Note: I love reading stories with the 'story width' set to 1/2 and the 'story contrast' set to a black background and white text. It feels more magical and authentic. Welcome to this new story. I hope you enjoy the ride, lovely people.

P.S I highly recommend listening to the theme music because it sets a tone of voice and might also help paint a mood for the story, its characters and the readers.

Readers: Viewer discretion is advised. Though it may be a slow burn at first, this story is rated M. It can deal with the harshness of reality and the unfairness of life, as well as other themes, please read with care. (Short bursts of chapters)

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight. It is owned by Stephenie Meyer, and not part of my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only. This is a fictional story about fictional representations of real people.


Theme: The xx - Angels (OdyC Remix)


Metamorphosis

Prologue

She sees him before he sees her. This time, they do not engage into an electric stare. Her lashes flutter. Up down, blink and blink. She assesses his copper hair, like the color of coiled up, copper wire from the hardware store. Not that she's been there. Not that she knows how to do anything along the likes of that. Her hands know no calluses. And her experiences run dry from such strenuous labor. She's privilege, elegance and style. Wealth, opportunities and remarkable sophistication.

His head is down. His arms are covered with marks of oil, dirt and grit. With a frown furrowed through his brows, the muscles on his arms contract and contort with fever. She can see him cleaning the engine of his car. He is not of privilege or money, nor is he of wealth, opportunities and remarkable sophistication. He is just him. A boy- a man- who strives to do what he can with the reminder of perpetual limitations bracing him down. That is what her grandmother has implied. Anchoring him to the life he knows as his own.

She watches him from the window in the room. This time in broad daylight. He does not notice her. That is what she thinks. Hair rolling down in waves of carelessness and liberty, she doesn't have to pretend here. And so she watches, with freedom and amazement, at the boy from the opposite house. She knows it to be temporary. She knows it won't last. But she hopes, and her hope is strong. Stronger than the largest tidal wave the nation as seen and stronger than the rope attached to a man diving into an abyss of the unknown.

It is the start of her first whole day here. From the many times of the past. Her grandmother's house, a haven of some sort. A place where she wishes to visit more often. It is also his first day here, moving into the neighborhood. A neighborhood of no decadence or fame. Only humility and diffidence. She likes it here, even better that he is here.


It has begun.

Love, perpetually.