Bella Point of View
I'd had enough of my so-called life, I couldn't do it anymore. Even though suicide wasn't the death I would have expected for myself, not being the accident-prone klutz I am, at this point it was the only way for me. I didn't blame him for leaving me, how could I? I still loved him, as I always would, no matter what. He would always be perfect to me, even though he didn't love me anymore and left me because of that. At least he still had a chance at happiness. He could find someone new to love, something that was impossible for me. I would only ever love him.
And that's exactly why I couldn't live my life anymore. I was miserable, and that was making Charlie miserable in turn. I couldn't stand it anymore, I couldn't watch Charlie hurt because of me. I knew my death would cause him hurt too, but I had explained my reasons in my letter, I had explained that dying would make me happy. I had apologized for the hurt it would cause him. I had emphasized how much I loved him. I had thanked him for everything he had done for me, for loving me, for caring. And I had once again apologized, for the pain my death would cause him. I wished one thing for him, something I had never mentioned to him. I wished for him to find love again.
I knew he still loved my mother, but I also knew he and my mother weren't soul mates, and that my father loved my mother far more than she loved him. Now, why did that sound so familiar? My father still had his chance at happiness, and I wanted him to be happy. I knew he deserved it. I understood why my father wasn't looking for someone else, he felt it would be like betraying the love he shared with my mother. He couldn't let go. Well, that seemed to be a family trait. I couldn't let go of… him… either. He was, in all ways possible, my soul mate, even though he didn't believe he had a soul.
Our love story – though short – was something that could not be forgotten. At least not by me, the fragile little human. Rosalie was right all along, imagine that. I don't wish that I had never met him, I valued those few happy months more than I could ever value a life without him. I had never thought someone could love another as much as I loved him, but I had proven myself wrong. The memories were my most prized possessions, but they were also my most painful possessions. They hurt me more than anything else, but they were of more value to me than anything else could ever be. Therefore, I would never trade them for anything, except maybe the option to just not come across anything bearing his name.
I had put all of the books which had a name similar to his in the back of my closet, a place I would never look. I couldn't bring myself to throw them away, something I just couldn't understand. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it still felt as if something of his – if only his name – was still with me. He had taken my heart with him, however broken it may be, but as I drove my way to La Push, left my car a mile or two away from the cliffs, and walked the rest of the way, I could feel myself getting excited. Yes, I was excited to make the suffering end. The first thing I was excited about since he left me, and it would be my last.