Hi! I hope you've all had a good weekend. I'm still falling behind on the review replies, but replying to the ones for this chapter is going to be my priority. Know that even if I don't reply, I read them all and smile. Your support is overwhelming.

Thanks to my girls.

Eventually, I stumble to the bathroom, intending to take a shower. I catch sight of myself in the small mirror above the sink as I begin to get undressed. The image reflected back at me is uglier than ever, but for once it has nothing to do with the way I look. Edward's sad expression before he walked away is a ghost that haunts my mind, his hurt becoming mine as I replay the date we shared tonight.

It feels silly to be in so deep after one date, but when you're given sweet the way Edward gives it, you don't let it go. And I think I have.

My fingernails dig into my palms, and I tell my hands they're grasping and clinging about an hour too late. He's gone, I tell myself, he's gone now. Except being alone doesn't feel safe like it used to. It just feels empty. As my palms curl around nothing but air, the memory of a warm hand against my own compounds that emptiness into a cavern; another pocket for hate to infect.

But I think that infection has spread far enough, and instead I let words like 'perfect' and 'pretty', spoken by an earnest, soft-eyed boy fill that gap instead. And then I remove my clothes slowly, refusing to let the wince that curls my lip take over my face.

I am made strong by the beauty of the words whispering through my head, made brave by the beauty of smiles carved out just for me. Once I'm naked, the halogen bulb shows dimpled and creased skin in stark definition, no shadows to hide behind. Nothing about my body has changed - there are still lumps and dips and rolls, flesh and more flesh and too much, but for some reason, my nasty words are beaten out by Edward's beautiful ones.

And I'm not stupid enough to believe that his attraction to me is some kind of cure, but there's an undeniable desire to stand straighter knowing that I'm not as repulsive as I feel some days. Then I realize that before Edward,'some days' would have been 'most days', and that before coming to college and being free of the bullies of high school, it would have been 'every day'. As I let my hands touch my body in places they never do outside of a shower, I make a conscious effort to be positive.

I still grimace when I feel my love handles, but this time I appreciate how soft the skin stretching across my hips is. I still blow out a harsh breath when I let my fingers trail across the moonlight-silver stretch marks painted across my cleavage, but this time I rationalize that they're a worthy trade for my nicely-shaped breasts.

It's liberating, this feeling that I'm allowed to be nice to myself, that I don't have to curse myself for not fitting into a norm or a dress size. Except then I wonder what made me think I did have to, except asshole comments and high-school bitchiness. That makes me wonder why I hold the words of people whose smiles only come at the cost of others' unhappiness more sacred than the words of a boy whose smiles are only for me. And maybe Edward's being honest when he says that he doesn't see the flawed lines of my body that are seared into my retinas, because as my fingers cup and feel and slide, I feel nothing but a body. A soft one, a generous one, but nothing more or less than a body.

I'm not sure when how I looked became more important than how I thought, or even how it became all I thought about, but the epiphany that my body does not define my worth smacks into me like a high-speed freight train. I laugh aloud, shocked and stunned and head-shaking as those words mingle with incongruous ones, years old and bone-deep.

I cry, then - because I want to believe that realization. I ache with how much I want to believe it, but I don't know that I can. It seems to be another of the slogans used as a platitude for 'fat' girls, and I wonder if anyone can actually internalize those words or whether they just tell themselves they have. But this dislike that's morphed into hate over the years, it won't back down without a fight. I let tears drip from my jaw onto my too-soft chest, knowing any sweet Edward gives will be tampered with by the sharp acid sting of my own sour thoughts.

I consider my options as I stand in front of the sink, staring at myself fully naked for what must be the first time in years. Usually I catch sight of my body as I'm making my way into the shower, and even then it's only a stolen glimpse that makes my stomach turn. I can either continue the way I'm acting now, which isn't an option at all, really, seeing as it impacts on my life so much. Or I can attempt to do something about it, and that's when I start to think about my friend Alice's suggestion that I see a professional.

The thought of seeing a therapist makes me cringe, especially knowing I'll have to talk about something as trivial as the fact I think I'm fat. Except that thinking I'm fat isn't such a trivial thing for me at all, and it isn't normal to be so obsessed with how you look that it bleeds into everything else and muddies it. This realization is more scary than the self-worth epiphany by far, because without my bubble to keep me safe, I'm not sure what I'll have.

As soon as that thought enters my head, so do images of happy green eyes behind thick-framed glasses, of wild brown hair and a boy who wears his heart on his sleeve. That's when I know that without my bubble, I may well have everything.

When I think of Edward, I think of superhero shirts and the faint smell of old books, of good morning texts that are the best part of my day and the thing he does when his tongue is inside my mouth. Even his things that should be imperfections - the slight crooked tilt to his front teeth or the small hint of a belly when he sits down - are perfect, because they're just Edward.

To him, I'm Bella.

Just Bella.

I step out of the wrinkled dress pooled at my feet and rush back into my bedroom, throwing on the first jeans I see, internally fistpumping in victory when I only stop for a second to think if they're ones that confine the expanse of my ass.

Baby steps indeed.

I put on a shirt I bought a while ago that I know Edward will appreciate, the yellow background of the logo a perfect contrast to the black silhouetted wings adorning it. I begin to button up Edward's shirt. It's tight and the buttons won't meet across the bust, but it smells like him, and it's touched parts of him I've only dreamed about, so I can overlook that.

I shove my feet into the first pair of shoes I see, not even caring whether they'll make my legs look dumpy. I race to the door, suddenly frantic as I snatch up my clutch bag and transfer the essentials to my pockets, making me glad I picked up my parachute jeans after all.

And then I'm running and stumbling down apartment building stairs, out a front door and onto the street that will take me where I need to be.

With Edward.

I have some apologizing to do. Preferably with my lips on his.

She's going after her man!

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Thank you for reading.