The Academy needs a new first grade teacher, and fast. After the previous teacher was sacked, Dr. Edward Cullen desperately hires Ms. Bella Swan as a substitute until further notice. Always knowing Bella as simply "Renee's daughter," the first time Edward lays eyes on Bella, he's dumbstruck. She's not the young girl who has always been described to him by her adoring mother, but rather a beautiful young lady with what seems like a troubling past. Bella is attracted to everything about Edward Cullen, but everything tells her this is a bad idea: her past, her newly beloved job, and even her new teacher friends. Will Bella overcome these obstacles or will she let them convince her that Edward Cullen is simply not worth it?

First of all, let me just apologize for the annoying author's note that will be placed here before every chapter that I know most of you will skim over (don't play, I know how y'all are- I do the same thing when I read fan fictions, but just as you and I both already know, it is somewhat necessary). Second, I need to give credit to Stephanie Meyer for her beautifully crafted characters. None of these characters belong to me, but their occasional Out Of Character personalities (which will emerge sometimes, I apologize) belong to me, as well as the random characters (I have labeled them as "randos" in my documents lol) that do not appear in Twilight. Finally, I would like to apologize for my absence. I know it isn't fair for me to just pop in after months (lol, i guess by now it has been years?) of disappearing, but stick with me, friends. I also am aware that Twilight is not my usual story to stick to (shout out to Percy Jackson. My heart does indeed belong with Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase) but I decided to give another book a go. So, that is where we are right now. I'm not so sure where this story is going, but I've done by best to complete a few chapters before uploading, to just get a general idea of the story. I really hope all goes well with this.

You Without Me

Chapter 1

I hated everything about him. I hated how he did it, I hated how I cried, and most of all, I hated how I still held on to the scrap of paper like he was coming back any second to take it out of my hands and tell me it was a mistake, and that it wasn't real.

I wanted it to be a dream.

I hated him.

I loved him.

I wiped at my swollen eyes with the scratchy material on my hoodie's sleeve and sniffed as quietly as I could. I could see the cab driver shift uncomfortably in front of me, and I thought surely he had seen many passengers in sticky situations before. Surely the driver had seen passengers cry in his back seat before? Deciding that maybe the poor guy was new, I sighed loudly and promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore over the situation.

At least, not in front of anybody else.

I wiped at my face one more time, wincing at the raw, aching skin against the uncomfortable material. I told myself to breathe easy as the cab pulled up in front of a medium-sized, red brick house. A red Corolla sat in the driveway, just a few feet away from the black front door with gold letters marking the house number. I pushed the cab door open just as the door burst open.

My mother ran out, pajama pants on and her hands flying to the strings on her robe to tie it across her abdomen. As soon as she grabbed me and her arms enveloped me, I burst into tears again.

I almost cursed myself. I was overcome with anger at him all over again; at myself, for letting myself cry after I promised I was done crying, and at him, for making it this way. I was so mad, so upset, and just so angry.

My mom paid the weary taxi driver while I stood on the front lawn with my face in my hands. I shook and sobbed, probably making a scene, and my mom made soothing shushing noises while trying to pick up the three bags I had shoved in the back of the cab with one arm while the other arm struggled to keep the robes closed while patting my back. I swear my mother tried to be superwoman, or at least grow extra limbs, but she was doing all she could to comfort me as I completely fell apart on the front lawn.

"Baby, come on, come inside," She whispered, my bags bumping against her legs. I nodded and attempted to bend down and pick up the bag, but she gently pushed me away and towards the door.

~oOo~

What felt like only days later, I laid in the guest bedroom, the lights off and the curtains shut tightly. My eyes were so swollen I couldn't have been able to see if there was any shred of light anyway. My nose was so stopped up that I couldn't even sniffle anymore, and my sinuses were so full of fluid that my head felt like it was bursting with needles. I rolled over and almost screamed when I saw my mother standing in the doorway, her hair pulled back in what I called her "teacher hairdo" and wearing what I had also dubbed her "teacher outfit."

"You scared me," I muttered, sliding further down into the covers and pulling the sheets up to my chin.

"I didn't mean to," She said softly, coming further into the room. She stopped by the curtains, her hand resting on the wall beside the fabric.

"Are you going to work?" I asked, already knowing what her answer would be. This happened every morning. She came in before leaving for work, made me eat two pieces of toast, kissed my forehead, and then left after locking the front door behind her for work. This time, though, I didn't see toast in her hand, her purse over her shoulder, or her keys in her hand. I sat up and stared at her.

