returns to mine, her eyes not unkind, her smile still sad. "I know, sweetheart. But sometimes the things we think will harm us are actually the ones to heal."

I blink against my blurred vision and take a deep breath, reminding myself I can't crumble here.

"Esme?" Kate calls, hesitating a few paces away with my bouquet in her hands. "It's time to go take your seat," she says softly, glancing between the two of us before taking those last couple of steps forward to pass me green-stemmed, floral white.

I try to ignore her, focusing on Esme as she takes my free hand and kisses my cheek, telling me I look pretty, these actions now meaningless with the overwhelming ache her next words bring. "I just want you both to be happy, that's all."

She gives my fingers one last squeeze before following after another mother, failing to see that the reason my hands are now cupping a bouquet of flowers, empty of the hold they crave, is due to the very options she's suggesting.

If I lose Edward, shadows will fill an empty heart and smiles will drain from my lips along with the colour in the sky, leaving no opportunity for a rainbow at the end of a storm.

"Is everything okay?" Kate asks me, drawing me back to the present with her unwanted concern.

I force a smile onto my face, more for my benefit than hers, my soul splintering as the weight of this moment suspends inside my chest with a tick.

She's about to share a moment with my husband while I pretend my heart is not breaking; sunsets blurred to streaks of orange that gradually bleed to red.

I will wait, but not watch; become ignorant of the smile I know she'll wear and the one I hope Edward doesn't.

"It's fine," I say, my favourite lie and disguised affirmation, her acceptance not as quick as others', her gaze lingering where I wish it would disperse.

"Okay," she finally answers, her reply hesitant but still there, breath released as I nod and step and pause beside a bride who switches between various states of calm.

"You ready?" I ask, even though I already know her answer, selfishness coasting in little red and white cells, her assurance needed to temper my own.

She licks her lips and fills her lungs, words released on an exhale. "As I'll ever be," she breathes.

The door opens and our feet move, my heart thrust from shadows as dusk grows nearer, sunrise still undecided.

I hear voices, and though I know what's coming, my pulse still races and my chest still hurts, my emotions a tidal wave that sweep and consume as the groomsmen come into sight.

This is different to being nineteen, yet the same, and I wish it was just us again, ready to start instead of end; ready to love and keep promises that have slipped through cracks and faltered at our lips.

I try not to look, but it's impossible, soul tethered and heart pulling, lashes lifted with strings born from his own desire to capture eyes that he's not quick enough to hold.

It's subtle, and not enough, but I can't stop and stare, not right now. He's too close, my downfall and steady hand; my shallow breaths and ungranted tears.

A boy with blue eyes and a shy smile lines up beside me, my cheeks warm for reasons that differ from his. He takes my hand and gives me his name, his reason for being here,Ben, Em's roommate from college, his palm smaller than what I'm used to and slightly rough.

He curves my arm around his when I seem to waver, spine tingling as I hear a voice I know all too well flicker to life behind me, my lips parting along with a burn that chills: the reason for each and every bump that rises to my skin's surface.

The words are not meant for me, and I try to discard them, but they linger, a knife's blade that slips too easily through a remembered wound, twisting cruelly for recognition."You look lovely."

I hear a smile I don't need to see—that I've witnessed enough of—a curve I want to watch turn into an upside down moon and fall.

It sheds a too fast beat to gliding ribbons, pulse off course and heart left to break as darkness attempts to take precedence and shift these shapes from dusk back into shadow.

I try to shut everything out, allow that chill to freeze sounds to shards of ice too big to shatter; to a weight too big to carry so I can leave it behind.

But my skin remembers, my hurt prominent, dappled with the pain his compliment to that brown-eyed girl has caused.

I can sense him behind me, his nearness the noose around my heart and wanting speed of my pulse, ashes left in the wake of flames as I'm led forward by the arm of another boy.

There is music that sounds pretty but can't be admired, my smile in place as I glance hesitantly from face to face, recognition flittering with the flurry of different features.

There are flower decorations and grin after grin, my eyes lingering on Alice's steady blue gaze until silver catches my attention as finally, I come to the end of the aisle and part to the left.

Jasper sits at the front of the room, his focus all for me as I stand and wait along with everyone else in attendance. I can feel his storm, and I try not to look back. But in need of reprieve, I give up and give in, allowing his presence to distract me from the sight I can't bear to watch.

Its advancement is innocent, but still provoking, charged with too much potential as I keep myself locked inside this uncomfortable content that halts the natural progression my gaze wants to take.

