March 24, 2013 – Reflection day.

March 25, 2013 – Word prompt: Panic. Plot Generator—Binding Blurb: In 500 words or fewer, write a short entry about "achieving victory."

. . .

Bella's home is so very Bella that the minute I step inside, I never want to leave. She gives me a short but inclusive tour, conspicuously avoiding showing me her bedroom beyond a vague wave toward the ajar door. It isn't until she's vanished into the shower that I give the smaller details closer inspection.

White-painted built-in bookcases crawl up the walls on either side of a small fireplace that holds a display of pillar candles. I see some of the paperbacks I remember her reading in high school, plus a lot of new ones. Unsurprisingly, I don't see her own book.

Above the fireplace is a mantel with more candles and a few picture frames. The first photo is of Bella and Charlie standing on a dock, a big, silvery fish dangling between them. The second is of Bella and a woman I don't recognize but assume must be either a friend or her editor, based on her age. It's the third that brings me up short: Bella, Alice, and me. I don't think I've ever seen the photo – don't even remember it being taken, in fact – and it's odd, to see yourself in your younger flesh in a moment you can't recall. From the background, I can see that we're in the Forks High School parking lot. Alice is leaning against the hood of my car, smiling at the camera. I've got an arm slung casually around Bella's shoulders, grinning at whomever is taking the shot. I take a moment to consider my younger self: confident. Cocky. Relaxed. Happy. Like a guy who's got the world in his palm and can't imagine it might slip through his fingers.

When I look at Bella, my heart skitters unevenly in my chest. Because she isn't even looking at the camera. She's looking at me. And her love is so open in her face that it makes my insides twist.

How could I have betrayed her?

There's no missing her adoration, her admiration, her love. I had forgotten how she used to look at me – or, more likely, I was so used to it that, at the time, I didn't think to pay attention to it. But it's there. It's obvious. She loved the hell out of me. I close my eyes, trying to put myself back into the skin of that swaggering teenager, trying to remember what it felt like to look at Bella and see that love in her eyes, but I can't. It's hazy. I remember her smiling, laughing, kissing me, but I can't remember what her eyes looked like. Can't picture anything about her eyes back then, except the ones that were red-rimmed and filled with tears and hurt.

"Not much of a gallery." I'm pulled from my thoughts by Bella's voice, and I turn to find her watching me warily from the threshold where the living room gives way to the hallway. Her eyes are cautious-curious, wondering what insight I might have gleaned from her small collection of snapshots.

"Is this your agent?" I ask, gesturing at the second photo.

"Yeah. Sunny."

I arch a brow. "Sunny?"

"She grew up in the Haight. Her parents were flower children." She shrugs. "My yoga instructor's name is Rainbow."

I laugh. "So you're saying it could have been worse."

"I'm saying…welcome to San Francisco."

I grin and turn back to the photos. Try to pluck up the courage, but it's still hovering somewhere in my shoes. "You catch this?" Gesture to the fish.

"Not without a little help from Charlie," she says, stepping closer, and she smells like softness: some kind of lotion and some kind of flower and some kind of girl.

I nod, eyes darting back to the third photo. "First day of your senior year," she says quietly, answering the question I'm still too much of a coward to ask, and where did all that courage from the picture go? Answer: it's standing beside me, because she took it with her when she left.

"I don't even remember it being taken."

"Angela," she says. "Yearbook. She gave me a copy when I asked her for it."

"When did you ask her?" I don't know why that matters, or why I ask.

Suddenly, I can feel the heat of her eyes, and I turn my head. "The week before Rosalie."

I swallow. When I say nothing, she adds, "I dug it out while I was home. To remind me."

"Of what?" I'm proud of myself for asking, when the potential answers could cut so deeply.

Of how it was.

Of who you were.

Of what we had.

All past tense.

"Of us," she says simply, dark eyes gazing at the photo.

Present or past tense? I wonder but don't ask.

We stand in silence, staring at the younger, better versions of ourselves. Well, myself. I'm slowly learning that this older, newer, more mature version of Bella is even more alluring than the younger one. The difference is, this one scares the shit out of me; difference is, this time I'm smart enough to be aware of the power she holds over me.

When she speaks again, her voice is all gentleness, cotton over silk. "Would you like some hot chocolate?"

And as I turn to look at her, my heart cracks wide open.

. . .

This time, the ceiling isn't spinning. The fabric beneath me is the smooth cotton of sheets instead of the rough upholstery of a sofa. I'm naked, as is the girl next to me, and I actually remember how we got that way. And I'm not panicking.

She's nice. Kelly. The body of a cross-country runner, the smile of a girl I loved years ago. It was the smile that made me say yes. Yes to dinner, yes to a second date, a third, a fourth and more, yes to following her up the stairs to her apartment. Yes, I thought, to moving on. Letting go.

The first time I had sex was a disaster; I had thought the second would be different. Going into it with my eyes open, with someone I actually liked and found interesting, I somehow thought it would feel like achieving victory, accomplishing growth. Instead, I just feel the thin thread of disappointment: after all this time, all this distance, I'm still drawing comparisons.

The eyes: brown, but not as warm.

The hair: brown, but not as soft.

The smile: open, but not as kind.

The kisses: nice, but not as sweet.

The heart: kind, but not as mine.

Still comparing. And after all this time, everything else still comes up short.

. . .