My eyes blink, the room coming back into focus, my neck aching.

I sit straight and look around, my eyes landing on Edward, his green eyes watching me.

He's awake.

"Hi," he croaks, smiling timidly.

"Hi," I whisper back, leaning closer, itching to hug him, to kiss him, knowing I need to hold myself back. "How are you feeling?"

His smile falters, his eyes lowering, his hand fidgeting under mine.

"I'm fine." He blanches under my incredulous glare, clearing his throat. Eventually he sighs, his shoulders slumping. "It hurts."

"Yeah, I bet."

Sheepishly, he looks everywhere but me. I can almost see his body bracing himself, finding the courage to say what he wants to say. I wait him out, as patiently as I can, though in my head I'm screaming at him, begging him to open up and talk, knowing we're both useless as ignoring the elephant in the room.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, looking down at the thin blanket over his legs, his upper body reclined backwards.

"For what?" I ask carefully, my voice no louder than his, my fingers nervously tangled in my lap.

"Everything."

I don't reply, watching him closely; his eyes as they study the weave of the blanket that covers him, his fingers that tap nervously, fidgeting.

He swallows hard and turns his head on the pillow, our eyes lifting at the same time, meeting.

I can't take it anymore.

"What happened, Edward?" My voice cracks in the middle, making Edward flinch again, his eyes closing, face a picture of agony. I know this probably isn't the right time to discuss what happened, but fear and confusion are eating me alive; questions I need —we need— answered in order to move forward.

On the verge of losing my patience, so desperate to give him the benefit of the doubt, but equally as desperate to understand; I sigh, dropping my head in defeat. Maybe Edward opening up will never happen, maybe I'm fighting a losing battle. Maybe he just needs time, or maybe all the time in the world won't be enough.

Maybe I'm being too pushy.

I don't know, so I stay quiet, keeping my mouth closed and my emotions locked away.

I'm at a loss.

Lifting my head, I close my eyes and beg my tears to stay away. Opening them again, I notice he's crying, biting his lip so hard it might need stitches.

He's so broken. His struggle kills me. I want to make it better, but I don't know how. He needs to let me in, give me a chance —we both do. Trust, it feels like a foreign concept to us, but it's what we so desperately need.

"I went to your thinking spot." His voice snaps me out of my musings. "When I left after …"

"My mom."

"Yeah." he sighs again, and rubs his hand over his face, quickly becoming aggravated by his IV wire. I lean over to untangle his hand gently. "Thanks."

"How did you get from my thinking spot, to here?"

Pursing his lips, he thinks hard, lost in his own head. "I couldn't stop thinking about you … I went there to clear my head but … it's not a good thinking spot for me. It reminds me too much of you. Kinda' hard to be objective." His smile is weak, I return it timidly.

"Jacob called," he continues, and instantly I'm bristling, my body turning rigid. He notices, his face softening, his expression apologetic. "He needed a Buddy for a pick-up run." He notices my confusion and explains, "when we do —used to do— drug runs …" his eyes shift nervously when I tense further, the pace of his words quickening as he continues his explanation. "I told him I wasn't into that shit anymore, but no one else was around and he might be a dick, but going alone is asking for trouble and I needed … I needed something to take my mind off you."

Ouch.

"I didn't mean it like that, Bella, I don't. It's not your fault. I never meant that, I'm just trying to explain my reasoning." The monitor behind him begins to beep at a more rapid pace, in time with his panic. I reach over and take his hand in mine, desperate to calm him. My own feelings on the subject can wait until I know he won't hurt himself.

Taking a deep breath, I squeeze his hand, urging him to continue.

"I decided to go with him, obviously." He turns his hand, intertwining our fingers. "It was fine. But the guys we met, in an alleyway of all places ... He rolls his eyes at himself. "They were off, argumentative, aggressive, clearly high … They were looking for a fight —I wasn't. I tried to get Jake to leave. I dragged him away, but it didn't work … one of the guys pushed me and I snapped. I saw red. I hit him and … fuck." I watch him silently, ignoring my own pain as he tugs at his hair. Hearing this is agonising, but I need to. I need to know.

"All hell broke loose," he continues after a long sigh, wincing and shifting his body. "I don't remember much but I do remember the pain. Searing, excruciating pain." His breathing picks up, mine does too. I wipe at my face, tightening my hold on his hand. "I remember collapsing and Jake shouting, screaming. But … he ran—"

"He what?" I shout, cutting him off, making him jump and instantly wince again. His obvious pain calms my anger to a simmering boil. I'm standing, trying to fight the urge to pace the room and demand more answers —to hunt Jacob down and kill him.

Who does that? Who leaves their friend bleeding and dying in an alleyway!

"Bella, please sit down … there's something I really need you to hear …"