"I'll be back before you have time to miss me. Look after my heart—I've left it with you." – Eclipse, Stephenie Meyer

Preface

"Bella!" Edward shouted.

I couldn't make my body move. I couldn't open my eyes. It was a lot like the time James bit me. There was the fire in my veins and there was the same heavy, throbbing, burning pain. It was also like when I had almost drowned—my poor attempt at cliff-diving—only, Jacob wasn't here to save me. It was like the drowning incident because I just couldn't fight anymore. My mind couldn't come up with any reasons.

"Bella—Please, Bella!"

Okay, one reason. The reason could be summed up in one word: Cullen. Putting Edward ahead of that reminded me to fight. I had him. I had his family. Charlie wasn't as ever-present, but he was still there. I suppose Jacob was there, other than my intent of becoming a vampire—which seemed impossible as my seconds of life remaining ticked away—turning him away from me as well as his apparent and sudden imprint on some nameless, faceless opponent. I had a reason or two to live, but my mind couldn't rationalize this key factor. Edward was crying for me—tearless sobs and an anguished face—but I was unable to tell him to stop. My voice was gone.

"Bella, don't give up, please," my angel begged. He held me close—ignoring how good my blood smelled as it gushed from my many wounds—and brushed my face as the tears I couldn't control leaked from my eyes. "Bella, please…Carlisle is coming. Wait. Be strong, just until then."

I wanted to remind Edward that he knew a thing or two as well. I remembered—even in the hazed state that my mind was in—that Edward had some degree in medicine. It wasn't as updated as Carlisle, but it was still there. I could tell from the pressure on my leg—gushing with that important red life-substance—that Edward was doing his best. The pressure didn't cease, so I guessed that there was something wrapped around it, slowing the blood loss.

"Edward," Alice whispered—her voice hoarse and strained. He looked at her. Both of them stared, wide-eyed and paler than usual. Alice shook her head sharply, looking as close to ungraceful that a vampire could ever possibly be. I could only guess that she'd had a vision, possibly seeing my death. Edward shouted something at her, turned back to me—saying something softer to me—but I couldn't hear. All noises faded, faces blurred, becoming a backdrop the increasing blackness.

"Bella, please," my angel begged again.

I couldn't see anymore. I couldn't hear anymore. I certainly couldn't breathe anymore. I was afraid…Terribly and totally afraid. It didn't matter if I was going to heaven or hell or nowhere at all. I wouldn't be anywhere or anything without Edward. I felt something warm. It streaked on some part of by body—if I still had a body—which I assumed was my cheek or somewhere close to there. Something cold touched that same streaked spot.

I promised myself, right then and there, that I would come back to him. It would take a miracle, but I would. I couldn't allow him to suffer, to cry. I wouldn't allow myself to feel the pain of leaving him. I used the last of my voice, coughing out something hot and sticky before I did so.

"Promise me," I croaked through gasps for air. "Promise, no Volturi, Edward. Stay alive." I heard a velvety sound, possibly saying my name. "Edward, please. Stay alive, for me. Please," I begged. "Stay for me."

Too short words were muttered and the cold touched my cheek. I tried to smile, but I lost feeling at that point. There was total darkness surrounding me. And somewhere far off, I thought I saw what looked like...a baby.

Chapter 1: Meeting

"So sorry for your loss."

"Thanks for coming."

"I wish I would have known...I wish..."

"It's alright to cry, Mrs. Newton."

"But—I know it's silly—but I gave a hard time about late assignments," Mrs. Newton, the school's biology teacher, sobbed. She held a handkerchief to her nose, blew hard, the sound resembling a sour trumpet. Her nose was red and her eyes had small puffs from a few sleepless nights. She had premature gray hair—from sixteen years of stress because of teaching noisy school-kids—which was thrown into a messed bun at the back of her head. Her body was thinner, and her face was wrinkle-free. The black clothes she wore were plain—a long skirt and blouse. "I shouldn't have been so hard. I had no idea what was going on."

"It's alright, Mrs. Newton," I assured her again. "I'm sure that she didn't hold it against you. It wasn't your fault."

