Twilight: Immortal Dusk

Forks High School – Parking Lot – 3:07 PM

The final bell rang like someone pulling the plug on a life support machine.

Bella Swan staggered out the gym doors like a war survivor — which, considering she'd nearly knocked over a stack of cones and taken out her own shoelace mid-jog, wasn't far off. Her ponytail had given up somewhere around second period and was now clinging to her neck like a wet spaghetti noodle. Her sweatshirt was plastered to her back. Her dignity had flatlined somewhere between the dodgeball to the ribs and tripping over her own water bottle.

She reached her truck, flung the door open like she was storming a castle, and collapsed into the driver's seat with the grace of a soggy cardboard box.

"Jesus take the wheel," she muttered, then yanked her hoodie up like it might hide her from the memory of whatever that gym class was.

The truck groaned awake when she turned the key — which, to her credit, she managed without accidentally knocking the windshield wiper switch like last time. Small victories.

She jammed the heater on. Snowflakes drifted in slow-motion past her windshield like they were auditioning for a Christmas episode of Gilmore Girls. The entire parking lot was a chaotic mess of half-buried cars, foggy windows, and teenagers climbing into minivans and dented sedans like they were making a break for it.

She reached for the gear shift.

And froze.

Edward Cullen was standing by the far side of the lot. Not pacing. Not texting. Just standing there like a moody Greek statue someone dropped into rural Washington as a prank. Arms crossed. Shoulders relaxed. Face tilted slightly down, like he was thinking about something philosophical and/or tragic.

And he was looking straight at her.

Bella blinked.

Edward Cullen — platinum cheekbones, old-money posture, leather jacket that absolutely was not from Walmart — was just... staring. Like she was a cryptic indie film he didn't quite understand but really wanted to.

She immediately averted her eyes and muttered, "Nope."

Shifted into reverse like her life depended on it.

HOOOONK.

She shrieked — actually, shrieked — and slammed the brake. The entire truck lurched. The red Civic behind her skidded to a stop, horn blaring like it had a personal vendetta. Bella smacked her head gently on the steering wheel.

"Perfect," she mumbled. "Why die dramatically when I can back into a sophomore in a Honda and make the evening news?"

The Civic's driver gestured at her in a way that was probably rude. Bella flashed the world's most apologetic grimace and gave a thumbs-up that felt like a war crime.

She eased out slowly this time, gripping the wheel like it was a lifeline, and finally swung her truck toward the lot's exit.

But she had to look.

Just once.

She glanced back toward the school.

Edward was laughing.

Like, really laughing.

His head tipped slightly back, his shoulders shaking in silent amusement, his entire face transformed by it — less brooding vampire and more beautiful boy caught off guard by the chaos that was her existence.

Bella's jaw dropped.

"Oh my God," she whispered. "He's laughing at me. He saw all of that."

She stared too long again — which was dangerous, considering she hadn't technically looked left yet to check for oncoming traffic. The truck's wipers let out a low, judgmental squeal like, Get a grip, Swan.

"Stupid marble-sculpture-come-to-life," she muttered, flustered and furious and maybe a tiny bit flattered in the worst way. "Who just watches people reverse into death traps like it's a Netflix special?"

She turned out of the lot with a little too much gas and a lot too much mortification. Her hands were clammy on the wheel. Her cheeks were hot. Somewhere deep in her psyche, the part that still believed in middle school crushes and tragic piano music whispered, You liked that he laughed.

Bella smacked the radio on. Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone" burst out of the speakers like the universe was mocking her.

"Yeah, real funny," she grumbled at the windshield, pretending she wasn't still replaying that smile in her head. "Next time I see him, I'm launching a snowball at his stupid flawless face."

She didn't mean it.

Probably.

—

Edward heard her the moment she slammed the truck door shut.

"Jesus take the wheel," Bella Swan muttered, voice dry as a martini and twice as bitter.

He nearly smiled.

She was a walking catastrophe with a sarcastic streak and a heartbeat he could hear fluttering like a butterfly caught in a hurricane. Snow drifted around her in lazy spirals while she wrestled her ancient Chevy into gear like she was taming a beast. Her ponytail was coming undone, her hoodie had lost the will to live, and her muttered curses made him wish he could laugh out loud.

But he didn't. Yet.

"Nope," she snapped, shifting into reverse.

HOOOOONK.

Edward flinched. Not from the sound, but from the spike of Bella's heartbeat and the panicked, high-pitched squeal that followed. Her truck jerked like a dying moose. She headbutted the steering wheel with theatrical defeat.

