I do not own Twilight.

It's the last two weeks before finals and it seems the entire student body is in the library. I have to wind my way to the basement in order to find a free table and then, when I do, the lure of a section of books I never knew existed pulls me from the space. The novels are old, based mainly in plant and ecological sciences and I quickly lose interest when something grabs my arm, pulling me further into the aisle, further into the darkened corner of the basement.

I gasp, immediately pulling away, but Mike's face comes into view, his fingers taut around my lower arm. I'm keenly aware that the lighting is low in this section; there are no cameras.

"Michael, what—" my words are forcefully quiet. All I want is to scream, but he cuts me off quickly.

"I thought you weren't going to press charges." He lets go of my arm, knowing I'm too stunned to move away from him.

"I-I didn't," I say, shaking my head negatively—and it's the truth. I never went to file a report.

"Then why is domestic abuse in my file?" he hisses.

I'm still shaking my head, confused. "Michael, I…"

"Cut the bullshit, Bella." He snarls my name like it's a bad omen to him now. "Did you tell your stepdad?"

"No, I…well, he saw my wrist and—" Quickly, he glances down, grabs my wrist in his firm hand. The bruises are hardly as they were; yellowing in their healing, but still, he scowls. "I told him not to say anything," I rejoinder quickly.

"You fucking tried to hit me first, Bella," he retorts, dropping my arm. "It's not like I abused you out of the blue."

"No, I-I know." I'm stammering and he doesn't like it. "I told Charlie that. He said he wouldn't say anything."

His eyes flash with anger. "Well someone fucking did."

But now I'm even more confused that he would even know this would be in his file, whether or not it actually is. I wonder if he had assumed I would press charges and if, in turn, he checked himself out. I ask, even though I don't know if I want the answer. "How did you see your file anyways?"

He blinks, and then answers without further hesitation. "I got pulled over last night for speeding. He thought there might be a warrant out for my arrest."

My eyes widen because if Charlie had added this to his record, I need to know if he also added a warrant for his arrest. It doesn't seem right; I was the one involved and I never made such a report. "Was there?" I ask quietly, not wanting to upset him again.

"No." He closes his eyes. "But domestic abuse is in my permanent file now." When his eyes flash open, they're full of ire. Blame. "Jesus Christ, Bella. Did you fucking tell him? Your little jail bird boyfriend? Kinda like how you tried to talk me out of filing a complaint against him."

My response is immediate, angry. "I tried to talk you out of filing a complaint because you started an argument with him in the first place."

Mike runs a hand across his hair. It's shorter than when we were together. "Fuck, Bella. I don't even care at this point. Just…stay away from me." He pins me with his glare and his words, though provoking, barely even upset me. "You're, like, cursed, or something. Everyone around you goes down. And please ask your stepdad to pull that from my file. I don't want that hanging over my head too."

"Too?" I ask suspiciously, raising my eyebrows. I don't care what he's said about me. I've already known this for ages.

"Yeah." He sneers, "Along with the never-ending feeling of stupidity for dating a girl as emotionally damaged as the guy she's still in love with."

I can't help the overproduction of my tear glands as I try to keep the droplets from leaving my eyes. He's right—I am emotionally damaged. And I am in love with someone who is emotionally damaged, and I don't know how much of it was, or is, my fault. I sigh and close my eyes, "Look, Mike, I know what I did to you wasn't fair…and maybe I shouldn't have agreed to go out with you in the first place. You're right. I was emotionally damaged—I am emotionally damaged and I shouldn't have gotten involved with someone when I couldn't keep myself in check. I'm sorry. Really, I am."

My apology is honest, towards the both of us. I am sorry for pulling him into this, but I'm also sorry for trying to force myself to heal with someone else. I'm sorry for trying to move on as quickly as I did, even if it was two years later. I wasn't ready; I don't think I'd ever be.

"I'm glad you're sorry," he says with a shake of his head. "I'm glad you feel something." He looks at me once and then leaves, leaving me to wallow in my own regrets by myself but I just lean against the nearest bookcase, arms wrapped around myself because I know there's no one to blame but me.