"But still," she blabbed needlessly, her tears blurring her vision so that she had to wipe her eyes with her snot-filled white cloth again. "I had no idea how troubled she was! I think moving here was the problem."

"No, it wasn't," I corrected. "Isabella loved it here."

"It's probably a curse," Mr. Newton—the school's physics teacher—muttered. "She was named after Isabella Swan, right?"

"Yes," I recalled. "She was our mother's daughter. Our half-sister. We never knew her though. She died nine or so months before I was born."

"Renee was the connection, right?" Mrs. Newton asked.

"Yes, she was my mother, Isabella Swan's mother, and my sister's mother."

"Chief Swan was heartbroken was she died," Mrs. Newton cried. "I was a friend of hers, back in high school."—she grinned through her tears—"We fought over the same guy for a while."

By the way she looked at her husband, I could tell who won that 'same guy'. I could also guess who that guy was. I thought about asking, just to be courteous, but I wasn't in the mood. Losing your sister does that to you.

"Mike, whatever happened to the Cullens?" Mrs. Newton asked. "They moved, right? Not that I blame them. Bella was going to marry Edward, but…but…" And then she burst into more sobs.

"We're sorry for your loss," Mr. Newton repeated, and then towed his wife away. I heard him mumble "I blame Edward for it—He was bad for her," before fading from view.

Normally, I would have been curious, but again, I wasn't in the mood.

I browsed through the house, the one I had barely begun to call a home. I had lived in Forks for less than a year, and already tragedy had struck. Forks wasn't good for my family. It was, as Mr. Newton said, a curse. Issie (my nickname for my sister) had suffered the consequences of that curse.

Isabella Swan had died in Forks nearly sixteen years ago. My sister, to be fourteen in a month, died a week ago. Suicide.

I shuddered at the reality of the situation. It was awful. I never thought it was possible. Sure, she had been depressed. I had seen it. I had tried to help, but she wouldn't—or couldn't—talk about it. She didn't have any friends, other than me, and I was growing distant. I spent too much time trying to be social with my school friends. I wanted to belong, not spend time with an annoying little sister. I had been blind not to see the extent of Issie's pain. My mind was too warped with I'm-still-unhappy-with-moving and not focused on I'm-so-sick-of-Isabella-Swan's-shadow. Issie always felt like she had to live up to Renee's expectation for a daughter. I felt it too sometimes, but not as much.

Issie looked more like Phil, our father. I looked more like Renee, more like Isabella Swan. Issie had a closer personality though. She wore sweats, comfortable clothes, and never gave into the norm. She was casual wear; I was go-with-the-flow and don't-make-waves. Renee said they favoured the same books too. The classics, like Wuthering Heights. I liked books too, but I was more of a fantasy, old English time-set, or Shakespeare sort of girl. Books with the negativity of Wuthering Heights didn't appeal to me. Issie, on the other hand, loved it. She said she could identify with the characters. Renee thought it was wonderful that she was enjoying the same books as her deceased daughter. I thought it was unhealthy.

Renee was my mother, and ever since I was old enough to understand her, I had to—in a way—take care of her. She was still my mother, so she was the grown-up. Her brain was too scrambled sometimes, though. Thank God for Phil, my dad. He kept the bills paid—even though coaching wasn't the best paying job. Renee's teaching was what kept the bills completely paid, and what had kept Issie and me in school in the past. Rene had substituted for a few years when I was young, when I couldn't take of myself, when Phil was travelling trying to get a better signing, when Issie was just born. When I was twelve and could babysit Issie, Renee went back to school to get a better education and a better job in turn. In between raising two girls, dealing with the haunting memories of a lost daughter, and scheduling time in for Phil, Renee got her education and her better job. She taught elementary school anywhere from grade 2-3 was her usual range. She taught grade 2 when I was fourteen—Issie was twelve—and she taught grade 3 the next year.

Last year, we moved to Forks for a reason unknown to me or Issie. Renee wouldn't talk about it. Phil told us that Renee hadn't visited Forks since the funeral and she needed to go back. Issie and I were used to taking care of Renee by that point. It was how our lives worked. We took care of her, and she (and Phil) took care of us. It was a system that worked, and we weren't about to ruin it. So, we moved to Forks. Renee taught grade five. Issie got depressed soon after.

