A/N: Thanks so much to all of those who have made it this far! At this point, there are no further trigger warnings. While there will be mentions of difficult subject matter, along with a discussion of the topic of suicide, there won't be anything else like what happened last chapter. I just want to be as transparent as possible so that you can avoid reading something that might be potentially difficult. As someone who has been through many difficult things, I find writing about difficult topics to be therapeutic … but it did take me a while to get to that point. So, know that I'll always warn you before anything too troubling happens.

Thanks so much for editing this story, Sally! You're such a goddess—always so quick with your edits—and I don't know how you do it!

"There is a moment, a cusp, when the sum of gathered experience is worn down by the details of living. We are never so wise as when we live in this moment."

Paul Kalanithi

7

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Days had passed entirely inside my house. I couldn't go out. Rain or shine. Sunlight or cloudy days. Every second was spent bundled beneath my covers, and whenever it wasn't, my body tremored. My muscles moved on their own lately. They shook whether I was awake or asleep, causing my body to constantly be covered in a sheen of sweat.

The way I smelled made my stomach turn—but a shower never seemed appealing. Hygiene felt like another needless chore. Dust covered the floor, creating little dust bunnies to come sputtering from beneath my bed. My sheets were a crumbled mess of dried sweat and dead skin cells. Tears left tiny stains on my pillowcase, reminding me of all the minutes I had spent in turmoil.

As humans, we had to move on from things. If we wanted to survive—not even hoping to thrive—we had to carry on, leaving all difficult things in the past. Over time, all the stuff of nightmares would find its way to the corners of our minds where it would hopefully be left in the dust.

Over time, if we were lucky, we could become a whole human again. Maybe not like before—maybe never like before again—but something that somewhat resembled the person we thought we were. The person we always, at least, dreamt of being.

I was too old and tired to admit that any dreams I had, had been lost. Time had worn me down, turning me into a shell of what I was. And I had never been much in the first place. Perhaps, as much as I hated to admit it, I had always been a shell.

Half of something that could never be whole.

Before arriving at this dead-end, last sort of stop, I had believed things couldn't get any worse than they already were. There was solace in that, too, knowing that you had already hit the ground and couldn't fall farther. In no time at all, I'd found a way to submerge myself beneath the soil. I'd managed to dig my own grave and fall even deeper into the earth.

Maybe, eventually, I'd reach the core and explode, turning into bits of matter floating in the air, looking for a spot to land. The truth was no matter what you were—even if you were nothing much at all—you would always long for a comfortable spot to land. A place where you could feel almost human for a while. Comforted by the thing that was holding you—even if that thing was nothing but dirt.

Now, there was nothing to hold me. No place to land and feel safe. The closest thing I had to comfort was my bed. Even that felt like something I could sink through and fall even farther. I bundled myself in blankets and let my mind drift. Soon, my thoughts were filled with the handsome bookshop owner who I had once managed to save. In my fantasies, he smiled at me. He knew my name and wanted me near. But these were only fantasies and would fade into nightmares as soon as I fell out of consciousness.

Did he think of me as often as I thought of him? Was I a woman he fantasized about? A woman he wanted some sort of life with?

This idea inspired even more tears. I wasn't fit for a life with anyone. Someone like me could only damage him more than he already was. He had lost a wife. He had lost a child. Why should he become infatuated with me, only to one day become heartbroken again?

Because one day I would surely leave. Maybe I would fade into sea-foam …

Alone, bundled in my sweat-drenched sheets, I thought of prayer. I couldn't remember the last time I prayed to anything. I never imagined there was anything to pray to. Even so, I felt my mouth open and waited for all the words I stashed away inside of myself to pour out.

There were so many things I wanted to say. An infinite amount. However, as my mouth opened, nothing was released. Every word rested on the edge of my tongue, waiting for that final push from me so they could form into something resembling English.

I moved my tongue, imagining what the word formation would look like but managed only a ragged breath. I tried again. And again. And one final time before I sputtered out something useless and felt myself cringe into the dreary comfort of my sheets.

What was wrong with me? Days trapped here alone, and I still couldn't speak. The backs of my eyes burned before tears formed in the corners, waiting for that final push of sadness to expel. That push came in no time, and tears traveled down my cheeks as I tried to speak my truth again.

Silence filled the room, mixing with the heavy air around me. Tension grew, poking at my flesh so harshly that it felt like dimples should form in my fat. Why couldn't I speak anymore? What was holding me back? Every time I opened my lips, I felt like I was choking on air. My chest burned. My body ached. For a moment, I truly wanted to disappear, splattering against the thick air as I became bits of matter.

Could I disappear if I wished it? Could I be so lucky?

********************************Sea Foam and Sea Witches**************************************

Weeks passed quickly when you were nothing.

My job had called. I couldn't speak to be able to call them back. My bank account was dismal. Soon, I wouldn't be able to pay my motel balance. Another week, and I could find myself on the street. Drifting while hoping for the best and being cunning enough to expect the worst. Could I live on the street? Was it worth it to keep going?