Edward, always Edward.

My lips threaten to tremble, throat sore from too many tears restrained, pain once again locked beneath the surface. But even then I don't feel better, or safe, numb lost between my aching heart and closed mouth.

There is a sudden shift, a brush of warmth as Kate pauses beside me, my exhale slow, slow, slow while bearings try to find their rightful place; while I try to ignore the new set of eyes I can feel piercing my skin.

Then the music changes and for a second, nothing else matters but the most beautiful bride and her happiest soon-to-be husband, my smile genuine in response to Emmett's clear and blinding adoration as he watches his other half walk towards him.

I instantly remember what that feels like, the memory shooting to life like stars across the night sky. And too weak this time, too weak because I know he is still watching, and my heart is still wanting, I let my eyes drift across an ocean of others' until I find his.

And then I'm too empty, too full, unencumbered of my shield in front of this face I know so well.

There is nothing but his eyes and my pounding heart—nothing but this incessant tugging that screams with its own set of lungs, filling my entire chest with mindless echoes.

My diaphragm rises and my tears go with it, brimming against lashes that refuse to blink, fearful of illusions and salt lined cheeks.

He burns bright and hides in the dark: I am never without him, I can never forget him. He embeds himself within even the smallest corners of my being and declines down the curve of my spine with the lightest breath, a consequence of shivers and lips pressed shut.

He stands there looking too perfect to be mine, inhale, exhale, slow, slow, slow as I search for some kind of affirmation that he always will be.

The ring on my finger feels heavy, and right—the sweetest, sweetest lie that softens dreams when reality and a wide awake heart is too much to handle.

I want to ask him if he remembers this feeling, this selfish love assailed by memories too painful to hold onto as vows are exchanged before us; as the world tilts and morning light blinks through the shutters that can no longer be denied.

Edward's face is expressionless, but his eyes tell a story, his green that burst of life inside my chest; his cursive lips the flames that kiss my wrists.

It's a fevered intensity, casting messages through a sea of red with sails made from a fan of lashes: a blink, a look, a turn of page. That is until the connection is severed, his swallow heavy, his profile all I'm afforded as I'm simultaneously released and denied; relaxed instead of pulled taut.

I wilt and breathe and wander through a pretense of tearful faces whose cheeks gather the sea, their joy still a form of hurt despite their accompanying smiles.

I pretend I'm not affected, and listen to another kind of love, different to the one that clings and tries to detach—bigger than song and soundless to everything.

Murmurs fill my veins, their expansion ocean wide as my eyes seek their instigator. But my hands shake and there are too many.

It's obvious to find those in happiness, in silence that speaks so loud, empty palms substituted for their sideways partner: a cheek against a shoulder; temple to temple and a true love hold.

How many of these days have I missed?

How many times has a tinge of sadness smudged like ink, pervading my senses and blotting my world; staining Edward's choices and colouring him the villain?

I'm tired of missing out on moments I may not deserve, but want all the same; tired of embracing the arms of loneliness and listening to its nothingness weave its silent thread.

Disappointment comes hand in hand with a beating heart, but I'm no longer so far from home, this pearl we live inside now transparent instead of opaque.

My mind is clear and my heart is breaking. I want to be free of the despondency that cloaks my lids at the end of the day, the one that promises everything is going to be the same again tomorrow, turning smiles to tears and hurtling careless whispers from a bow of flaming lips.

My gaze falls to Jasper for a second, guilt still heavy and oppressing as I think back to last night; as I recount that senseless need to prove I was not so alone.

Perhaps this is the fault in us all, the mark of X that lingers to the left, love turning our stupid hearts reckless.

Cowardice coerces me to look away, pulled back by something that carries so much more influence than regret, Edward's eyes now hard, his jaw tense, stare nothing like it was moments ago.

He is a blood-red moon in the blackest of skies, and I am the shining tear, representing the star that is enameled in too much feeling to be admired.

He is scared, he is angry—he's never been able to handle this type of emotion. He forces himself blind and sees only what he wants to see.

His attention shifts, clues gifted as I follow its course, his anger suddenly not only for me, but for a boy who is none the wiser while Edward's focus continues to alternate between the two of us with furrowed brows.

His glare is accusing, his notions so, so wrong as we break, and turn, and lose one another a little bit more.

My heart tears, achingly alive in this silence as everything seems to get a little bit dimmer in sound.