We moved at the end of the summer. Renee visited Charlie, but Issie and I didn't. It wasn't until, three months later, that the call came in that Issie was at the police station that I even met Police Chief Swan. Phil was still in Florida—the move was only for one year, so he wanted to keep the house ready and clean back home—and I was home alone. Renee had to stay late to mark a few tests. I called Renee, told her that I would go. Renee said that I should go—it wasn't too far of a walk, good exercise—and she would meet me in half an hour. She wanted me to keep Issie company until then. Talk to Charlie and get the low down on whatever the problem was. I spoke to Charlie, but the only thing that was really said was that I looked a lot like Renee. A lot like Isabella Swan.

Issie's problem wasn't good. It was the beginning of the end.

It wasn't an awful offense, as far as how bad it could have been. She had stolen something—I forget now—from a shop in town, an outdoorsy kind of store, belonging to the Newton's. When I asked Issie why she had done it, she said it was for when she ran away. I begged her not to run away, to not even mention it too Renee. It would upset her too much.

All in all, that was my biggest mistake. I had asked Issie not to talk to Renee. She may be the kind of woman who is best when care-free and reckless, but she could see so many things. Issie was questioned and questioned by Renee, but Issie didn't speak. She didn't want to upset her mother, nor disobey me. Issie exploded one day, furious, yelling that Renee had no right to question her. Issie stormed out, disappeared for hours, but came back. She was really quiet after that. All this took place in the fourth month of our stay in Forks. It rained almost every one of those days. It might have snowed twice, but other than that, every day was precipitation in some form or another.

It was the beginning of month five, January, when it snowed every day, that Issie committed suicide. There no letter of farewell, no warning. Charlie had been the one to check things out after Issie was found—in the woods just a block or two from our house. Charlie said it was either a suicide or a murder. But, because of the strange markings, it made sense that it was a suicide. Also, everyone knew—probably even Renee, who would have told Phil—that Issie didn't like Forks. She didn't like life at that point either. She was as silent as a lamb and her room was always locked and dark.

"Hi, honey, how are you doing?"

I looked up. Renee. "I'm fine, Mom," I lied. I was a terrible liar, but Renee was too distraught to tell. Her face was tear-stained, red and blotchy, and the dark circles under her eyes showed that she had about as much sleep as I had had—none. I had the same dark circles under my eyes as well.

"Mr. and Mrs. Newton showed," she commented, looking around the room. "Mr. Yorke too, the principal, right? I think all her teachers showed. That's nice of them."

"Not many students," I muttered.

"Not too many knew her," she said. Her face fell as she said this.

"Well, school's too busy to meet anyone," I offered, trying to take the guilt from her. "I only make friends because I introduce myself to everyone who sits beside me. Issie was too shy to…"

The word 'was' rang in my head. Not 'is', but 'was'. Past tense. It was horrifying to think that Issie was past. She had no future. She was a slaughtered lamb, destroyed by the unforgiving world. How was it, as kind and sweet as she was that she didn't deserve to live?

"Excuse me," I gasped, running away from my mother's outstretched arms, upstairs, door locked, into my room. I threw myself onto my bed and cried for half an hour. When I looked across the room at my door, I was reminded of Issie's room across the hall. I cried again and didn't stop until I had cried myself to sleep.

I had hoped that the sunny rays that peeped through my window were a sign of a good day, but when I threw my blinds off the window I was reminded of how much Issie loved the sun. I remembered that my sister, my best friend, was dead.

It was going to be a long day, a long life, without her. I worried that I might come to the same end. What if I wasn't strong enough? I had to stay alive for Renee, who had now lost two daughters. I had to stay alive for Phil, who had lost his first daughter. I had great parents who would miss me if I took my life. I refused to add anymore grief to their lives. I loved them far too much to do that to them.