"Why die dramatically when I can back into a sophomore in a Honda and make the evening news?"

He laughed.

Actually, properly laughed. A low, amused chuckle escaped before he could stop it.

She glanced his way.

And she saw him.

Their eyes met for one, electric moment. Hers wide and horrified. His, amused and far too interested. She turned away so fast she nearly whiplashed herself.

Stupid marble-sculpture-come-to-life, she hissed under her breath, which he heard as clearly as if she'd said it into a mic. Who just watches people reverse into death traps like it's a Netflix special?

His shoulders shook with another suppressed laugh.

"Netflix special," he murmured to himself. "She's going to kill me with pop culture references."

"Laughing to yourself again?" Emmett strolled over, his massive frame wrapped in a puffer jacket he wore like it was designer. "That's healthy, right? You good, bro?"

Edward nodded toward Bella's truck. "She threatened to throw a snowball at me."

Beat.

Emmett burst out laughing. Loud and delighted. "Wait, wait, you mean Bella? Little walking hazard Bella? She wants to chuck a snowball at your vampire face?"

"Honestly," Rosalie cut in, her long legs striding up like a Vogue model in snow boots, "if she does manage to hit you, she deserves a medal."

Alice twirled beside them, twinkling like an elf hopped up on sugar and vintage Avril Lavigne. "I think it's adorable. Like a baby deer trying to attack a mountain lion."

Jasper, leaning against a nearby post with his collar popped and his Southern charm turned up to eleven, drawled, "Reckon she'd break her wrist before she hit you."

Edward barely looked at them. His eyes were still on the road, where Bella's truck vanished into the mist like a myth in denim.

"I think she's brilliant," came a lilting voice.

Elizabeth, her platinum-blonde hair tied up in a claw clip and her sweater sleeves pulled over her hands, walked up with the amused detachment of someone who'd been watching all along. Her Scottish accent gave everything she said a vaguely magical cadence. "That girl's an entire disaster movie wrapped in sarcasm. It's inspiring."

"Or infuriating," Katherine said, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, flicking a speck of snow off her vintage bomber jacket. Her voice had the same Scottish bite, but hers was faster, more caffeinated. "Honestly, how she hasn't accidentally set herself on fire is beyond me."

"Maybe she has," Elizabeth mused. "Emotionally."

Hadrian showed up last, walking like he had nowhere to be but the center of gravity. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a farm-boy grin and emerald green eyes that practically glowed. His scarf fluttered behind him like he was legally required to have wind in his hair.

"You're all being a little dramatic," he said casually. "She's human. Chaos is their native tongue."

"And yet you're curious about her too," Edward said without looking.

"Curious," Hadrian agreed. "Not brooding and yearning."

"Ouch," Emmett laughed. "Called out."

Then Daenerys stepped into view, snowflakes melting against the silver-blonde braid trailing down her back like moonlight. She was every inch a goddess dipped in HBO drama — violet eyes sharp as blades, coat belted at the waist like fashion armor. Sydney Sweeney if she'd been born in Valyria and trained in sarcasm.

"She's still alive," Dany said, tilting her head. "That's already more than I expected, given that deathtrap she calls a truck."

"You're not worried she'll uncover everything?" Rosalie asked.

"Please," Dany scoffed. "The girl thinks Edward is a Disney prince who moonlights as a gargoyle. She couldn't uncover a pizza from a box without second-guessing it."

Hadrian grinned. "You're mean when you're impressed."

Dany arched a brow. "You like it."

"I do," he said simply, eyes locked on hers like the rest of the world was background noise. The snow, the siblings, even the girl in the truck — none of it mattered when she looked at him like that. Like she might stab him or kiss him or both.

Elizabeth fake-gagged. "Alright, lovebirds, chill. It's 2005, not The OC."

Katherine groaned. "Speak for yourself, I live for the drama."

"You're all unbearable," Edward muttered.

"You're in love with a girl who wears mismatched socks and talks to her radio," Alice pointed out cheerfully. "You don't get to be the serious one anymore."

Edward said nothing. Just stared down the road, where the ghost of Bella Swan's truck lingered like a laugh in the back of his throat.

"She threatened violence," he whispered to himself.

And smiled.

—

Forks High – Parking Lot – 3:04 PM

Post-Bella Departure.

