I was given the two following lines as prompts, and this is the result. It was never about you choosing me. It was about you choosing life and Just this once; I owe you that much.
This takes place in an AU post-BD, where Bella never had Renesmee and merely left with the Cullens when becoming a vampire, leaving Jacob behind.
Lost Souls
All these years, all these memories, there was you. You pull me through time.
The Fountain
She can hear the birds singing, every leaf whistling in the soft breeze over her head, every brush of salty water against ancient rock in the west.
Feet leave no traces in the damp sand, just like she seems to have left no notice in the passing of time, the years piling behind her like a tidal wave of guilt and sorrow.
Adolescent feelings are frozen in her heart for the rest of all time, but the slow decay of her mind makes her question rays of sunlight in secret meadows, stolen kisses and the years passing by like and infinite hour glass.
..
His dark eyes have lost their youthful glow, lines framing them instead. They read like a storybook of time; she can almost hear every husky laughter that formed them, see every dark thought that carved itself into his russet skin.
Time has left no traces on her own skin, a marble mask, like a picture frozen in time, a painting. No work of art. Lifeless, cool, hollow.
Insomnia is hunting her, her dead heart keeping her eyes open, her mind awake for every second of every day. Too often, she finds herself laying underneath the night sky shedding dry tears, her chest heaving with the pressure of vain breaths, every star sparkling against the canvas of black like a mirror of her soul – breathtaking beauty, a reflection of the past, doomed to be lonely.
..
She dreads how different everything smells than the last time she stood in this very same spot, lower back pressing against the run-down wooden counter top, tucking the dark curtain of her hair behind her ear. It does not smell the same, her senses picking up everything, things she does not want to be reminded of.
"What are you doing here?"
His voice is deeper, huskier, and the threat interwoven with memories of gentler days causes her instincts to itch, venom coating her tongue.
"I need to tell you the truth. Just this once," she whispers, afraid of stirring anger and rage she caused herself all those years ago, "I owe you that much."
He is standing by the door, arms crossed, protecting himself, telling her more than words could ever do. Tension in the air, filling the small space.
"I don't want anything between us. You owe me nothing, and I owe you much less."
"But I still want you to know. I told you so many lies because I was afraid of the consequences it might have to admit the truth to myself. I know now."
"Know what?"
She bites her lower lip, a human habit not as easily lost as others. Maybe she is holding on too tightly to the last string of hope, to the memories she connects to all that she can see, and that have followed her through the years. It's a fight to speak, to finally tell the truth.
"I should have chosen you. I made the wrong choice. And I know it's too late now, I know it's over, but... I choose you now. If we could... If I could, or you – I'm sorry."
Words fade into silence, truths sink in slowly, eyes meet.
When he shakes his head, staring deep into her lost soul, she feels the scattered debris of her human self crumbling, slowly fading into ashes.
"You never understood," he says with harsh determination in his voice, "It was never about you choosing me. It was about you choosing life."
Slow steps move her forward until she stands right in front of him, can almost feel his heart beating in the air surrounding them. Like an echo of time.
"I'm married, I have kids. You could have had all that, with or without me, but you decided against it. That was your choice."
They stand together in silence, the boy who used to teach her how to ride a bike belonging to someone else, the girl whom he saved from drowning one fateful day long dead. They stand like stray pieces of two different puzzles, wanting so badly to fit together, but fighting a futile fight.
"What's the worst part for you?" she asks, recalling blurry human memories of certain goodbyes.
His bitter chuckle sounds familiar, and she can feel her chest contracting, almost like recalling a smell connected to a memory, a song, a place.
"Not a day passing by without me looking at my wife and... wishing she was you."
The urge to take his hand, to wrap her fingers around his and hold on to him for the rest of time is almost as strong as her instincts telling her to kill.
"What's the worst part for you?"
"I cannot dream any more. If I could, you would be there with me. But like this... I'm just waiting for time to end."
Golden eyes meet dark, weathered ones, and for a second, they can see images of the past flashing by, just a mere glimpse of light. Like a shooting star, burning before reaching solid ground.
"There's something I want you to have," he says more calmly now, stepping around her to a stack of boxes.
His back blocks her view, but she can hear his calloused hands rummaging through the boxes, until he turns around, holding out a weathered, red notebook.
"So you won't forget who you were."
Her pale fingers reach for the book, holding on tightly, turning the first page.
She is looking at her own face, page by page of her life in her hands. Pictures, pieces, papers, two yellowish tickets for Face Punch, a tiny piece of driftwood, still smelling of salt and sea, even a smear of mud and a ripped-out page of her old, favourite, worn-out copy of Romeo and Juliet.
Her entire life in her hands, ending with a white lily she knew he picked up from her grave, and a wrinkled, tear-soaked obituary, her own name like a punch in the guts.
"You should go," he whispers.
She nods, wishing for the all-consuming darkness to take her and free her lost soul. With two steps, she is halfway out f the garage, prepared to forget about this temple of memories, when his voice freezes all movement.
"Bells!"
She turns around, and for a splint second almost believes it is the old Jake walking towards her, cupping her face in his hands, fingertips brushing along her cheekbones.
His touch burns her, but she barely notices, his breath fanning over her skin, distracting her from everything else.
"Just this once," he whispers hoarsely, and his lips brush against hers before she even hears his next heartbeat.
It is over just as quickly, and she whispers goodbye against his retreating lips.