***

I packed my things. But, honestly, I didn't have that much to pack. There were a few clothes, standard bus fare, some money I kept hidden underneath my bed, the ring Edward gave me, and the keys to my truck that was never painted—and always lay dormant. Charlie was asleep on the couch when I left. Carlisle was home, at his house, finally taking a break. Edward was waiting for me in a tiny diner just off of the highway that led south to Seattle.

I was awkward and clunky in the car. Apparently the heater didn't work, and the piece of shit rumbled like a rocket taking off when I backed down the driveway. From the large window into the living room, I saw Charlie shoot up, disoriented, rubbing his eyes. I had cleared the street before he looked out the window to see that the truck finally saw its first use. After the truck's warm up, it really was surprisingly soothing. Everything outside the car blurred to the point of nonexistence, and I finally felt that I was passing by life, rather than life passing me by.

Edward received his promised two days of weekend. I wasn't sure why he needed it. To emotionally steel himself, I assumed, though that was rather egocentric of me. I parked right next to his Volvo, almost brushing the side of it, actually. Thankfully, the bright red paint of my car did not mar the precious silver of his. The diner was practically deserted, considering it was near ten o'clock at night. There was a trucker on one of the barstools, his truck blocking unneeded parking spots, towing piles of logs. There was also an elderly woman alone in a back booth. I saw her once or twice when I was younger, the old woman patrolling the grocery store just for something to do.

Sitting down at the opposite end of the counter, I watched Edward emerge from the shoddy restrooms. He spotted me and walked over, all confident calm. He sat beside me, angled towards me, opening his mouth only to be interrupted by a waitress with a bad push-up bra.

"Would you kids like anything?" I wondered how someone with a southern accent made their way to Forks, Washington.

"No thank you," I answered quietly. Edward said the same. His hands gripped the edge of the grimy table, and I watched patiently as his carefully crafted façade begin to slip.

"Please, Edward," I begged once the silence was too great. He nodded and took one last deep breath.

"I need to not date you anymore, Bella."

I cringed.

Hard.

I was waiting for the blow. I set it up. I thought I was ready. But really, I could never be ready. It broke me like the sudden twang of a broken string on an acoustic guitar. The reverberation echoed through my bones and swept the breath from my lungs. Edward watched me, and I hated myself for making him do it. I hated myself for not being strong enough to break up with my own boyfriend.

"Say it again," I whispered quietly, remembering his request for me to tell him that I loved him one more time. How long ago it seemed.

"We can't be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore, Bella."

He paused, took another deep breath.

"I don't want you."

What a great actor. This was what I told myself.

"You don't want me," I repeated, disbelief coloring my tone. How could I be so disbelieving? I requested this, I wanted this. No. I needed this. I could not be so dependent on Edward anymore. I had to get better on my own, else my entire life would have been dependent on Edward, and that was not fair to him. It was not fair to have to love someone who wasn't stable, who wasn't whole.

"I don't want you," he repeated.

"I understand."

"Good." His voice cracked.

The truck driver's eyes darted over occasionally, and while he pretended to read the newspaper, he was actually listening to the conversation at the other end of the counter. His brow furrowed in a way that symbolized his pain, for something that was said must have touched his past. The old lady in the corner seemed oblivious, though the way that she speared her late-night pancakes told otherwise. The fluffy chunks were mutilated. The waitress watched from behind the counter, her face hidden behind a skillet, hanging from a hook on the wall. She held a napkin to her mouth, and her other hand rested on her heart. She was crying.

I stood, ignoring these people and their unnatural and unwanted attraction to our situation. Edward stayed sitting, eyes trained on the counter, hard as granite.

I walked calmly out to the car.

It wasn't even raining.

As I drove to Seattle, I allowed my mind to run blank. It was as if all that existed was me, the road, and the car. I watched the yellow and white lines dissolve beneath me, and marveled the gentle curves of the highway. Edward would tell me later - much later - that he broke down after I left, right there in the diner. The waitress yelled at him, he would tell me. The waitress yelled at him, "How could you do it? How could you break that young girl's heart? How could you?"

But I did not witness any of this, and I assumed, perhaps naively, that Edward would be fine. That Edward would move on without me, and I without him. I could already tell that I was stronger. It wasn't as if I didn't love Edward anymore. Oh, I still loved Edward. So much so that my heart hurt, reverberating in my chest like the rhythm of a dying soldier boy.

But the feeling of independence – that was what I wanted, what I needed. For my whole life, I depended on others telling me what I was, who I was, how I should be. For once, I was on my own. Yes, it was reckless. Yes, it was stupid. Yes, I had no plan of action, no one to see, nothing in my possession. But I knew in my heart that I needed this.

I needed to find myself before I needed to find anyone else.

I wrote Edward letter after letter after letter.

He never replied.

He never replied because I told him not to on the paper, just below the point where I signed my name.

And they were all the same.