I blink slowly, a magical interlude that lasts for mere seconds; with a trembling breath, the reason for stilted beats becomes all too apparent.

The resounding echoes of I do reverberate like gunshots, grievances that weep happy smiles with moments that sit apple sweet on my tongue before dissolving to bitterness and so much want.

I watch as a veil is lifted, as lips are pressed against lips, sealing a union that is captured in the hearts of everyone here without the need of a too bright flash.

This feeling has a dimension all of its own, a box inside of a box inside of another—a spiraling staircase missing its bottom step.

I am screaming once more, a reiteration of thrumming ticks and noiseless yearning as cheers paint the walls yellow, filling my lungs with roaring chaos whose strings I try to hold on to. But unlike before, this time I am not so invisible.

My suffering is shared, a canvas bearing the pain of too many colours: If I'm feeling this way, then so is he.

Edward engulfs his brother in a hug, his smile wide but eyes tight at the corners as he shakes hands and cups shoulders. He kisses Rosalie's cheek and gets a playful shove as he taps his own, that familiarity I'd questioned earlier suddenly alive and present.

He looks at everyone but me, as obvious as the first day I met him. It's at that point I notice I'm not the only one staring.

Kate watches with unveiled interest, an interval of looks beneath lashes as she tries to find her place here. She steps forward, a tentative beam of light that encircles her friend, cheek against cheek and arms loosely wrapped across shoulders, conscious of upcoming pictures.

I still feel like a child around her, clutching flowers I don't know the name of and standing on the sidelines as a family that should be mine suddenly feels a lot like hers.

I carry bruises that won't heal; that are not skin deep but soul purple. I'm aware that there will be no end to her attentiveness until the word stop falls from my lips.

Em captures my eye and I force my feet to move, soon embraced within strong arms as I rise up on tiptoes and whisper congratulations against his cheek.

"I'm so fucking happy, Bella," he grins, his expression warm as he lets me go.

"I'm sure a lot of these people will be soon enough," Alice interjects, appearing at her brother's side in a dark green dress, kissing his cheek before clarifying, "Open bar," at his raised brows.

His laugh is immediate, and unconsciously, I find myself matching that sound, a lost memory and cheeks that ache as, just for a moment, nothing hurts.

But then he's being ushered forward, and someone is touching my arm, and there is that blue-eyed boy again, leading me back the way I came. Except this time, it's a little different; this time, I have no choice but to watch those in front of me walk first.

That coveted happiness suddenly seems unattainable again: a missing key and rusted lock.

Kate is smiling, and Edward's smile is there, and mine feels like it will be lost forever. It hurts, so much I almost can't breathe, a fleeting apology—that I didn't have time to ignore this love that binds me to the boy in front of me—an accompanying, towering high-rise of guilt that is pushed aside with the lie.

Another door is opened, another room bathed in gold as a photographer stands at its center, my arm left bare with a friendly smile while Edward's is still held... and maybe I can hate her after all.

I'm drowning in flowering spite, lost among the nothingness of scorn, loving someone more than they may love me.

The thought pinches, pulling at stitches that have yet to fasten this pain shut, unraveling at the speed of flashing lights as the bride and groom smile and smile and smile to the backdrop of a steady click.

It's impossible not to look at him now, at his easy stance and moving lips; the pull of his brows and resulting nod as his name is called.

As, finally, he detaches himself to stand beside his brother and the other men in the room as another round of click-flash-clicks begin.

Courage is a funny thing. It is already to be broken—desperate and left wanting. Fear rises and vanishes like vapour; I become a stranger to myself as I make my way over to a girl whose attention is still shining so bright in this fragment of the world she's not meant to orbit.

I pause at her side, surprise evident in the double glance she affords me while I take a deep breath. "Bella—"

"I don't want you touching him anymore," I interrupt, staring right at her, face unmasked and words true.

Her expression doesn't change, and she doesn't need a name, this neutrality she walks around with still glued to her features as her composure holds. "But it was okay before?" she challenges calmly, unruffled and pretty in peach.

I shake my head. "It was never okay," I reply, my voice steady despite the anger that causes my hands to curl into fists.

Her voice is as soft as always, her tone the caress of a rose without its thorns. "I have no ulterior motive, here," she tells me, unblinking and steady in her admission. "I like Edward. And that's it."

Her words roll around in my head and I dismiss them as easily as they came. "I think you're lying," I respond. "I see the way you look at him."