"Not yet," She shook her head. She reached for the curtains, and before I could brace myself, pulled them open. "I wanted to talk."

The sunlight burned. It wasn't the first time I was seeing sun since arriving at my mother's house, but it felt like it. I almost hissed at it. Instead, I squinted at my mom and squealed.

"What was that for?!"

"I think it will be good for you," She reasoned. "Besides, it's time for you to start facing things… and I believe we should start with the state of your bedroom."

The guest room, as I had not stopped calling it, was now apparently "my bedroom." I looked around the room and winced harder than I had when the sun had blinded me momentarily. I had clothes absolutely everywhere. Dirty pajama pants littered the floor, stale crackers, and old socks cluttered to the point that there was barely any trace of a floor. I sighed. "I'm sorry."

"If you plan to stay here, I'd like to get a few things straight," Her voice shook as she spoke, and I almost thought it was as painful for her to say it as it was for me to hear it. "I don't want to have to be mean, Izzy, but I don't know what else to do here. You won't see a doctor, you refuse to see a therapist, you've stayed in the house for almost two months, and you barely leave your bed. I can't keep seeing you like this. I'm worried."

"Mom," I muttered, looking away from her pleading eyes. I wasn't really sure what to tell her. I didn't exactly know what I would say to a therapist, and there wasn't exactly anything wrong with me that a doctor could heal me for.

"Baby, I just want to see you happy." She leaned over and held her hand out to rub my back, but I scooted closer to the headboard. I didn't want her comfort. I knew what it would lead to.

Every time she comforted me, I cried. I didn't want to cry anymore. Not in front of her.

"I'm fine," I muttered. "I'm just tired."

"Izzy…" She breathed, blinking away tears. I felt my eyes narrow, and I felt the anger start to bubble again. What was wrong with me?! Part of me tried its best to calm down the other part, the angry part, but it was no use. I was already fumbling with the covers, throwing them off of my legs.

"You don't understand! You don't get it!" I raged, my voice not even sounding like my own. It was hoarse, scratchy, and filled with hate and venom. I stumbled out of bed, my legs shaking. "You didn't lose him like I did! You didn't lose…" I hesitated, squeezing my eyes closed. My voice shook as I finished my cry, "You didn't lose everything."

My mom made a small gasping noise, and I lifted my hands to my mouth, covering it and shaking my head. "I don't need a therapist. I don't need a doctor. I just need time."

"I think I know what can help you," She said softly, "Izzy, please don't make me be mean. I don't want to be the mean mother here…"

"You never were the mean mother," I shook my head, thinking back on my childhood. Renee Dawson, my mother, was always there for me, but at the same time she chased after her own dreams, her ambition of being a teacher. She constantly read horoscopes, researched art history, and told me tales of palm readers and superstitions. She relied on these things, and though she was a perfect comforting mother at times, there were still times that she made me think she was genuinely crazy. "You were always kind to me."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "Izzy, I think it's time that you get up and do something. If you don't… well, I've read your horoscope, and it's not looking good. You're never going to get better laying around all day, wasting away your days mourning. It's time."

I stared at her, trying to take her seriously. I couldn't even understand what she was saying. "What exactly are you asking me to do, besides clean this room? Because I am not seeing a therapist."

"I want you to go to work." My mom sat up straighter, her voice holding more authority this time. She seemed like she was trying to be in charge, to at least sound like she had some kind of control. "The school principal, Mrs. Crowley-,"

I interrupted her almost immediately. "NO."

It was easy to say no. As soon as she said the word "school," I thought of my old classroom, the one adorned with the colorings and drawings of my young students, and the desks filled with dimpled smiles, and little finger prints all over my classroom windows. I felt my chest tighten, and my tummy churned. I knew immediately that I wasn't ready to teach again.

"Just hear me out, Izzy-,"

"NO! I DON'T WANT A TEACHING JOB! I DON'T WANT TO TEACH. I haven't done it in years, and I don't have any desire to go back!" I told her furiously, my eyes pricking at the thought of little children bobbing around my hips like they used to. My hands instinctively wrapped around my abdomen and I shuddered.

"Isabella Marie Swan! You will stop interrupting me and you will listen!" My mother stood up and crossed her arms across her chest. My eyes widened and my eyebrows rose. I couldn't remember the last time she raised her voice with me. My entire childhood I was never punished, and she never yelled at me. I think I've heard her voice raised maybe three times my whole life, and all three were at my father, before their divorce. Now she was mad at me, and I stopped dead in her tracks.