Edward,

I miss you every day. I see you reflected in windows and in the glass on the outside of shops. I see you in the wind and in the sky, when the rain falls too hard to see two feet in front of me. I seeyou in the place of every stranger on the street with the same eyes, hair color, or mien as you. I feel a twinge in my gut, a spark of hope, of life, when I see you in these strangers. It helps me carry on, and as I look for you in the next stranger, in the next window, in the next object, I am healing.

Not perfectly, of course. Seattle isn't some magical drug. In fact, it's really the opposite of that. Unlike Forks, there are so many different types of people here. There are people crazier than I am, wandering the streets with a limp and a cup, asking for change and speaking to themselves, speaking to the people that they think they see. I hardly talk to James anymore. Just when I'm lonely, and I can't distract myself by thinking about you, what you're doing, where you are. He gradually fades away when I get tired, like a wisp of a person, a dusty mirage.

But you're real. You're real and tangible and I will never stop looking for you, even though I know exactly where you are. I know we'll find each other again eventually, but I have to be in that place. I have to be in that place where I know that I can be as good to you as you were to me.

Bella

Please don't respond

They all followed the same pattern, beginning first with how often I thought I saw him, to the city, to James, to how much I miss him, to the faith I have in our relationship, to the request for him not to respond. I often wondered if he tired of my repetitive words, grimy notebook paper, scrawled handwriting. It didn't stop me from writing the same letter the next day, week, month, year.

I was hired at a little boutique that sold ugly ass baby clothes. Most of the time I just sat in the back, watching pregnant costumers file in and out, their hands dirty from the street only to touch the soft cotton of the clothes. I thumbed through magazines behind the desk with the cash register, and rang up the occasional person who actually bought something. I considered doing something grand and amazing, something that would make a legacy for myself. Maybe set up a campaign for people like me, maybe write a memoir, maybe go back to school, maybe become an entrepreneur.

I left those dreams dormant, not because of some fit of depression, but because I knew what I should be focusing on. I knew that, in my life, the grand and amazing thing would be becoming healthy and capable, functional in every facet of myself.

After five years of working at the boutique, I ended up signing up for night classes at the U Dub. I was a little bit too young for night school, but too old for the regular school. Either way, I enjoyed it. I relearned the classes that I watched through a haze in high school, and gradually moved onto more difficult subjects. I upgraded my apartment, but it was still cozy and warm.

On Christmas Eve, I sat in my living room, sipping a glass of wine and curling up with the cat I adopted impromptu. Its name was Whiskers because it didn't have any whiskers. I wasn't sure why he didn't have any whiskers. It was pretty weird, actually. He purred under my arm, then decided he had enough of me and jumped away, tail wagging in the air as he strutted to my bedroom. I chuckled and rolled over, stuffing my face into a pillow. Abruptly, I fell asleep.

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of the blaring sirens of an ambulance, its lights casting unpredictable flashes across my living room. I shivered and walked quietly to my bedroom, the small room in the back. Whiskers lay languidly across my pillow, purring his heart out. I moved him and slid beneath the covers and curled up, staring at the wall. The sirens died down to the muted sounds of the Seattle traffic, leaving me feeling empty and worn down.

Lonely.

The twinges of unhappiness licked at the back of my brain, increasing my paranoia and imagination. During occurrences like that I often wrote to Edward, spilling my thoughts and dreams on the paper, mailing it to him, begging him not to reply. I shot out of bed and searched for paper. Nothing. I used my last piece. I forgot to buy more. For some reason, it was absolutely devastating to me. I took a few deep breaths, calming down, sighing.

My eyes flickered back and forth between my newly-acquired cell phone and my bed, both looking rather ominous and uninviting. In a spur of the moment decision, I chose the phone, taking a leap of faith. My fingers shook on the keys.

"Hello?"

It was Carlisle. His voice was deeper, darker, gruff with sleep.

"Hello?" he asked again, slightly annoyed. I heard the stirrings of blankets, shuffling in the night.

"Hello," I blurted out, waiting with teeth on my lip. I could almost hear the click, click, clicking of his brain thinking. And then, bing!

"Bella?" Shock.

"Hi… Carlisle. Is, um, Edward there?" There was a pause. It lasted too long.

"He moved out awhile back," he said softly.

Of course. Of course he did. It had been five years since high school years.

"Would you like his new phone number?" he asked after I hadn't said anything.

"Yes, that would be… yes," I stammered, preparing my brain to remember the numbers. He recited them quickly and we said brief goodbyes, including me promising to call back in the near future, and to call Charlie as well.

I hesitated before calling Edward. It was ridiculous, because I had already taken the giant leap. I just had to do it one more time.

So I did. I didn't know what I expected from him. I didn't expect immediate acknowledgement, or any acknowledgement at all, really. I didn't expect acceptance. I didn't expect understanding. All I really expected was a "hello".

"Hello?" he spoke after five long, painful rings. It was the middle of the night. He was wide awake, just like me.

"Edward?" I asked tentatively.

There was a sharp intake of breath, a long pause, a muffled sob.

"I have your letters."

***

The epilogue is also posted… press that little button on the right there… there you go… press it… :D