The latter was something I questioned every day. With things as they were, what did I have to live for? I looked in the mirror every so often and found someone I could no longer recognize. Without my speech, what was I? A brunette drifter with guileless eyes and a spiritless expression? If Edward Cullen were to ever see me again, would he recognize me?

Today … or tomorrow … or maybe the day after that, I knew I had to do something. I needed to work to survive. Without a voice, my options were limited, but without another person in my life, I couldn't ask for help. I had no one to rely on. No one to comfort me. No one to turn to when times were tough.

And times were always tough. Life threw one after another at me with no reprieve. No moment to breathe nor adjust. Was there ever a moment when I felt truly happy? Perhaps it was my time with those rose bushes surrounding me—a time when I felt like I had experienced true beauty.

It was rare to find anything beautiful. The world now felt like no more than concrete and pavement with buildings that were too conveniently made to be aesthetic. To find something that pure and natural now felt like taking a secret passage toward another world. Toward another realm without hurt or pain or violence or anger. A place where one could immerse themselves in art and life.

Somehow, I found the will to take a shower. I pulled myself from my bed, forcing myself to wash up before my smell became too overpowering. At first, I worried that my leg muscles had somehow atrophied. My steps were shaky. My thighs wobbled and knees buckled with every step I took. I held onto my wall, and then my dresser before reaching the doorframe connecting my bedroom to my bath, and then plunged myself inside as if I were slipping into another dimension.

I stumbled into the countertop, pouring over the dirty sink for a moment before using the bathroom counter as support to move toward the shower. I stripped out of the bed clothes I'd been wearing for God knows how long and stood naked before the motel's large mirror.

My breasts were still perky enough but seemed just as sad as the rest of my body, which drooped on its own accord. Before, I thought I was beautiful despite my flaws, but now, I was too numb to see anything other than flesh. Tired flesh that wanted to quit.

Without an ounce of mindfulness, I turned on the water and stepped beneath its spray. The water was ice cold, jolting me as my body covered in goosebumps. Somehow, the ice-cold temperature was comforting for me and made me feel alive for a moment. Of course, that moment, like every moment, passed, and I returned to my normal numbness as I let the cold water cleanse my dirty skin.

I could feel the grime coming off even before I added soap. Even after all of my time here, I was still using the provided stiff, generic bar of motel soap. Without looking, I began to scrub my skin, hoping to rid myself of the pain as if it could wash off and circle the drain. I scrubbed until my skin was red, and then scrubbed some more. Only when my skin began to feel raw did I pause. Then, I peered down, half-afraid of what I might find.

My flesh was red and scratched, blood appeared in some places, and in others, I was sure blisters would form. Thankfully, the air outside was just as ice cold as the water I was under, and I had plenty of layers to hide the way I had so mindlessly harmed myself.

The soap slipped from my hand, and I watched as it traveled toward the drain, threatening to slip inside and leave me. Instead of picking it up, I watched as it rested against the edge of the metal drain before reaching out for the shampoo.

With a similar lack of presence, I washed my hair, scrubbing away the dried sweat and the dead skin that had formed there. To be safe, I washed my hair twice with shampoo before rinsing it and adding generic conditioner. After a few minutes, the hair felt less stiff and began to slip through my fingers. For a long time, my hair had been one of my favorite parts of me. It made me feel beautiful; it gave me something to hide behind. Something about my locks made me feel like a whole woman. Even now.

Eventually, I stepped out of the shower with a clean body, goosebump-covered flesh, and erect nipples. I looked in the mirror again, finding a body I somewhat recognized. Even if the person inside of the body was different, at least I looked like the girl I identified with. Maybe for now, that could be enough.

Now that I had a newfound motivation, I picked up the motel hairdryer and began to dry my hair while still peering in the mirror. If I looked at myself long enough, would I feel normal again? Would I find my voice as soon as I felt comfortable enough? My hair curled as I worked on it, naturally framing my heart-shaped face. As soon as I was finished, I covered my somewhat familiar face in cream before reaching for my makeup bag. Maybe today, I could go outside and reintroduce myself to the world. I had to overcome this overwhelming fear. If I wanted to survive, I had to move on.

Putting makeup on this face felt strange. The pads of my fingers rested against the skin that I knew was mine—I could feel the pressure, and only that reminded me that I was indeed inside of this body. Once I applied blush, I basked at the difference in my face as soon as I had a bit of color. For a moment, I imagined I could have fooled someone that I was happy. People were easy to fool, after all. A few smiles here and there and everyone assumed you were all right. Or maybe, people never cared enough to dig any deeper. We were a world filled with strangers, after all.

After forcing myself to apply some eye makeup to look somewhat awake, I moved to dig through my suitcase to find something clean. I managed to grab a pair of jeans I had worn a few times that still smelled okay and a top I had bought but never worn. After throwing on my jacket and a literature-inspired scarf, I looked at the mirror once more, impressed by how normal I looked.