Not that I doubted that Issie had loved them, she just had more troubles than I did. I could easily fake a few smiles, put on the facade for my 'friends', and convince my parents that I was fine, that way they could deal with their grief without worrying over me. I could do it. For at least a while. After I left home I could deal with my sorrow then. For now, I would be happy-go-lucky. I would… I had to…

No way. I couldn't. How could I pretend like Issie had never been? She was a part of me. I couldn't allow her to slip away. I had a right to mourn. I had a right as a human being to feel. I wasn't a careless monster who could pretend to be distracted in order to show my parents that I might be moving on. That would be a lie. I was hurting inside, and I was allowed to express that pain outwardly too.

NO! What was I thinking? I needed the facade, not only for my parents' sake but for mine as well. I needed to pretend to be able to keep myself together. I needed to disguise the pain, shield it within myself. It was the only way to heal. I had to shut it in.

But I needed one last glimpse behind first, before I could move forward.

It was a long walk to the Forks cemetery, so it was best I headed out early. I tossed around my room, looking for anything to wear. I found jeans and a form-fitting black sweater. I looked over my appearance in the mirror. I liked that my bust decreased in size thanks to the mirror. Not that I was overly-huge in that particular area, it's just that I preferred to remain inconspicuous. It wasn't helpful to have outstanding features when I didn't want to stand out.

Now, I wasn't overly gorgeous, I wasn't even all that pretty, but I did have an okay look—I wasn't ugly, and that would have to do for me. I wasn't the girl you would see on the cover of a magazine, or even inside it. I was natural looking, full lips—with an almost invisible scar, the width of a tooth from barely above the edge of my bottom lip down, from when my tooth went through my lips when I was three and fell. It blended in with the colour of my skin, and unless someone was studying my every feature, they wouldn't catch it. The rest of my features were straight, plain. So I didn't wear make-up. It would only make me look hideous. My skin was pale, thanks to years of hiding from the sun—Issie was the sun-lover, not me—I preferred the comfort of indoors, reading books under the covers of my bed, rather than stretching across cool grass as light warmed your face and soaked into your skin. I was practically albino, except my eyes were big and brown, my hair a light blonde-brown. My features, and my body, had a soft slenderness. I had always been jealous of Issie's features, which were sharp and she had the body of a short model. Me, I was just taller than her five foot four inches, but without the striking looks.

Issie had hid her beauty though. I just wasn't that fortunate. I had tried to wear the clothes that were in style, taking advice from my school friends on what to buy, what to wear, and what wasn't cool. I hated skirts though. I preferred the comfort of pants, jeans, two legs with no chance of something flying up in the wind. So, all I wore was jeans. Black, blue, ripped, with the butterfly, with the writing on the front of the left leg, without the sparkles but with the rime-stones—whatever helped me fit in…whatever my shopping advisers recommended. I went with the flow, caused no waves. I was no Issie. I had no backbone. In a way, she wasn't a silent lamb at all. She was the hunter, some large, wild cat preparing its move in stealth. I was just a quiet, helpless lamb being directed by my shepherds. Useless and easy for the kill.

My clothes were picked out. I scanned my room. My bed wasn't made, but I could do that later. The mess of sheets with a boring design—pale yellow sheets striped with golden-brown in vertical clumps and then scattered golden-brown stripes horizontally—was strewn over my single mattress. The chestnut-brown bedside table had my alarm clock and an old lamp on it. The bright blue letters read 10:00 AM. It was now or never. I stepped away from my large rectangular mirror—which almost took up the whole wall across from my bed because the room was so small—and burst from my room with new energy. I took a right down the old staircase just a foot away from my door. I skipped a couple steps on the way down and rushed into the kitchen. Renee was already there. She was crumpled in the kitchen chair, head in her hands, and elbows on the table.

I wasn't sure what to say. 'Good morning, Mom' seemed too casual. I wasn't sure if entering the room would disturb her. I decided to be quick, just zip in and then out. I avoided the kitchen table and went for the fridge. There wasn't anything in there, just an apple. A bright red apple. I reluctantly took it. It wasn't that I minded apples, in fact they were my favourite fruit (even if having a favourite fruit was weird). I just wasn't in the mood for an apple for breakfast.

"Oh, Steph," Renee greeted, standing from the chair and coming over to hug me. "Good morning. Sorry, I did hear you come in."

