I did not write Twilight. I do not own Edward, nor Bella. That privilege is Ms. Meyers.
You may not understand the following. You may not like it. I don't really know the place it came from, but I needed to write it. It is what it is.
No, it doesn't make it better.
It isn't the warmth. It isn't the smile. It isn't the body, breathing in and out regularly next to her.
It never has been.
She's been aware of the discrepancy. Or so she thinks. It has been so easy. Wake up, smile, flirt, make love (or try to), sleep. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. A dance, practiced, boring but easy. She is good at it.
No, it doesn't make it better.
He hasn't a clue. He sleeps next to it every night, makes love to it on Thursdays, but he isn't aware. He adores her soft curves, the coarse hair he asks her to keep, the sensitive pebbles in concentrated regions that react to his tongue. He is good at it, too.
Flowers on Valentines day and jewelry on their anniversary. It's dinner at Alberto's for birthdays, where Tony knows them and greets them warmly with bruschetta he keeps aside in June and September.
They don't fail.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Repeat.
Alice says it's meant to be, a sign of permanence, that together they practically mint good luck.
Soul mates.
Something bristles inside her at the two words, something just to the right of her heart. As if she deserves something like this. As if this is meant for her. Her face flushes, hot heat, contained fury and it's barely tolerable to keep her fists. He thinks her blush is warmth and kisses her temple, whispering into her skin the love he has for her. His hand rests against her back, tethering her to him, though she can't define why.
He is beautiful.
He says she is, too.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Repeat.
She never feels fully awake. Running absentminded hands across the foggy surface, clearing the hot condensation, the world is crystal for a few seconds and then cloudy again. It never stays, never lets her see. It's getting harder to remember, harder each time to retain that image, the fog denser with every swipe.
After a while, it'll be harder to try. The want is leaking out of her, and it's terrifying.
She wishes for the strength to be a coward. To be like her mother, to run toward contentment knowing full well she's running away from it; wrenching someone elses from them, dragging it with her. To run, to hide, to be happy with the guilt.
She isn't that strong.
He wouldn't survive it and she hasn't it in her to survive him.
He's perfect. She's far from.
He still calls her Bella.
Misaligned.
She wonders on a daily basis how her life became like this. Perfect husband, perfect home, perfect dog. All that's missing are the 2.5 children and he's already been hinting.
Wouldn't it perfect when....we should add another bedroom if....Esme wants so much to be a grandmother.
She never wanted this. This was his dream.
Her.
Love, he calls her.
She gave it to him. She gave him her content, her happy, and he doesn't see the transgression. He doesn't see that he's dragging hers with him. He walks arrogantly, ignorantly, off into that sunset, palm to palm, taking her with him while the desperation claws. She can't want it. Any part of it.
It was supposed to be Italy. Studying the masters, sailing gondolas and pouring over ancients texts, ancient forms, painted eyes. She wanted to uncover hidden secrets, marvel with Da Vinci, revel in Botecelli, reunite Beatrice and Dante. She would learn the difference between olives, come to love the taste of wine, savor real pizza, while her pencil wondered why Caravaggio illuminated such darkness.
Funny, how the sun never gave her twilight a passing thought.
Perhaps he knew something she did not.
So. She keeps it perfect. Everyday, every second, she breathes. She smiles, pretends to hate her mother, to love him, to plan, to keep alive.
No.
It doesn't make it better.