The cold bit sharp at their cheeks, the kind of Washington chill that iced over your thoughts and made every breath feel like you were inhaling a dare. Snow flurries spun lazily in the air, already sticking to windshields like nature's version of static cling. The bell had rung, the humans had fled, and the real show was just starting.

The Cullens moved like a cinematic trailer come to life—slow, cool, unintentionally synchronized. Rosalie's heels clicked like countdowns. Emmett tossed his backpack over his shoulder like it owed him money. Jasper watched the sky as if the clouds might confess something. And Edward... Edward looked like he was caught in the middle of a particularly moody Fall Out Boy music video.

From somewhere nearby, a beat-up Chevy Silverado rattled its way off campus, leaving behind a trail of smoke and Kelly Clarkson's Behind These Hazel Eyes, slightly warped from an old cassette. It cut across the cold like a soundtrack cue none of them had ordered but all of them accepted.

"You know," Emmett said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his Letterman jacket, "I give Bella three days before she accidentally brings a pencil to a gunfight."

"She doesn't need a weapon," Rosalie muttered without looking at him. "Her truck is the murder weapon."

Alice spun once on the heel of her Converse and twirled in front of Edward, tilting her head with a devilish grin. "He's doing it again."

"Doing what?" Edward asked, voice clipped.

"That face." Alice poked his cheek. "That whole 'I'm definitely not in love, but I've already mentally planned our wedding down to the boutonnière' look."

"It's been less than a week," he grumbled.

"Exactly," Alice beamed. "So why are you thinking about what her dress smells like?"

Edward didn't answer. But Jasper, catching the ripple in his brother's emotions, just gave him a look that said, Same storm, different century.

Then Alice blinked. Once. Twice. Her smile dimmed.

"Uh-oh," she said.

They all stopped.

"What now?" Rosalie asked, already pulling out her keys with a sigh like this was her third apocalypse this month.

"Black ice," Alice said simply, stepping backward like the words weighed more than they should. "Tomorrow morning. The entrance to the parking lot is going to turn into a slip-and-die zone. I see a van. I see Bella. I see Edward pulling a Superman."

"Awesome," Emmett grinned. "Wait. No capes, right?"

"Emmett," Rosalie hissed.

"Relax," Alice continued. "She lives. Technically. But you," she turned to Edward, "might want to keep your super-speed secret to yourself, unless you want to end up on CNN."

"She walks in front of a van?" Edward's voice was low now. Tight.

Alice nodded. "More like the van walks into her. And you."

Edward's jaw clenched. In the silence that followed, the distant sound of a low rumble broke across the lot.

—

Motorcycle Row – Triumph 1050

The Triumph Speed Triple sat like a demon's choice of chariot—red, metallic, and purring like it had secrets. A dusting of snow clung to the leather seat, instantly melting beneath the touch of the boy mounting it.

Hadrian Potter moved like his shadow was half-temptation, half-threat. Black hoodie under a deep red leather jacket, dark jeans, combat boots laced up like he'd walked out of a magazine. His green eyes gleamed like witchfire.

Daenerys followed, all platinum-silver hair and attitude. Her violet eyes were sharp, lined in kohl, and her jacket was cropped white leather over a black tank top that defied Forks' frost warnings. Her heels clicked louder than Rosalie's.

"She almost died backing out of her parking space," Dany said dryly as she slid on behind him.

"To be fair," Hadrian replied, "those mirrors are, like, Y2K era."

"She's a walking PSA for driver's ed." Dany leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear. "You sure she's not going to die of embarrassment before the Volturi ever find her?"

"She's got heart," Hadrian said, flipping up his visor.

"She's got no awareness. She'd walk into Mordor if you left the door open."

"Reminds me of someone," he said with a crooked smile.

Dany raised an elegant brow. "If you say me, I swear—"

"Terrifying. Brilliant. Stubborn. Ridiculously pretty when she's threatening people."

She kissed the hinge of his jaw, slow and possessive. "I don't share, Hadrian."

"Not even with disaster-prone human girls?"

"Especially not with ones who talk to their ketchup packets like they're sentient."

"That was one time."

The engine revved, and the bike roared to life. Her hands wrapped around his waist, sliding beneath his jacket just enough to feel skin.

"Besides," she added, voice like satin and spite, "if she steps into my lane, I'll feed her to the Volturi and use her bones as hairpins."

"Jealousy looks hot on you."

"Everything looks hot on me," she purred.

"True," he said, kicking the bike into gear. "But it looks better off."