"And I see the way you stand there in all your heartache, waiting for some beautiful boy to come and save you," she tells me, her words too close, too close, too close.

My hate breathes fire, wings grown, a dark form of crying without the tears. "You're wrong," I breathe harshly, my ire a rapid incline that has nowhere to fall beneath the watchful eyes inside this room. "Because I'm here now, doing something I should have done a long time ago."

But I'm not so sure she's listening, her response instant—sure—a repetition of strength. "He won't save you," she voices, looking at me with all the confidence I wish I possessed. "He can't. It's in his eyes. If you looked a little harder, outside of your own reflection—your own hurt—you'd find that the same sadness you feel inside is staring right back at you."

My hands shake: vision blurry and jaw set. "Don't pretend to know me... him," I say angrily, blinking quickly to stop the tears I can feel building between my lashes. "You don't know the first thing about either of us."

But I don't know if that's true. I don't know if Edward has confided in this girl—if he's spilled tears against her shoulder... taken her comfort at a time where I was too close to give it.

"I'm not stupid, I know what you must think of me," she muses while slowly smoothing a lock of hair behind her ear, her gaze falling away for just a moment before rising back up. "But I'm not... I'm not trying to steal your husband. He reminds me of someone, and sometimes... sometimes it's hard not to react."

My throat is thick, my words forced: I don't want her excuses. "Who?" I ask anyway, ashamed to feel a kind of happiness in the way her eyes mist just a little.

"My husband. I lost him eight months ago." And that shame, it twists and turns, ugly and diseased as it spirals over and over until I think I'll lose myself in its poison.

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice a little strained, sentiment true, stuck on this dark and solitary path hidden beneath the cover of weeds.

She shakes her head, an easy dismissal where I know I'd be falling and falling. "I'm not telling you this in order to gain sympathy," she murmurs resolutely, "I'm trying to explain..."

She takes a deep breath, a lack of colour and transparent calm. "When Edward looks at you, he reminds me of all the things I want. Sometimes, when I catch his eyes afterwards, however fleeting, it's almost as if those things are mine... that I get to keep them, even if only for a little while."

My heart grows a river of cracks, splintering into valleys, disconnect flowing one way, sympathy another.

I don't want to be feeling this. I want to shout and scream and tell her all the things I feel inside; all these gnarled and painful disturbances she resurrects with her presence.

But she keeps going and going, cornering me inside an already shrinking box of indecision.

"You don't know how lucky you are, to have someone look at you like that," she insists, full of this black tainted assurance that rises like smoke; a coil of abandonment that unfurls in the space between us.

Her statement pierces an already vulnerable resolve, a rise and fall of disjointed guilt and prickly awareness as those green, green eyes from across the room fall and settle; uncover and unnerve.

Edward watches—back and forth, back and forth—his demeanour set in stone, carved from a form of controlled curiosity as I question exactly what it is she sees that I don't. Because right now he is not looking at me in any way that should inspire reverence or want. He is granite, an ache; my grieving heart and Sunday morning silence tangled up in empty sheets.

He is a picture of heated words, his outward appearance to be admired... but the countenance behind his eyes is not.

I look and look—maybe I'm just as blind as he is.

"I don't know why you're telling me any of this," I say, shifting my focus back to the girl at my side. "It changes nothing."

She becomes the aggressor, her reply tugging at cords that don't want to stretch; that don't want to bind her wounded heart, ignorant of the guilt-tainted longing that attempts to form its knots and tie its bows.

"I'm telling you this because I had to watch the man I love... the same one who no longer loved me... die. That's why. I grew to learn the difference between the apathy you see and the fear that's really there."

I scatter, her smile pained and maybe a little bitter, gaze washed over with the cover of tears she holds back with a kind of practiced ease I recognise.

She looks to the ceiling, her blinks quick... She is too much like me in this moment and I hate it.

"At first, I thought he was just being cruel, acting out over his fear, but after the fourth or fifth time, I could see he meant it. His eyes were a constant reminder. They weren't hard or cold, they were just his eyes, looking through me, rather than at me. He didn't care if I sat beside him... wouldn't leave the room if I stepped inside or stay out all night instead of coming home. I was no longer an interest. He just didn't care."

Something inside of me breaks along with the control she has on her emotions as a tear rolls quickly down her cheek, her fingers quick to catch and discard as I turn away, unable to watch.

