A/N: I do not own Twilight. That (unfortunately) belongs to Stephenie Meyer.
"Bella." His fingers lightly traced the shape of my lips. "I will stay with you – isn't that enough?"
I smiled under his fingertips. "Enough for now."
He frowned at my tenacity. No one was going to surrender tonight. He exhaled, and the sound was practically a growl.
I touched his face. "Look," I said. "I love you more than everything else in the world combined. Isn't that enough?"
"Yes, it is enough," he answered, smiling. "Enough for forever."
And he leaned down to press his cold lips once more to my throat.
I sighed as I closed my battle-worn version of Twilight. The cover was bend and creased from uncountable readings. I had no idea what reason was behind my addiction. No one in the story reminded me of anyone, and I personally was nothing like the heroine. The imaginary characters of the book just drew me in. Like a fish to the bait, I was hooked.
The some 500 pages were nothing to me. I had completed them in the usually three hours. Today, however, was different. Instead of the happy and content feeling after finishing a favorite, I felt a hollow empty feeling – more like no feeling at all. It was strange, but somehow reassuring. It just dawned on me that not all life was a fairy-tale full of Edwards.