Jacob had wanted to kiss me. I'd known it and I'd almost let him – almost given in so that at least I'd be doing something, anything, to get the memory of Edward out of my head. But I'd stopped him, turned away and gotten out of the car without looking back. I knew his expression would have been hurt, but I couldn't look at him. I couldn't turn around and see him. I couldn't let him see what would have been written so clearly on my face: that I wished he were someone else. That I would have given anything for him to be Edward.

For Edward to be sitting in that car, dying for me to kiss him

The little voice in my head whimpered his name for about the ten billionth time that day.

Edward.

Damn it! I threw myself on my bed, spiky little fingers stabbing my guts from the inside. The thought made me angry; Jacob didn't deserve that. It was Edward who deserved to be shut out, the way he had shut me out. It was Edward who should know what it felt like to love someone and know that they would never, ever love you back.

I hated him. At that moment, despite the little voice, I hated him with such intensity a guttural scream came from my throat to my lips. He was a murderer – maybe not in the traditional way, or even the Vampire way – but he could have done me no more harm had he taken a knife and stuck it right in my chest. I was dead inside – to anyone but him. Jacob didn't know it, but all his efforts, all his love, were completely wasted. He may as well try and seduce a corpse. The only one I was capable of loving – and I knew it was true, knew it as well as I knew my own heartbeat, the colour of my eyes – was Edward.

And he was never coming back.

The little voice whimpered again.

It started to rain, the sound at first light and then growing heavier on the roof. I turned towards the window, to where the amber glow of the street lamp illuminated the dark green leaves of my neighbour's tree. The wind was picking up along with the rain, seeming to want to match the anger and misery howling inside me. It didn't have a prayer, I thought sourly.

Charlie would be home soon. The thought bothered me and as fast as I had jumped on the bad, I got up, suddenly not wanting to be caught upstairs sulking like a typical teenager. But then I remembered: the fishing trip. Charlie wouldn't be back for two whole days.

I would be alone for two whole days.

And suddenly I didn't want to be alone. Without thinking I left my room and headed downstairs to the kitchen. I'd made it halfway to the phone to call Jacob before I thought better of it. He would want to talk about it – about what had nearly happened. I didn't want to talk – about anything – I just wanted to scream. If only he could just sit quietly somewhere near and leave me to it.

The image flickered into my mind and I was momentarily stunned by my own selfishness.

Lightning flashed and I rolled my eyes to the empty kitchen. There would be a thunderstorm, after all. Nothing like adding a bit of drama to a dark, stormy night. Now all I needed was a knock on the door.

The sound of knuckle against wood turned my insides to ice.

I stood there, locked in position, not sure I'd heard it right. Surely it was just thunder, or maybe the sound of something blowing against the house.

The knock came again, the same as before, three sharp raps against the wood.

I took two steps towards the hallway, peering around the archway so that I could see the door.

Damn! I'd left the porch light off. If someone was out there I couldn't see him. (Him – why did I automatically think it was a him?). I stared at the door, my feet shaped into stressed little points inside my socks. The small diamond of glass towards the top of the door looked blackly back at me.

Rap… Rap Rap.

This time the knock was different. The first hesitant, as thought the person on the other side were wondering whether to continue or just head off into the night. But then the second two knocks, harder than the first and close together, as though whoever he (or she, I reminded myself, with a sick little feeling) was, was shoving aside all doubt, determined that someone was going to answer the door.

I took another couple of steps forward, now well and truly standing in the hallway. Lightning flashed again and this time, for only a second, I saw the outline of a person.

It was definitely a 'him'.

The little voice in my head started stuttering, words bashing against themselves. My foot lifted as though to take another step forward but then stopped as he was illuminated again, this time clearer than before.

The little voice reached fever pitch and then stopped abruptly, along with my breath.

For there was no mistaking who he was.

Edward.

My knees started to buckle and I let them, the tiles cool against the legs of my jeans. He was there, just behind my front door. The one person I thought I'd never see again, knocking on my door like a neighbour looking to borrow some eggs.

"Bella?"

Through the wind and rain, his voice – his beautiful voice – found me. It was a thousand times more beautiful than I remembered and I gulped convulsively, still so shocked it was all I could do to stay conscious, let alone make a decision about what the hell I was doing.

"Bella…" No question this time. His voice was heavy, tired and with an undercurrent of something else – desperation? The little voice in my head started clamouring that yes, yes that must be it. With effort I shut it down.

"Will you let me in?"

My hand was on the doorknob before I even knew I'd gotten up, and suddenly the knowledge that there was just a thin layer of oak between me and the love of my life completely threw me. Tears erupted from my eyes and my teeth bit hard on my lip – drawing blood.

From the other side of the door I heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his hands as they pressed against the door, imagined the fingers clenching into the wood, splintering it away.

I took an involuntary step back, my tongue tasting the blood pooling from the tiny split in my lip.

"Bella…" This time there was an edge to his voice, the weariness, the desperation tinged with hunger. Whatever he had come back to say, this must be killing him, I thought bitterly.

I wondered why he hadn't just let himself in, appeared in my bedroom the way he had so many times before. Back then. I cringed at the memory. This approach was just so… formal. Like he was trying to treat me with courtesy, trying to respect my privacy, my house, Charlie, something… But why now? Because he'd hurt me and he was sorry? Had he changed his mind? Was there something he'd left undone? Was there a reason he had to tread carefully now?

The questions spun madly in my brain.

Maybe this respect, this courtesy was all he could offer me now. Now that his feelings for me had died.

A flame of rage, smothered and deadened by his shock appearance, flared inside of me.

His feelings had died but mine lived on – horribly, ridiculously, unstoppably strong. Every minute, every second of loving him while knowing he didn't love me back sickened me. I wanted to rip him out of my heart with my bare hands, I wanted to die rather than go on loving him so pathetically. He should have thought of that first, I raged to myself. He should have known his feelings were only so-deep, that me – being stupidly, pitifully human - would open not only her heart, but her soul to him. And, as such, never ever be able to let it go.

"Bella?" His voice –

Edward!

- sounded calmer and I imagined his fists had unclenched and were now at his sides. Without wanting to I pictured his eyes. He would be staring at the door. If not for the wood, I'd be staring right at him.

My throat constricted with sudden force, panic stealing my breath as efficiently as a killer's noose. I took another step away suddenly sure I wasn't ready, that I'd never be ready to hear what he was going to say. For it could only be bad – I'd been a fool to believe he could love me to begin with. As much as I wanted him, as much as every nerve in my body was howling for me to open the door and just take of him what I could – whether it be five minutes or five seconds – my fear was stronger. My fear screamed that if I opened the door, even one split-second of his golden eyes – even if they were empty of all but sympathy – would make me love him just that little bit more, make my heart stretch that little bit more, make my soul fall just that little bit deeper. And then it would really be over, for no anger, no fear, no nothing would keep me from throwing myself into his arms, clinging to him even as he tried to remove me, screaming, weeping, begging him to let me be in his life – if not as his love, if not as a friend than as anything. I would get down on my knees, on my face, if need be, if it would make him take me with him. And as I looked at the door, even with it still in place and his pale amber eyes, his perfect face, his sweet smell still an inch of wood away, I felt my heart swell, felt that extra love start – despite everything.

And it took everything I had to turn around and run.