I won't come back.

I don't know how long I lay curled on the forest floor.

I promise that this will be the last time you'll see me.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have at one point, because when I returned to the real world it was in Sam Uley's arms—which I also don't remember.

I don't want you to come.

I do remember how itchy the twigs were, how oddly sweet the rotting leaves smelled, the dark closing in around me.

I'm sorry I let this go on for so long.

I do remember the feeling of floating away, of losing myself. It was like I wasn't in my own body, like I was seeing myself shut down from the outside.

You're not good for me.

I do remember not feeling like it could've happened, because Edward had been so devoted to me just a day ago, he had told me he loved me, that I was his only reason to exist how he was, what had changed, was I too needy, too clingy, not needy enough, not interesting, not beautiful—

Was I too old?

My mind was a whirlwind as I watched myself being ushered into my house. Charlie scooted me along gently, his jacket draped loosely around my shoulders. I tripped on the stairs, didn't bother to catch myself, and Charlie held me upright by my shoulders.

When he deposited me gently on my bed, I didn't lie down. I merely sat on the edge of my bed, hollow, and stared blankly as Charlie tried.

He left me alone for the most part, because he hardly knew how to deal with a teenager, much less one in my state. Every so often, he would pop in with something—a cup of tea, a plate of eggs, some fish, another cup of tea, a movie and an ancient old TV set, yet another cup of tea.

I'm not how sure how long it was before something in me registered that Charlie was hurting just as much as I was. If not more—awkwardly distant and uncertain as he was, I was his daughter, I was his baby girl, and Edward was just the boy I was madly and irrevocably in love with. I couldn't imagine a pain worse than my own, but a part of me wondered if one existed, if that was what Charlie felt now as I sat unresponsive to his care.

The thought lingered in the back of my mind as I began to notice things around me again. Charlie's footsteps were not the usual chief-of-police gait he usually employed; instead, his socked feet fell quiet when he reached the second floor, where I was. He would try desperately to meet my eyes, to get me to eat, to shower, to smile. Every time I didn't, I could see how it hurt him. He would look away quickly, clear his throat, leave the room.

And so I started to sit up.

I remained in my bed except to use the bathroom, but I would sit up when he visited and accept the endless mugs of tea with quiet thanks. The first time I did so, Charlie looked like he could light up a room. A weight came off his shoulders with that simple action, and seeing him improve made me feel the tiniest bit better. And so I continued to sit up, and eventually, I asked him how he was when he visited.

"A helluva lot better now," he would reply. "What about you, Bells?"

"I'm getting there."

After a few days of this, Charlie began trying to reach out more. "Well, uh, if you're feeling up to it," Charlie began, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets, "it's, uh, it's a pretty nice day out. You know how rare they are, and I know how much you love the sun. Opening the window or something might do you a spot of good."

My heart ached as I realized he wasn't going to try to convince me to get up and go outside. "Thanks, Dad. Yeah, I think I'll do that."

"Here, let me get the window."

"No, I got it." We both froze.

He gave me a look that screamed of doubt. "Really?"

"Yeah." I got up to prove it, rocking on my feet before staggering over to the window. Slowly, I tugged open the yellowed lace curtains and lifted the window. Sunlight and cold, crisp Olympian air rushed at me full force, and suddenly I realized just how stuffy and stinky my room was. "I think I need to shower."

His bushy eyebrows shot up. "No kidding?"

"You sound so shocked. I can be hygienic." I halfheartedly raised an eyebrow at him, and his moustache twitched up to show the beginnings of a smile.

"I never would've guessed it. Well, I'll let you get to it, then." And he left, his shoulders that much more lifted, his step that much more lively.

Entering the bathroom, I caught a glance of my state in the mirror for the first time in who knows how long. I'd avoided the mirror like the plague, not wanting to see myself as the tear-streaked shell I'd become. But this was somehow so much worse.

I looked like a scene from The Evil Dead—my hair was matted in every direction, well on its way to becoming just one massive dreadlock. The dark circles under my eyes were stark against my skin, even more deathly pale than usual. My cheeks were hollow, the expression in my eyes dead—no wonder Charlie always looked away. Arming myself with a sturdy brush, I stepped into the shower to try and feel human again.

As I frantically tugged the brush through my conditioner-soaked hair, I reflected on how desperate I felt to return to some semblance of humanity. Not too long ago (I think), I had been raring and glaring to give it up.

