I do not own Twilight.
"You weren't the only one to blame," I say after a few seconds of silence.
Edward's been studying an invisible line on the metal table and he glances up quickly.
"I stayed with you through everything. I wasn't strong enough to give you an ultimatum, and I think that's something that would have helped both of us."
His expression is suddenly tired.
"You broke up with me the summer before college," he says.
"And that lasted three days," I remind him. "I couldn't even stick with my own decisions and maybe they could have changed everything."
"I apologized," he says quickly, desperately.
"We had sex," I retort drily. "That was how we apologized—we fucked. We never talked, Edward, and it killed us. An apology doesn't mean anything if it continues to happen."
He looks away from me towards the far wall, where the two-way mirror sits, objectifying, judging. I wonder if they have been watching the whole time, but of course they have. And of course Edward knows. He's not stupid.
He looks at me from the corner of his eye.
"Who's on the other side?" he asks.
"Besides the guards?"
He nods, his jaw clenched.
"Emmett," I say quietly.
"He made you come here." It's not a question, and it's not kindly spoken.
"He asked me to, yes," I say.
"You wouldn't have come back otherwise?" He's looking at me carefully, like he's not sure he wants the answer.
I shrug. I'd like to say no, but we both know that would be a lie.
"What are you trying to get out of this?" he asks after a while. He runs a hand through his hair. It's something he does when he's anxious, unsure. "Why do you keep coming back?"
Again, I shrug, but I can feel my bottom lip quivering. I don't know how I even have tears left to cry. I bite my lip to stop it, but he's noticed.
"Don't cry," he shakes his head, his voice soft. "Stop crying for me."
"How am I supposed to answer that, Edward?" I sit up straighter, willing the tears back. "I'm trying to help you. I'm trying to help me. I'm trying to help us."
I know as soon as I've said it that I can't take it back.
There's a spark that ignites in his emerald gaze. The sun is back, just as I've seen it hundreds of times before. I can practically hear the gears turning in his head, twisting and flipping my words around and around until they make sense to him, the way he wants to hear him.
"Us?" he murmurs. He stares at me and the air between us crackles with friction. Suddenly he's in movement, hooking his legs around the table, sliding himself closer to the surface, closer to me, his hands gripping the edge like a lifeline.
He leans towards me and I don't know if I want to fall forward, or back, "There is no us, Bella. You made that clear a year and a half ago."
"I…I didn't mean it…like that." I'm at a loss for words because—did I mean it like that? What am I trying to get out of this? At first, it was just to help Edward, to join in his therapy sessions like I had been requested. I thought it would help him, but now there's no therapist. There's no one here to guide us through our individual pain, to understand each other's pain, so what am I doing here?
"So, what do you mean?" he demands, "because you say a lot of things you don't mean."
"What are you talking about?" I retort, crossing my arms.
"Have you forgotten all the times we've talked about the future? Of our plans after college? Of starting a family, traveling the world, growing old together? Or have you conveniently forgotten all of that, all of the promises we made?"
"Promises?" I hiss, my arms falling back to the table. I'm leaning forward now too, anger spiting my words, my actions. "They weren't promises, they were the next steps if we lasted, Edward. Everyone has plans—they're not set in stone."
He stares at me, his gaze heated, deadly and I can see a muscle twitching in his jaw. He'll break his teeth if he doesn't stop, I'm sure of it.
"Those plans…that future…" I take a breath, calming my nerves, my irritation, "it wouldn't have worked out. We wouldn't have been happy."
I've disarmed him. His shoulders drop heavily and he caves in on himself, protecting himself from my words, but his face is an open book of confusion, turmoil.
"You weren't happy?" he asks quietly.
"Not towards the end, no," I admit, though I thought it would have been obvious.
We're quiet for a little while, trapped in our own thoughts, our own miscommunication, our own pain.
"Were you?" I ask eventually, but my voice is so quiet I'm not completely sure he can hear me, but he does.
"Yes." The answer is committed.
"Don't lie to me," I whisper, my voice worn with exhaustion.
He pauses, thinks.
The air stills around us.
"I was happier with you than I've ever been without you."