They peeled out of the parking lot with a scream of tires and an echo of forbidden chemistry.

—

Across the Lot – Katherine and Elizabeth's Corvette

The cherry-red Corvette C6 sparkled beneath the fading sunlight. Katherine leaned against the hood, chewing gum and scrolling through her flip phone like she was running background checks. Her black hair fell in sharp layers over her cheekbones, her eyeliner thick enough to start rumors.

Elizabeth sat inside, boots propped on the dashboard, reading Jane Eyre like it owed her rent money. Her voice floated out as she turned a page.

"There are two types of men," Katherine said, snapping her phone shut. "Ones who flirt from a distance, and ones who flirt from hella distance, because they're immortal creeps."

"Edward Cullen's out here writing a sonnet every time Bella breathes," Elizabeth muttered, Scottish accent curling around each syllable. "And she's too busy decoding the vending machine to notice."

"Do you think she thinks he's brooding, or just really constipated?"

Elizabeth laughed, flipping the page. "Oh, she's doomed. He's going to save her life, and she's going to thank him by almost dying again."

The engine revved.

"Forks is a soap opera with less budget and more eyeliner," Katherine said as she slid into the driver's seat.

"And significantly more death traps," Elizabeth added.

The Corvette vanished into the snow-dusted road like the final scene in a teen vampire movie no one warned the studio was real.

—

Back at the Volvo – Final Beat

Edward gripped the steering wheel like it might offer answers. He stared straight ahead, unmoving.

Alice peeked up from the backseat.

"You could just… talk to her, you know. Say hi. Maybe even smile."

"Noted," Edward said flatly.

"Or," Emmett offered, munching on a protein bar, "you could keep pretending you're too cool to care, and I can start the betting pool on whether Bella confesses first or explodes like a soda bottle."

"I'm thinking slow-burn disaster," Alice said. "Big explosion, lots of crying, and probably a broken tailbone."

"Maybe a promposal?" Jasper suggested, drawling soft.

Edward didn't respond. He was already playing it out—every second of tomorrow. The tires. The metal. The sound of crunching ice. Bella's heartbeat.

And the choice.

Rescue her without revealing the truth.

Or lose her.

Again.

"This town is cursed," he muttered.

"No," Alice said softly. "It's just waking up."

And outside, the snow kept falling.

Like time was running out.

—

Cullen Garage – 6:17 PM

Temperature: Forks Frigid.

Soundtrack: Linkin Park's "Somewhere I Belong", faintly echoing from the stereo.

Aesthetic: Early 2000s Grit with a magical engine hum.

The garage looked like Fast and Furious had a secret lovechild with The Craft. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead with just enough buzz to sound like tension made audible. Tools hung like ritualistic weapons on the wall. Emmett's massive bench press gleamed in one corner like a monument to testosterone, while Rosalie's cherry-red '69 Camaro lounged under a silk cover like a Bond girl in hibernation.

In the center of it all, a beast of modern myth: Hadrian Potter's 2003 black Mustang GT Concept—sleek matte black with streaks of crimson runes faintly glowing along the hood, as if it had just finished whispering a spell and dared you to ask what it was.

Hadrian crouched beside the driver-side wheel, his leather gloves stained with chalk and arcane residue. His emerald eyes flicked between a chalk circle and a runed socket wrench like he was deciphering the secrets of the universe through horsepower. He looked like Tom Welling had cosplayed as Constantine for Halloween and accidentally made it hot.

Emmett was under the hood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, muscles on full flex like a Calvin Klein ad lost in a Napa Auto Parts.

"Dude," Emmett called, voice muffled by the engine block, "this thing is humming like it wants to eat the road."

"That's the Kenaz rune doing its thing," Hadrian replied without looking up. "Fire rune. Makes the combustion cycle cleaner. Also might be why your hair is trying to stand up."

Emmett straightened, wiping his hands on a grease rag. "Okay, but real question—should the intake manifold actually be whispering Latin? Or did your witchy IKEA instructions backfire again?"

Hadrian grinned without glancing up. "It's fine. Latin means it's still friendly. If it starts whispering in Parseltongue, then we panic."

Rosalie, dressed like Vogue sent her to a drag race, leaned against the driver's side door, arms crossed and one brow raised. Her blonde hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder, and she held a torque wrench like it was part of her personality.

"You inscribed a wind rune on the air intake?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Efficiency enchantment," Hadrian said, standing and dusting off his jeans. "Less drag, better airflow, minor chance of spontaneous weather."