At the time, eternity with Edward had seemed like the best possible ending to my fairytale. And on my side, it still sort of was—I wanted nothing more than for my shining knight to return to my side, whisk me away, live happily ever after in each other's company.

But clearly, he didn't feel the same.

Clearly, I was nothing.

Worse than nothing, I wasn't good for him.

The sobs came, racking and heaving and painful. I found myself choking on the steam, feeling trapped in the pale blue tile and the frosted glass. I slammed the door open and tumbled out of the shower onto the bathroom floor, sobbing.

Charlie's frantic knocking sounded at the door. "Bella—honey, are you okay?"

Gasping for relief from the tears racking my lungs, I replied, "I'm fine." I didn't sound fine, even to myself. "I'll be out in a minute, just—just give me a second."

I could hear him hesitating outside the door. "I'll be just down the hall, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

His footsteps retreated. I took a minute to regroup, get my breathing under control, frantically wipe the tears from my eyes. Then, standing, I turned off the water and slowly started making myself presentable. When I exited the bathroom, I had my hair in a towel, a toothbrush in my mouth, and was dwarfed by one of Charlie's old sweatshirts. I caught a glance of myself in the fogged mirror. I still looked awful, but at least I didn't smell like I was dead.

I went to go see Charlie. When I walked up to his room, though, I was greeted by the sound of snoring. Peeking my head in, I saw him for the first time in days—he looked terrible. Exhausted and sallow. How little sleep had he been getting? Has he been taking care of himself at all?

It struck me.

What has Charlie been eating?

I quietly tugged a throw over him and shut the door behind me. He'd clearly lost enough sleep over me lately, he deserved a respite.

Somewhat curious now, I ventured down to the kitchen and felt a twinge of despair deep in my stomach when I saw what he'd done to it. It was coated in dust or grime, with dishes piled haphazardly in the sink. Mugs upon mugs teetered in and around the sink. Tea bags and microwave dinner wrappers were left on the counter. Pans filled with hardened grease were stacked on the stove. I wasn't mentally prepared to even think about the state of the refrigerator yet.

My poor kitchen.

Slowly, I set about cleaning it. Rolling my sleeves up to my elbows, I got to work on the dishes. It seemed to me that every mug we had was here, stained, sad. I sighed, resigned to the work ahead of me, and squirted a healthy portion of dish soap onto the sponge.

I completely lost myself in the task. For the first time in days, I felt nothing. Truly nothing, not the emptiness I had been dealing with before. The emptiness was sad and lonely in its own right, whereas this felt like truly nothing. For the first time in days, I didn't think about Edward or his family, I didn't wallow in my grief, I didn't feel sick to my stomach and woozy with melancholy. I just… cleaned.

When Charlie woke up, it seemed like he immediately went to check on me—I heard his worried short of, "Bella?" when he didn't see me wasting away in bed.

My heart warmed a little bit at his concern, and I quietly called back, "Down here."

His steps thundered down the stairs a few moments later, and he stopped dead at the foot of the bannister when he saw me. I met his eyes warily, unsure of how to conduct myself. "I made coffee."

He didn't say anything.

"And there's pasta on the stove."

He glanced around at the kitchen before resting his gaze once again on me. "Glad you're back, Bells."

My mouth was dry as I replied, "Me, too."

We ate dinner in the living room. There was too much unopened mail on the table.

"Hey, Bells."

"Yeah, Dad."

He shifted in his chair before he continued. "So, there's a big Mariners game coming up this weekend, and—"

"You should invite Billy over."

We were both a little bit surprised by my words. Did I actually just accept the idea of seeing other people?

"I was just going to go down to La Push—"

"Well…" I shrugged, pushing my spaghetti around my plate. "If you would like to have him over, you should. I could even make food."

That got him thinking. "Think you could make some of those wings?"

"The really spicy ones?"

"Yeah."

I nodded, finished my plate, and got up to take his to the sink with mine. "Yeah, you'd have to make a grocery run. I went through the fridge earlier…" I grimaced.

He nodded. "That's a good idea Bells. Why don't you write a list for me?"

"Yeah." I scrubbed the red sauce off of our plates, my hands taking on a red, dry appearance after all the cleaning I'd done. "Yeah, go call him."

"I will." Charlie had an excited glint in his eyes as he dug in his pocket for his cell phone. Leaving the plates to drip dry, I leaned against the counter and took a deep breath as he dialled Billy's number.

"And extend the invitation to Jacob."