"That's fine," I allowed, reaching my arms out as she hugged me. "I just came in. You didn't miss much."

"I'm just a little scatter brained lately," she grinned. The expression didn't touch her eyes, which were shallow and pained—a reflection of my eyes. "I haven't had time to get groceries. Dad just went out a few minutes ago. I was going to go with…but I had a few things to take care of."

"Sure, sure." I studied her expression again. Dealing with loss was more than a few things. It was one HUGE thing—but I was glad to see that she remembered me. She wanted to protect me. She was, even through all the horrible pain inside her, still being my mom. I appreciated that and allowed a genuine smile to touch my lips.

"I'm going out, Mom, is that okay?" I asked carefully. I didn't want her to worry.

"Where?"

"The cemetery." I was reluctant to answer, but I couldn't lie. Literally, couldn't. I was unable to make up a believable story, so why not tell the truth?

"Oh," she said. "Oh, sure, Steph. Honey, just don't be out too late. Charlie said he was coming over later. He had a few final things to say. I said you'd be here so…please, no later than three, okay, baby?"

"I promise."

"Thank you." She kissed the top of my head. "Don't forget your jacket, it snowed again."

"Thanks, Mom," I grinned, taking her hand. "I love you, Mom. I'll be back by three, safe and sound."

"I know, sweet," she mumbled, tears building in her eyes. "I know."

I hugged her tightly, and she held back sobs, shaking for a few minutes. I held back all my sobs. I was going to save that for in front of the grave.

"Okay, go." She waved me off.

I put on my long white jacket—my friend Catlin had ordered me to get it, saying it was 'meant for me'—zipped it all the way to my neck, put on my black winter boots, and then tumbled out into the cold, closing the door stiffly behind me.

I trudged through the thick snow slowly, not bothered by the slow-pace. I liked the snow. I liked rain too. The only problem was the cold. My nose was probably bright red, as were my cheeks. I pulled my gloves out of my right pocket and roughed my fingers into them. I rubbed my hands together and sneezed a few times. I blamed the sneezing on the lack of sleep and not the cold.

It took a long while to get where I was going. It felt like forever. I had spent the time thinking of nothing, avoiding thinking of something that would hurt, and thus wasted time with the numbness that enshrouded my being. It was easier not to think at all, but it was extremely boring as well. I picked boring over painful, it was the better choice.

It was Monday, but I had no intention of going to school. Renee and Phil hadn't forced me to go either, which made me love them more than I already did. I was also glad that Phil had been able to come the very next day—the day after Issie's…death—and try to comfort Renee and me. He may have goal and desires, but he was the best dad a girl could ask for. It was too bad that Issie hadn't seen that. I was sure that if she had, she might have stuck around longer.

It was Monday, and I couldn't care less how much school I was missing. I had two weeks—more or less—of homework to catch up on. I didn't care for it though. I had no intention of doing it for a while—or even forever.

It was Monday, so the cemetery was open and hardly anyone was there. I could see someone, just one someone besides the old man leaving as I entered. I couldn't tell who it was. They were young, from what I could tell. Their skin was so pale that they blended into the snow. It was only the dark jacket and black pants that gave way to the figure. As I got closer the hair colour became clearer: a mess of reddish-brown bronze. It was a boy, for certain. He was six foot one, maybe six foot two. I couldn't tell from too far away.

I noticed where he was standing. It was a little uncomfortable knowing that I would have to walk up right next to him. My sister's grave was right next to where he was standing. I stuffed my hood over head, knowing that my long hair wouldn't be enough to hide myself. I hoped that hood would take away some of the cold from my numbing ears as well as provide hiding. I walked up beside him and stared at my sister's grave stone. I tried to focus on the words written, but this stranger was distracting me.

I glanced over at the grave next to Issie's—choking on my thoughts as Issie's name passed through my mind. The grave read: Isabella Swan. I read the date, thinking over how strange it was the when she died I was inside Renee, barely a baby yet, just being formed. Sometimes—not that I ever told anyone—I wondered if Bella Swan's death was the price of my life—the price paid allowing me to be born.

