BPOV

Well... that was weird. I dove through my bag searching for my ancient and battered mp3 player. I began endlessly scouring through the tracks to find what I was looking for. God, I needed an iPod. Or at least something with a screen so I could actually see what I was doing.

I finally recognised the speaking at the beginning of the track that still remained from when I downloaded it. It hadn't been released on any albums so some serious internet searching turned up with some bootlegged stuff from some random folk festival.

I loved the song. I knew all the words anyway so I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing. He looked really pissed at what he said... I listened on. He was only making reference to my dull brown hair, and sickly pallor. And, if he was especially observant, then maybe even the way my eyes tended to stray towards the ground rather than someone's face. The rest I understood was irrelevant. Maybe he thought he was leading me on, or being inappropriate. Maybe (probably) he wished he hadn't said anything at all. Still, I listened on and the knotting in my stomach increased tenfold.

"O my love is light as a dove

Her skin is fair and dark is her hair

And her eyes dart 'round and fall on the ground

And her lips move along to an old country song

What keeps me alive is the brown in your eyes

And the sweet distant drone of your voice on the phone

Could I hear, in death, your voice and your breath?

Could I hear them sounds in life underground?

O how likely she walks among the white stalks

And, crane in her neck, she steps 'round the deck

Could I bow in the sand to your lily white hand?

Can my head gently rest in your lily white breast?

O my love is light as a dove

Her skin is fair and dark is her hair

And her eyes dart 'round and fall on the ground

And her lips move along to an old country song"

It was complete unapologetic love. I wasn't stupid and reading anything into it. But the pain in my chest just wouldn't quit. I wished that I could believe the words were sincere coming from anybody who said them. But I knew love didn't exist, especially not for people like me.

I ripped the earphone bud from my ear and threw the ridiculous excuse for a music player in my bag. I started the truck and reveled in the roar of the engine, having a noise that didn't stir anything in me except relief at being able to leave.

At home I started making steak and potatoes. I wasn't an outlandish cook and Charlie wasn't an outlandish eater so I'd taken to cooking for him since I got here. I was used to it, and I enjoyed it. As soon as he walked in the door he began offloading his occupational baggage on the kitchen table. Jacket, gun belt, keys and what not.

"So how was your day Bella?", he asked tentatively. Neither of us were what you would call verbose. Small talk wasn't my strong point and it was obvious that was a trait I had inherited from him.

"It was fine, thanks. Lots of homework", okay so that was a lie. But there was no way I was sitting and watching baseball with him all night. And I needed some excuse.

"Sure, sure. That nearly ready?" He motioned with his hand to the potatoes.

I nodded.

Dinner was a quiet affair, and I excused myself upstairs to get on with my nonexistent homework. I hated the evenings. It was the twilight years of my day. All the things you were expected to do you achieved earlier, and now you're just left waiting to go to "sleep".

I lay down on my bed. I contemplated reading, but every book I had with me I had read at least three times. So instead I just curled up into the foetal position, and made up my own favourite story. This was one of my many distractions. I lived out my life in my mind, making sure all my dreams came true and that I was happy. It was just indulging in make believe for a while to help the time pass, the way children become engrossed in fairytales.

I would never have met Tyler and Renee would never have met Phil. I'd be smart and powerful and I wouldn't be scared. Every evening after work I'd get home and cook dinner for my beautiful, smart husband. We would sit at our table and our big, bounding Newfoundland would lie at our feet hoping for scraps of food with a big goofy grin on his drooling mouth. My husband would gaze lovingly at me and I would feel cherished as he asked me the simplest questions about my day and he would listen to me interested. I wasn't looking for riches or beauty or genius I just wanted to be loved. I scoffed at myself.

Then my eyes shot open. Normally, my "husband" was just a generically good looking, average male. And now... Well. It was hard to forget who was the owner of those piercing green eyes, and that brilliant disarray of copper strands.

The same pressure in my chest, which had softened to a dull ache, returned in full force. It felt like my diaphragm was going to collapse under the weight of my heart. Why was my heart being affected by thoughts of my English teacher? Because even if a beautiful, intelligent man would look twice at his student, he sure as hell wouldn't pick me. I couldn't speak without blushing like a damn idiot. My mouth runs off by itself and before I can rein it back in again i've said something stupid. I was just an awkward little girl, with a shity past and all the promise of a tainted and devastatingly empty future.

I was embarrassing myself by even thinking about it. Honestly, he speaks to me once and I'm hooked, like an idiot. Men didn't love me in Phoenix, and men won't love me just because I'm in Forks. I'm still just little Bella, fly on the wall, fly in the ointment, blending in with the wallpaper or drawing attention for all the wrong reasons. Blushing, stammering, broken little doll just used to play with and forgotten.

And yet, I still couldn't stop my mind from conjuring up the images of a strong jawed English teacher, with his hard eyes and soft smile. I wasn't looking forward to tomorrow, after his obvious discomfort at the last time we spoke. I drifted into a fitful sleep. That was the first night I dreamed of Mr. Cullen.