I was sobbing. Dry, throaty, tearless sobs. It was the first time in months that I had let myself sink that far into my depression. Now that I had, I was trying to forcibly bring back every memory I had of her. How her heartbeat sped up every time I touched her, how she blushed tomato red every time she was embarrassed, how her hands worked through my hair when we kissed, how her laugh sounded like a chorus of bells, how her brown eyes seemed to fill me with happiness just looking into them, how she absolutely could not walk across a perfectly flat surface without finding something to trip over… I laughed, and it sounded wrong, too harsh. Once I started, I couldn't stop, and I began snickering, shouting, guffawing. I wondered vaguely if I was going completely insane, but, before I could contemplate it, the laughing had blended into sobs again.

Gone. White, cold…dead. Empty. Her beautiful eyes, blank. Her heart, still. Silent. I forced myself to picture it, because I deserved to feel this awful pain. I deserved every second of it, because everything was my fault. I should have been faster to save her. I should have followed her to La Push, even if it did mean breaking the treaty. I needed her.

It ached to wonder, to feel curiosity, but I did. Why did she jump? Why would she want to end her life? The only answer I could find was that the decision she had to make was too hard, and, in a moment of desperation, she had sought to escape it. It was my fault for pushing her into the choice. Why couldn't I just let the dog have her? Why did I have to keep tearing her apart? In that moment, all I felt was utter hatred. I hated myself, I hated Carlisle, for creating me, I hated James, Victoria, and the Volturi, for letting me live. I hated my family, I hated the Denali clan, I hated the world. I lay very still for a long time, letting an occasional sob break through. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my back. I tried to shrug it off, but it held firm. Then, the hand began to stroke my back, soothing me. I rolled over. It was a vampire, a female. I didn't recognize her. She was tall, freckly, and blond. She looked to be eighteen or nineteen years old. She looked sympathetic and worried.

"It's okay," she whispered softly. And, strangely, unexplainably, the words were true.