"Minor," Rosalie repeated flatly. "You froze the driveway last week. Emmett slipped and took down two recycling bins and my patience."

"It was festive," Hadrian offered.

"It was February," Rosalie shot back.

"Exactly. Ice is seasonal."

"I'm going to season you," she muttered, aiming the wrench like a javelin.

Emmett cracked up. "Don't kill the wizard. He still owes me enchanted suspension for the Jeep."

Hadrian pointed at Emmett. "You'll get it after you stop using the backseat like a portable gym."

Emmett held up his hands, smirking. "Can't help it if I like gains and girls."

Before Rosalie could retort, the garage door creaked open behind them.

Edward stepped in like he was being filmed in slow-mo. Bronze hair tousled from what looked like existential pacing, cheekbones cutting angles like a Renaissance painting trying to hide depression. He was wearing a gray thermal long-sleeve under a black jacket that somehow made him look colder than the weather.

His eyes met Hadrian's. "We need to talk."

Hadrian cocked his head. "Oh boy. That's never followed by good news."

"It's about Bella."

Rosalie groaned. "Of course it is."

"Dude," Emmett said, arms folded over his chest, "we just got the turbo runes calibrated. Can we have, like, five uninterrupted minutes where your crush doesn't almost die?"

Edward ignored them, stepping closer. "Alice had a vision. Tomorrow morning. Parking lot. Black ice. A van."

Rosalie muttered, "Let me guess—Bella's at the center of it, like a discount Final Destination?"

"She gets hit," Edward said. "Unless I stop it."

"So stop it," Emmett said, already bored. "Catch the van, kiss the girl, cue the Coldplay track."

"She'll see," Edward said quietly. "If I save her… the way I have to… she'll know I'm not normal."

He turned to Hadrian.

"I want you to Obliviate her. After. Just enough to erase the moment."

Hadrian blinked. Once. Slowly. Then wiped his hands on a rag and crossed his arms.

"Wow," he said. "You really just opened with that."

Edward frowned. "You've done it before. For people."

"Yeah," Hadrian replied, eyes glinting. "For normal people. With normal minds. And it never goes the way you want it to."

"She wouldn't remember—"

"No, she might not forget," Hadrian snapped, stepping forward. "You ever try reading her mind?"

Edward nodded, cautious. "I can't."

Hadrian jabbed a thumb at his own head. "Same. She's like a psychic brick wall wrapped in lead and lined with sarcasm. Even my Legilimency bounces off her. I've never seen anything like it. Not in wizards. Not in vampires. Not in anything."

"So… she's immune?" Edward asked, voice brittle.

"Immune or protected," Hadrian said. "Either way, you try to mess with her memory, best-case scenario: nothing happens. Worst-case? We're talking neural backlash, psychic scarring, and possibly waking up her latent magical bloodline that makes this whole town a crater."

"Cool cool cool," Emmett mumbled. "So, Plan B?"

"Let her die," Rosalie said immediately.

"Rosie," Emmett said, warning in his voice.

"No, I mean it." She pushed off the Mustang and leveled a stare at Edward. "This is what happens. We fall for someone. We get stupid. And then we're setting fire to our lives for the seventy-fourth time because someone's hormones couldn't shut up."

Edward's jaw tensed. "I'm not letting her die."

Hadrian exhaled. "Then don't. But don't use magic. You want her to forget? Sell her the lie. Convince her it was adrenaline, shock, ice on the pavement. Give her a story the human brain wants to believe."

Edward looked at him. "You think that'll work?"

"I think," Hadrian said, "her brain's already bending the world to its own logic. She doesn't want to see monsters. She wants to see mystery. Give her mystery."

Silence fell.

Then Emmett clapped his hands. "Great talk, team. Now can we enchant the NOS?"

Rosalie glared. "You are not putting magical nitrous oxide in this car."

"It's not even toxic!" Hadrian protested.

"You're not allowed to define safe anymore," Rosalie snapped.

Edward dropped onto the workbench stool, rubbing his face with both hands.

Hadrian nudged his shoulder. "Hey. You got this."

"I'm not sure," Edward murmured. "One second. That's all I'll have. One second to decide."

"Then," Hadrian said, "make it count."

—

Later That Night

Cullen House – Edward's Room – 11:42 PM

Vibe: Gothic restraint. The scent of old books and colder guilt.

