XVI
He doesn't meet me in our spot.
He doesn't come to school at all.
I stare at the table where he usually sits at lunch with an uncomfortable ache under my ribs.
It stretches up, tendrils vining around me and suffocating me, multiplying in numbers and holding me rigid as they choke me.
I don't miss him.
I don't.
His confession has been gnawing in the pit of my belly, teeth marks scratching the bone.
I hear the hum, before I hear the words.
Edward Cullen's father was arrested this morning.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
