More "Rosalie looks deep inside her soul" rantings from yours truly.
Disclaimer: Own Twilight? EW.
(Oh, and in case you hadn't figured it out, the "he" I keep referencing is Edward. It's basically all about Rose's self-realization, and her gradual understanding that it doesn't matter if he doesn't love her.)
It occurs to her quite suddenly that perhaps her perfection is the very reason he doesn't love her.
She's sitting alone one sunny day, deep in the woods, book resting unopened in her lap as she gazes idly at the dim shafts of gold filtering through the leafy canopy. He's on her mind, as usual. She's in one of her more stubborn moods, blaming their absence of chemistry entirely on him and seeing herself as lacking nothing. After all, she's everything he could want. She's flawless, she's ideal, she's… perfect.
The unwelcome thought that perhaps this in itself is a flaw strikes her abruptly, and, horror-stricken, she drops her book and scrambles to her feet, racing from her chosen tree trunk to the small stream she's taken to reading near.
Her reflection stares back at her, slightly distorted by the mild movement of the water but still beautiful as ever. Lips parted, eyes-- now a deep amber with only the faintest hints of red left-- wide, golden hair flying, she looks like an angel in her simple white dress, her skim glimmering faintly in the muted sunlight.
Does he perceive her as too pure, because her record with blood is so much better than his? Because she certainly doesn't see herself that way; she feels just as dirty and vicious and disgusted as he must, if not more.
Or does she simply appear too untouchable, the way she's always presenting herself as completely without flaws, vividly unreal, so… porcelain?
Because she's not some fragile little golden-haired doll, apt to chip if anyone so much as looks at her too hard, she thinks, watching her own expression harden in the stream. She's been through worse than all of them, worse than whatever he thinks he might do to her, and it hasn't broken her. Rather, it's made her stronger, partially in that she no loner wants to be perfect. She's not, and she's sick of pretending to be. She just wants to be her for once, not someone else's vision of how she should be-- including her own, for a while.
But not anymore.
As she runs back toward the house with reckless abandon, leaving the long-forgotten book at the foot of the tree, laughing wildly, hair streaming out behind her, she realizes belatedly that her epiphany was supposed to make him love her.
Well, that ties in nicely with her new theme: Who cares what he thinks? She's through with pretending.
And to hell with anyone who won't take her as she is.