Edward stood at the corner of his room, the forest spreading out before him like a velvet shroud through the panoramic glass wall. His silhouette was rigid, hands locked behind his back in that old-world stance that screamed: soldier, scholar, sinner.

The wind outside howled, but inside, the silence pressed in.

His room was all dark mahogany, cold slate, and carefully curated restraint. A bookshelf spanned one wall—leather-bound classics and first editions. His piano, untouched, waited like a witness. The vinyl player clicked once as the paused record—Clair de Lune—crackled faintly, as if even the music didn't dare continue.

He stared without blinking.

"She's just a girl," he whispered.

The words hit the glass and disappeared. A lie, thin and useless.

Because she wasn't just a girl.

She was the girl.

And tomorrow, she would die.

Unless he intervened.

He turned sharply, pacing without a sound. His bare feet made no impression. He moved like thought incarnate—fast, precise, wound tight like a violin string stretched past its note.

A flash of Alice's vision spun in his head: the screeching tires, the shriek of metal, the impossible angle of Bella's body just before it—

"No," he breathed.

It was unbearable. The certainty of it.

The silence in his head was a punishment. He couldn't hear her thoughts. Couldn't read her. And it was driving him mad.

"Why her?" he asked no one. "Why now?"

He crossed to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a slip of torn notebook paper. Her handwriting. From that first week. Loopy and small. Is this seat taken?

He stared at it like it was a holy relic.

Across the room, a book lay abandoned on the floor—The Picture of Dorian Gray. A symbol, perhaps too obvious. The monster who pretended to be beautiful. He bent to pick it up, thumbing through a passage:

"Each man sees his own sin in Dorian Gray. What Dorian Gray's sin was no one ever told us. He who finds ugly meanings in beautiful things is corrupt…"

He closed the book and set it gently back on the desk.

"I am both."

The words hurt coming out.

Then, softer still:

"And she sees none of it."

He dropped onto the piano bench, fingers hovering just above the keys.

But he didn't play.

He couldn't.

Because if he started, he might never stop.

—

Swan Residence – Bella's Room – 11:47 PM

Vibe: Rain-muted sanctuary. Teen girl cathedral.

Bella lay on her side in her small bed, one knee tucked under the blanket, the other dangling slightly over the edge. A loose zip-up hoodie was wrapped around her, sleeves pulled over her hands like armor. Her room smelled faintly of shampoo, vanilla lip balm, and rain-dampened notebooks.

She'd left the window cracked. The rain whispered against the sill like a lullaby half-remembered.

Her fingers were curled around a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights. The spine was cracked, the margins were scribbled with pencil notes—questions, sarcasm, quotes she'd underlined in quiet solidarity.

She blinked at the same sentence for the third time.

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same…"

Bella exhaled slowly and let the book rest on her chest. Her heart beat beneath it. Heavy. Restless.

She wasn't thinking about biology class. Or Charlie's half-hearted attempt at making dinner. Or the math quiz she hadn't studied for.

She was thinking about him.

Edward Cullen.

That impossible, infuriating, beautiful boy with eyes like wildfire trapped in ice.

"He looked like he wanted to kill me," she muttered into the quiet. "Or kiss me. Or both."

And that moment—when their eyes met in biology, and he stared like he was drowning in something she couldn't see.

Like she was gravity and he hated falling.

But that wasn't even the weird part.

The weird part was that she hadn't looked away either.

Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling.

"I'm not crazy, right?" she asked the air. "He hated me for breathing. For existing. But then…"

She thought of the next day. Of how he hadn't shown up. Of the empty seat beside her that felt more noticeable than any presence.

"He left," she whispered, like saying it out loud would make it make sense.

She didn't notice her thumb stroking the edge of the page.

She glanced at her bedside clock. 11:47. The digital numbers glowed red like they were counting down something only she didn't know she was running out of.

Outside, thunder murmured. Not close. Just enough to remind her the world was spinning.

She opened the book again, rereading the line. Her lips moved silently, mouthing the words. She didn't need to read them anymore—she knew them by heart.

"Whatever you are, Edward Cullen…" she whispered again, like it was a wish or a dare. "I don't think you hate me at all."

She turned out the lamp.

Darkness folded around her.

—

Back at the Cullen House…

Edward sat in front of the piano.

Still. Silent.

The house was quiet. Even Alice had stopped pacing.

He didn't play.

He couldn't.

Because the decision had already been made.

"One second," he murmured, the words catching in the stillness. "Just one."

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would save her.

And damn himself all over again.

---

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