Immediately guilt and shame washed over me. I felt my cheeks grow hot, and my ears warm. I already felt horrible for yelling at my mother. She had used my full name, a tact she had rarely had to use before to get my attention. She shouldn't have ever had to yell at me.

My mother, who had so graciously sheltered me when I needed it most.

My mother, who had always supported me.

My mother, who had accepted me without question two months ago, when I showed up without any explanation other than a broken heart and a great loss.

She deserved better than this.

"I'm sorry," I said in a small voice. I sat back down, defeated, my feet on the floor and my shoulders hunched.

"Now," She continued, glaring at me, her voice shaking. I looked up at her, my bottom lip sticking out. I dared not cry, though. This wasn't about me at the moment. This was her. This was for my mother, and she deserved my attention. "Mrs. Crowley really needs some help. The headmaster, Dr. Cullen, is away until Friday, and we've had a major problem with a previous teacher."

I sat and waited, not replying. She at least deserved for me to hear her out before politely telling her no again.

I could tell I wasn't going to do it. There was absolutely no way I could go back… I hadn't taught children in years, and I wasn't ready for lesson plans, or being responsible for an entire classroom of children.

I couldn't even control my own life, how could I ever be responsible for other lives?

When my mother saw I wasn't going to interrupt her, she continued, this time more carefully. "Dr. Cullen is expecting Mrs. Crowley to find a replacement before he is back. We're in desperate need for a substitute, Izzy. There's a class of first graders who are so behind because their original teacher isn't here. We thought that since Mrs. Victoria Baker left before Thanksgiving, it wouldn't be a problem until after the holiday, but obviously Thanksgiving is now over and we're facing at least three and a half weeks of a first grade class without any instructor. Now, you know Mrs. Crowley is one of my very good friends and I've told her a lot about you. She asked me last week if I would talk to you about maybe substituting, until Dr. Cullen could find a permanent replacement."

I had remained quiet this entire time, looking down at my hands. They were incredibly pale, shaking, and the nails were chewed to practically bleeding stubs.

"So, what do you think?" My mom asked me softly. She watched me for a moment before adding, "It's just substituting, honey. I knew you would freak out if I told you to go in for an actual interview."

Again, I didn't say anything. I just stared at my hands. I thought of my old classroom again, and of the children sitting on the reading carpet I used to have at the back of the room. I thought of how much I longed to hold my old Cat in the Hat book in my hands and how much I loved to read to my kids at the end of the day, right before their parents picked them up.

"It would only be for a little while… if you don't like it after a day, or decide you really don't have any desire to be there anymore…"

I thought of the little backpacks lining the wall in the back of the classroom, their different colors representing each personality of each child, hanging from their very own hooks. I remember one backpack in specific, a teddy bear's head poking out from between the zippers. It had belonged to a little girl, a girl who had an attachment to her favorite stuffed toy.

My mom stood up and sighed. She smoothed her hands over her slacks and sighed. "Will you at least think about it?"

She walked out of the room, leaving the curtains open and the light flooding through the window. I heard her feet on the stairs, and my face turned to the window again.

I saw a tree in the yard across the road with a cliche tire swing hanging from it. I hadn't noticed a child out playing on it the entire time I had been there at that house. Was there a child that lived in that house? Had it grown up, into an adult, and outgrown the tire swing? My arms tightened around my abdomen again. Would I one day have a child swinging from a tire swing?

I stood and peered into the closet of the guest bedroom I was staying in- the bedroom my mother now claimed belonged to me.

It might as well be mine, I had been here long enough.

Long enough for my mother to unpack the three bags I had brought with me a couple of months ago. Long enough for her to go out and buy me new clothes; new clothes that I had never even taken the store tags off of on account of me never wearing them.

A hanger clinked as I tugged a simple black dress down. I slipped my pajama pants off, my hands roaming over the dress's fabric. It was soft, a t-shirt material. I put it on my bed and continued to undress.

It became painfully obvious how much weight I had lost in the past two months. My grief and mourning had caused me to become skin and bone, to the point that even my underwear hung awkwardly off my hip bones. I pulled on new undergarments, and finally slipped the dress on over my head.

It was like I had pushed my head into an alternate universe rather than through the hole in the fabric. I felt like a washed person, a new person. I took a shaky breath and bent down to retrieve my old black flats from the floor of the closet.

I could do this.

It was just for a day, anyway, and then I could come back until I was ready to try again.