And Now You Break, a twilight fanfic

A/N: So, setting: Jacob died in battle with Victoria. Well, this doesn't matter as much as the fact that he died in some sort of vampire-related attack, but that's pretty much what I had in mind.

Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer, with italics taken from Tonight I can write the saddest lines by Pablo Neruda.

Of course you do not miss him.

In the midnight (not the twilight, not the sunset, not the dawn), you think maybe the dark is better. Because there is a mirror in your room and you can't bare to look at yourself.

But of course you do not miss him.

It is impossible to miss someone you left behind. It is impossible because you said no when you meant yes and now it is too late. It is impossible because he has loved someone else, because he deserves someone who says what she thinks and thinks what she means and he has forgotten. You let him go when he needed you most and now it is over. So of course you do not miss him.

But you don't turn the lights on, all the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

The casket is brown. It makes sense, you think, and you push your hair out of your face (the color doesn't match, anymore). Billy sits in front of it and you know he doesn't want you there, you don't even want you there. This is no place for ex-lovers. This is no place for Bella Swan.

The casket is not marble, it's wood, it's carved, and you can see the little silver nail-heads from where you stand on the side.

And maybe you wouldn't have noticed the wolf. Maybe you wouldn't have noticed it if you hadn't looked away. But you do. And it runs.

And you follow.

The woods have never seemed so dark. They used to be beautiful, you remember (and the sun was so bright and warm on your face and do you remember anything anymore? And the words are still loud in your head, and you push away the feeling of cold hands on yours and shining oblivion, now, no, it is not the time). But with him gone, so is the beauty.

When he changes in front of you, you see the marks on his arms. Long, red, deep scratches, and you know where they're from because they're sure as hell not healing.

"Embry, are you…?" you ask, and he nods.

"I should hate you," he says.

"Yes," you answer.

"I don't."

You hold him, then, and it is almost the same but not. You can feel his tears on your shirt and it's wet and warm and oh, God what has happened, what has happened now that you have lost?

What has happened, now that he is gone?

Leaving is easier now. You've already done it once, done it wrong, and you promise yourself you'll do it right this time. The bag isn't heavy and maybe this hurts but it's real.

"Okay," you tell him, and his smile is sharp.

"You don't have to, love."

But you both know that isn't true. The words don't make it out, and for one last time you are glad that he is here, because even if it isn't the same, and even if he is stone and the other was fire, it feels good to cry in someone's arms.

And the goodbyes aren't as hard, because – one way or another – you both knew this was coming.

It's a funny thing, inevitability. Like when you get to the end of the road only to realize you've taken the wrong one.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is shattered and she is not with me.

It's simpler, on your own. There is no one, not anyone, and you're glad. Because you've realized now what you should have come across a long time ago – that you are Pain, Death, Loss, incarnate. You are Jezebel, the un-exalted, and everything you touch turns to dust.

And so you break the mirror you brought with you and the pieces fall loudly in the trash.

In the room with dark blue walls, you write. It's almost a relief, now, to have a purpose that doesn't involve hurting the people you love. The pay is awful but of course that doesn't matter much to you.

Beautiful, it says, and he is. As you remember him. Not dazzling, or perfect, or an angel, but beautiful. And maybe that's enough, at least this one time.

Your editor likes it, in any case. And the glossy cover looks out of place in the spider-webbed shelf in your room, with the old notebooks and empty picture frames, but you recognize that maybe that's not the point. Maybe the point is that it fits, regardless, because the only way to make up for all that you've lost is to give back to the world whatever you can.

So life keeps living. Even if he is not.

Summers are the worst. The hot air slips through the cracks in the walls and underneath the door and you're burning alive. For a moment you wish for cool arms and kisses, and then you just want more.

More more more heat hot burn. Just like your heart used to do.

(Just like he used to do.)

But seasons only last so long. You come back home after years away, familiar sights playing the drums on your pulse.

"Dad," you breathe, and his embrace is warm. Warm. Not hot. Not cold. Human.

"Will you stay?" he asks, but you can't answer that, so you make him dinner and stare at the television, bright in the dark-paneled living room, his hand around your shoulder like you imagine a father would do.

You realize that things have changed. This house is just a house, now, however much you want it to be more.

Night falls, clear skies, and the wolf howls outside your window.

You follow, of course.

The woods are gray and there's a patch of moss by your bare feet as you hold him. He is naked, pure – the moonlight touches his skin like milk on amber. You kiss him once – your lips quivering hard against his – but it is not the same, and you both know it. You give him quiet comfort and it is enough.

"I should hate you," he says, his hand tight in yours. "Why don't I hate you, Bella?"

You think: Because he loved me.

You say: "Because he's gone."

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

Moving on doesn't happen all at once. You know this, now, sitting outside of Billy's house (though in your mind it will always be his). It's like growing up, how different parts come at different times, how sometimes it's uncomfortable or painful and how the truth is it never really stops.

Moving on is the New York Times review you get on your new book, and Carla, from the gym, who complains about her husband over coffee.

Moving on is knowing that Forks will never be home again, but visiting for Thanksgiving dinner because it used to be.

Moving on is putting the pictures back in the frames, and Leah and Embry holding hands under the picnic table.

And of course you'll always miss him. Because you were the girl who said no when she meant yes and who loved harder than she wanted to and who lost her best friend to vampires and who will maybe never fully forgive herself.

But you turn the lights back on, all the same.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.

END