She's suddenly no longer just a person who causes me pain; she carries her own, too. I think I'm angry... and maybe cold hearted... my words short and harsh in lieu of the ones I should probably bestow. "I don't want to hear any more... so stop. I don't... I don't need your help."

I don't want you humanising yourself any further.

"And I'm not trying to give it to you," she says gingerly. "I'm just telling you my story; we're just two people talking. I'm not trying to get you to feel or do anything."

This makes me want to laugh. "But how can I not?" I question incredulously as I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. "Of course you are. Otherwise, what's the point?"

"I have no reason to lie," she points out quietly. "Edward will never want me, and whatever you may think, I don't want him either."

I'm back to watching her now, my initial perception refusing to be discouraged despite the words that have left her mouth.

Seconds pass; she waits, I think. And maybe I don't know her—maybe I've only been seeing what I want to see. But it changes nothing: I want her gone.

"Just stay away from him," I repeat firmly. Her gaze drops and I wonder if she's feeling the same shift in the room as I am, focus veering to the center of the room where the photographer is motioning for us to join the remainder of the wedding party for a group shot.

Silence takes over us then; we separate, no further words parted with, tension thick and distance small as we make our way over to where the others stand.

Cotton hearts bleed, unstitched and falling apart at the seams as hesitation causes my feet to falter; as something that should be so obvious is the reason for so much uncertainty.

I pause, surety tangled up in blue: water still and current trapped inside my pulse.

Despite the fact Edward is here, my safety net no longer lingers beneath my feet, threads burnt out with the flames of doubt.

I don't know where to stand.

But then a hand is at my back, gently prompting me into the space that has opened up beside my husband, a flux of wrong and right and let me be enough.

The photographer walks away and I am left staring straight ahead, my heartbeat an erratic skip of stones, skimming the surface of this feeling that grows stronger and stronger like the rise and fall of a wave.

For the first time today, I don't want to run or walk; I don't want to close my eyes and pretend this isn't happening.

I feel breathless, this spark of fire an inferno of wasted moments; a burst of too many desires left unclaimed: I am right where I should be.

Just maybe not close enough.

Edward's palm advances lightly across my lower back, drawing me nearer without a word, this minimal distance between us shattered with his touch, hand settling at the curve of my waist.

Side against side, fingertips press against the cover of peach as I press my lips closed and look where I'm supposed to look: smile and hold and click, click, click.

Here, I am not broken; here, I can chase rainbows with every teardrop shed and tell myself these walls aren't too high to climb, for my heart is sure and I know the way, all other fickle reasonings bulldozed to the ground.

Then it's over, a disperse of bodies and chorus of happy voices that circle and soar.

I don't want to move.

I want to curl against him, turn and turn and lose myself in his hold—in this momentary sweetness that hurts as much as heals.

His hand doesn't leave, and his lips stay shut, but it doesn't matter, because mine part, honesty speaking for us both.

"I hate the beauty of this day," I whisper solemnly, the words almost getting caught in my throat as his fingers press a little harder—tether, ache, closer, closer. "It hurts too much."

Maybe he won't reply. Maybe he'll surprise me. Maybe he does. "I know," he murmurs, avoiding my eyes as I look up at his face.

His jaw is tense, his hold its matching pair: steady breaths and a strain not so discreet. He's tied up with strings from the heart; with gritted teeth and a need to remain unaffected despite his words that let me know otherwise.

"I don't want to though," I add, wheels turning on this distant and uneven ground. "Some aspects still feel the same... like the part where I'm waiting to see you... where all I can think about is you."

His lids fall shut and his nostrils flare; doors open and stares turn our way. He doesn't seem to notice, but I know he will. He is needed for speeches; for laughs and smiles; for his brother.

My hand instinctively reaches for his, gaining his attention, keeping it with an effort that forces air into my lungs and fear out of my heart.

"We need to talk," I say quietly, resisting the urge to thread my fingers through his, especially under the intensity of his gaze, knowing time is not on our side right now.

His exhale comes from deep inside his chest, his searching eyes and resulting nod all the affirmation I need, lips licked as I drown in this restless desire and love that has nowhere else to go.

Is this killing you like it's killing me?

His thumb runs over my knuckles, making this next move harder as I pull out of his hold. "Find me later, okay?" I say, feeling this longing beat so wild and expectant at my wrists, my throat—my hollow shield. "Don't forget about me."

Emmett's boisterous laugh sounds from the doorway; spinning hands and easy glances laced in pain as I wish and want and look so hard, exch


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 675


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