I looked back to Issie's grave, reading the name printed there. Isabella Dwyer: Beloved Daughter and Sister. It wasn't enough. She couldn't be summed up in two titles.

I looked away—teary-eyed and ready to start sobbing—finding that my eyes landed on the grave that the mysterious stranger stood ahead of. I looked up at him and immediately, making me jump, he looked at me.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"That's alright," he said in a beautiful velvety voice.

I stared wordlessly, thoughtlessly, at my sister's grave, suddenly not thinking about her. I felt the pain of her loss still, but I was too intent on the stranger to cry. I knew I would be able to cry when he left, so I thought I might as well take interest in my curiosity. My mind was clear for once in the longest time, since news of my sister's death. I was going to go with whatever clear emotions I had. Besides, this person next to me was mourning over Isabella Swan, dead for sixteen years.

He looked maybe seventeen—too young to know her personally—from what small glimpse I had caught of his face. It was perfectly normal to talk to someone my age, even if he was a stranger—right…?

"You knew Isabella Swan?" I asked. I looked at Isabella's grave, but not at his face, in case he was looking back.

"Yes, I knew her," was his small-voiced response. It took a few minutes, but eventually, I found that his head turned up and he appeared to be looking at me. I looked up. Something like shock flew across his face.

"Did you?" he asked, his voice sounding drained, but still rich and beautiful.

"Not personally," I said. "I'm her half-sister. You might know Renee, Isabella Swan's mother…?" He nodded. "She's my mother. She's Issie's—Isabella's—my sister's…She was my sister's mother. She's dead…" I closed my eyes, closed my mouth tight, unable to finish the sentence.

"I see," he said. He was quiet. "Her name was also Isabella?"

"Yeah," I answered, wiping a tear from my eyes, remembering that it was cold and that tears were water and water could freeze. I didn't want icicles on my skin or in my eyes. "Yeah, Renee—our mother—named her after her first daughter. Everyone was against it, but Renee liked the name, and she was hurting without…It was crazy, but Renee is like that." I looked back to Issie's grave. "I still can't believe…Forks."

"Forks?" the velvet-voiced stranger echoed.

"Well, my mom hates Forks," I explained. "But, she said she had to move here. She had to see Isabella's grave again. It was too long being away from her. Sixteen years, you know? It's a long time." I sighed and glanced over at the Swan grave. "My whole life in fact."

The stranger was silent, so I took this as an opportunity to steal a gaze at his face. I nearly died when I did. What I saw was the face of an angel. Normally, 'handsome' it the word you use for boys, right? Well, handsome wouldn't do. He was beautiful, looking something like a movie star posing in a shot for a grief scene, but still holding that flawless look. His features were straight, angular. He must have been sleep-deprived though, because purplish bruises under his eyes were his only flaw, and still, it seemed to complete the look. His eyes, which I saved for last, were a strange golden-colour, striking against his white marble skin. He was the type that could wear a dish-rag and pull it off. But, his clothes were fashionable enough, considering how small of a town Forks was. I could only guess that he was from out of town.

"Renee hates Forks," he repeated. His saddened features lit for a second with some small measure of hope.

I nodded my head mindlessly. "She loves the sun, same with Issie—or at least—she used to…"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, as if her death was his fault.

"It's not your fault," I disagreed, trying to sound light-hearted, and failing miserably. "It's not anyone's fault." No, that wasn't true. "Well, it's my fault, but no one will let me say it." I watched his face, unable to look away. He looked confused. "You see, it was suicide."

His features fell. "That's what I heard."

I nodded again, dragging my eyes off him. "I told her not tell Renee about something and she never spoke to Renee about another problem again. It's all my fault, but no one agrees with me. It's hard when no one thinks you're guilty. It takes all the fun out of confessing to the crime," I joked, finding that my vision was blurred with tears again. I wiped at them, unsuccessfully attempting to dry my eyes. The tears wouldn't stop. The flood gates were busted open, irreparably.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I interrupt you, start talking, and then break down into"—I gasped, sobbing still—"into tears. You shouldn't have to deal with me. I'm sorry."

I must a have cried for an hour. My hands were constantly wiping at my face, warming my cheeks. It wasn't snowing, but the ground was white with sticky snow anyways. My knees wobbled, and I nearly fell over, but something icy caught me.

