A/N: This takes place before Edward meets Bella.
I snatched the journal and began rereading my life as she opened the door.
"Are you sure you don't want to join us? It could be fun," Esme asked, pity already painting her expression. "Everyone wants you to come with us." Her thoughts were as pure and loving as any mother's could be in this situation. I could hear the others preparing for the night, ready to leave, ready to steal away to a night of love and blood and groaned internally as I answered.
"Thank you, Esme. But please, go and enjoy the hunt with the others. I'd prefer to stay in tonight." I returned to my journal, reaching for a pen as I slid down into the divan.
"Edward, I just…" Her thoughts were unbearably solicitous, concerned for my solitary life and knowing she could offer nothing to wrest it from me. Her sympathy cut deeper than any solitude and I struggled to maintain an empty expression. "I hope you have a nice evening, Edward."
I glanced up to her, smiling genuinely, trying without success to alleviate her dismay. "You as well, mother."
She closed the door before the pain of her failure overtook her features. As she rushed to Carlisle's side down the stairs, she shook her head. Carlisle wrapped his arm around her, keeping his thoughts focused on her beauty as they sped away into the night.
With the house empty of bodies and thoughts, I rose and pressed play on the stereo. Debussy filled the air, its sweet longing keening within my chest. This calming music did nothing to dislodge the benevolent melancholy Esme's thoughts had left behind.
Silently, I padded slowly in my bare feet to Alice and Jasper's room and stood at the doorway, looking in but joining the scene. How many times had their love play barraged my mind? I'd never know why she called him pumpkin, nor would I ask. As I walked on past Rosalie and Emmett's closed doors, my thoughts turned to the surprising sweetness and gentility of their last encounter.
I continued down the staircase to my piano at last. I lifted the fallboard and sat at the bench. These moments of self-pity and yearning were best resolved at the keyboard, but I found nothing within to will myself to play. I slumped forward, resting my forearms on the music deck, and let my cheek rest on my arms. Would I be loved? It was not the first time the question had come to me, nor the first Valentine's Day that found me so wistful and pensive. Surely, it would not be the last.
I raised my head and lifted my hands, letting them find their natural home on the keys. I played along with the Debussy flowing in my empty room above, allowing my thoughts to drift along with the music, finding comfort within the notes for the hidden desolation I suffered alone tonight.