A/N: An idea I had that didn't work out the way I thought it would. Oh well.
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10,004. The number of times her heart has been broken. Once by Charlie (upon finally seeing her perfect face, cold and dead in his eyes: You are not my daughter). Once by Alice (when she shook her head after emerging from her vision: Leave. Be with him. You're gone already, sweetheart). Twice by Edward (first, when he lied: I don't want you. Second, when he told the truth: It's hopeless and useless and you never really loved me, anyway). 10,000 times and counting by Jacob Black.
3,652. The number of days it had been since she had seen him. Ten years and her heart is still just as broken. Ten years and she can still remember the perfect tone of his voice. Ten years and the pain hasn't lessened one bit.
2,896. The number of letters she has written him. Sad, sealed, pathetic letters that she never has the courage to mail. Doesn't change anything. Sorry.
1,701. The number of times he had made her laugh. Back when they were friends, when he had told her jokes to try to fix her dead soul—as pointless and hopeless as it was—she had laughed without that strangling sound in her throat. And she missed it.
914. The number of weeks it had taken her to realize that she wasn't in love with Edward. Too long. Too many touches that went unnoticed. Too many wasted days. Too late.
658. The number of times she whispered his name in her sleep. Edward counted, and she didn't care that he died again each time. She couldn't sleep anymore, but she pretended she dreamed of him anyway. Jacob, my Jacob.
503. The number of phone calls where Charlie has mentioned him (He misses you, Bells; he's lonely, Bells; come home, Bells; he loves you, Bells). Each time, she hangs up the phone and goes hunting, ripping her teeth into a wolf because she hates him for saying it, because he doesn't love her, because there is nothing she can do about it.
314. The number of cloudy days per year in Prince Rupert, Canada. Days spent hiding from the world, because Forks was no longer her safe haven. And Jacob was no longer her sun.
195. The number of times he has called her honey. One hundred and ninety five beats that stopped her heart, his low voice and warm breath tickling the hairs on her neck—the mundane term that sounds like Shakespeare coming from him. Honey, honey, honey.
72. The number of minutes she had burned when she was changing. Pain. The only real thing left. None of it mattered, anyway.
41. The number of accidents she has had while she was with him. Tripping and falling and scratches and burns—it doesn't matter, because he picks her up and kisses the bruise, whispers, don't worry, I'm here, and it is better.
29. The number of I do's she practiced in the mirror before she could finally do it without imagining his face, a hard mask that she wasn't strong enough to break.
13. The number of times she had said his name in front of Edward. It made no difference in the end, because it was a million and one times that she had thought it.
7. The number of innocent people she had killed when she lost control. A small, insignificant number. A number that nobody noticed. A lucky number. She had died again and again every time that they did.
2. The number of times he had kissed her. Once, because she didn't believe in love. Because she didn't see what was staring her in the face. Twice, because he needed closure. Because she loved him—but it was never enough.
1. The number of people she was hurting by pretending she didn't love him. Because he had forgotten her long ago, and he had moved on. And she was left, nursing her scars, far deeper and much less visible than the one on her palm, the one on her throat, the cold, glittering crescent ones that often sparked a question. No, these scars were on her heart and on her being, and she was the only one who noticed them. She was the only one hurting. She had a bleeding gash in her un-beating heart, and she was the only one who cared.
0. The number of tears she shed when she realized that she did love him. The number of days she wasn't pretending. The number of times her heart didn't break when she heard his voice. The number of I love you's that hadn't been true. The number of times he would forgive her. The number of times she deserved it. The number of equations that actually mattered.
Because Jacob has five letters and I love you has eight. Because I'm sorry holds seven and forgotten takes nine.
Because, in the end, it is only Bella, counting her mistakes on her pale and perfect fingers—alone.
Because forever doesn't have a number.
Because that's how long it will take her to stop loving him.
Because it's too late.
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END