"Careful," the stranger warned me. "It's cold out here and falling in that snow might make you sick."

I must have frightened him when I looked up, an expression resembling a deer in headlights, right before it gets hit.

"You…you're still here?" I gasped.

And then, he laughed. I was shocked. He was shocked. He stopped laughing—a beautiful chuckle, warm and soft sounding—and stared at my face incredulously. He studied for a while. I was thinking "Is he crazy?" for a minute. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, just long enough for me to catch it. He then tossed a weary look at the grave he had been standing before. It was then that I noticed that his hand was on my arm, keeping me from falling over—I was leaning at an impossible angle, impossibly still standing thanks to his strange strength—and had taken a few steps close to me to do so.

"You look a lot like her," he whispered.

"That's what everyone says," I replied, mimicking his tone, sad and quiet. "Issie was named after her, and I look like her. Issie reads—read…the same books as her, I act like her. Issie and I aren't ourselves. We're her. Issie told me once that that was the reason why."

"The reason why what?" he asked. I couldn't tell if he was asking because he felt he should or because he was honestly curious.

"She was so…sad," I answered. "Issie said she didn't like being compared. It wasn't easy for her. Sometimes I wonder if I have to take her place now. I wonder if I am supposed to be the new Isabella Swan."

His face flashed to anger at this. I would have been frightened but the look of anguish told me that he wasn't going to hurt me, only that he was disgusted at the fact that I was comparing myself to the standard of Isabella Swan.

"She was loved, very fondly. She meant a lot to everyone. I never met her, but I wish I had. For everyone to need her so much…for Mom to need her so much…for Charlie to miss her that much…She must have been wonderful."

"She was," he said, his voice low and sad again. He lifted me forward, straightening my odd angle.

"I'm Stephanie, by the way," I introduced, my voice still hoarse from speaking such personal words. I was shocked with how much I had shared with this stranger. Normally, I kept to myself, but I automatically trusted him, as if I had known him before. "What's your name?"

"Edward," he said. He paused, considering giving away his last name. "Edward Cullen."

"Edward Cullen," I repeated…such a familiar a name. "How did you know Isabella Swan?"

He avoided the question skill-fully. "What was your last name?"

"Dwyer," I answered.

"Renee stayed with Phil," he said. "That's good."

"How did you know that?"

"I have my ways," he smiled crookedly.

My heart melted upon seeing that beautiful crooked smile, waking from the numbness of the cold. Something flashed across my mind—the image of desire was what I assumed it was. It was the image of his face, close to mine, kissing me. It was the image of him next to me, just lying beside me as we spoke. It was an image of time spent in a shiny silver Volvo. It was him, sitting next to me, smiling, in the Biology classroom, watching school videos in the dark. Silly dreams they were—but they were vivid, as if they were memories returning to me.

I checked the time on my cellphone that I had stuffed in my jacket pocket before I left. It was 2:00 PM. I needed that time to get home for three, before three, so I could be ready and presentable at three. For Charlie.

"I better get going," I mumbled reluctantly shying away from Edward Cullen—thinking his name sent electric sparks through my blood. "I have to be home in time to see Charlie Swan."

He nodded once, suddenly looking perplexed, as if some expectation hadn't been met. Shock was well-hidden, only appearing in his eyes and not his expression. His marble forehead didn't even crease with worry. He was calm on the outside.

I walked passed him soundlessly, and then felt the urge to speak. "Say hi to Alice for me," I said, waving my hand behind me.

I had no idea who Alice was—although, I had known a second ago, but it slipped from me—but I had to say it. I could sense tension in the air, guessing that my assumed name must have been correct.

I walked the remainder of the way home in silent thought, thinking about Edward Cullen. For some reason, I knew I would see him again.

And I was right.

Thanks for reading! Please review! If you're confused by anything, mention it in a review or otherwise I assume that I am going to address it in a later chapter. All things will be explained in time!

EDIT JAN-31-10: I fixed up some spelling and grammar grossness, so hopefully it's easier to read now. I will be doing the same with the other chapters in time. THANKS!