In the mirror, a normal girl stared back at me. A girl who could be happy. Someone who may be enjoying life. I gave myself a moment longer to look before grabbing my bag and room key, and then heading out. Shock traveled through me as soon as my body met the outside air. My lungs burned as I breathed it in, and after a moment to adjust, I took off walking.

I didn't want to drive anywhere—I didn't trust myself enough to do so. Lost like this, I almost felt drugged. The last thing I needed was an accident. So, I walked aimlessly, following the sidewalk as if it were going to lead me to a different world. Of course, eventually, the sidewalk would end, and I knew I would feel just as lost.

Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognized my surroundings. On my right, a man was smoking a few feet ahead, and fear began to fill my veins like ice. Breathing became more difficult as my insides constricted into a mess of nerves and pumping blood. An odd expression was certainly present as I passed the man who I knew was harmless. He was old and smiled at me in the sort of way that highlighted how different the times had been for him. After a harmless wave from him and a "Good afternoon," I found that I was just as tense. Still, I opened my mouth to return the pleasantry and was met with nothing more than the sound of breath.

The man's brows drew together for a fraction of a second, and I recognized something in his features—something that suggested he felt sorry for me. Maybe he saw my pain. Maybe it was clear on my face and even infected the way my body moved. No amount of acting normal could cause me to be normal. Perhaps the passing of time would be the only thing that could get me back to where I needed to be.

Somehow, I ended up in front of Wanda's. Should I venture inside and face the job that I had left without a word? Maybe it would be comforting for them to know that I wasn't dead … or maybe, most likely, they had forgotten all about me already. The place had such a high turnover that I was sure they weren't surprised by my absence. They had probably already written me off. That wouldn't surprise me, of course—I was easily forgettable.

I turned away from the restaurant before I found my body moving toward the bookstore. My limbs seemed to move on their own accord, taking me toward the building that had inspired so much beauty and horror. Would that handsome man that I had saved, Edward Cullen, be there today? Would he remember me.

As I reached the front door of the bookshop, I found a "Now Hiring" sign taped to the glass window of the door. There were numbers attached to the bottom of the sign that could be ripped off. I did need a job … Before thinking anymore about it, I ripped off the number from the sign that said, "Now Hiring," the name of the shop, and the phone number before venturing inside.

Would this man want to hire a woman who couldn't speak, though? What use would I be, after all?

The door chimed when I opened it, and instantly, I was met with the sight of Edward Cullen, the man who embarrassingly starred in so many of my fantasies. He was posed behind the check-out counter, seated on a high stool in front of an old desktop computer with a book opened and resting on his thigh.

While he murmured a "hello," he didn't look away from his computer to acknowledge me. He was totally lost in whatever he was doing as I stepped away from the entrance and began to move around the shop. I couldn't really afford another book, but it still felt good to window-shop. Maybe one day, when I had a job again and some sort of income, I could buy as many books as I wanted, but now, I could only dream of having an established residence with a full library. It was a dream I had as a girl but feared that I could never actually accomplish.

There were so many titles I was drawn to—both old and new. The newer books were the publisher's price while the older books or used copies were half of what they would typically go for. There was a row full of leather-bound classics that made my heart race. I blushed, embarrassed by the way I reacted to works of fiction. Although, fiction had always been the thing that provided me with the most comfort. I pulled one from the shelf—a compilation of old fairytales—and began to flip through it. As I became immersed in Grimm's Cinderella—"The wife of a rich man fell sick, and as she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, dear child, be good and pious, and then the good God will always protect you, and I will look down on you from heaven and be near you."—my handsome bookstore owner rounded the corner. The right corner of his lips upturned in a half-smile as he seemed to recognize me.

For a moment, surprise coursed through me. I had always been so forgettable in the past … and yet this man recognized me. Did he recognize me as a customer? Or was it deeper than that … Did he recognize me as the woman who saved him? The one who sang to him before he faded away into a state of unconsciousness?

He had been something I dreamt about. Someone who drove away the nightmares—even if the comfort only lasted for a moment. I couldn't get over him. Even if he was practically a stranger to me.

"Hey … shopping again?"

So, it seemed like he only recognized me as a customer. That was fine. I could make him remember the rest. Once I remembered how to speak again, maybe I would have the strength to reveal everything. The time I saved him from himself. The tender moments we spent together. Maybe, just maybe, I would have the strength to reveal my feelings for him. That would take a lot more than the ability to speak, however. It would probably take a strength I didn't have.

At least, not yet.

I nodded, knowing that if I opened my mouth to try to speak, I would only embarrass myself again. Maybe I could practice at home. Try to form words until they eventually found their way past my lips.

His smile grew into something that lit up his entire face. Despite obviously not remembering our shared moments on the roof, he seemed to have a unique fondness for me. Or, perhaps, I was just overthinking things as I usually did. Maybe this fondness was something entirely imagined—wishful thinking that I never seemed capable of escaping.

Reality was horrible, after all. Maybe I needed to live in fantasy to keep myself sane. Fantasy could at least battle the nightmares.

"Did you finish all of those books already?"

I nodded again, smiling too.

"You're quiet today," he commented, not knowing enough to look concerned.

Another nod was quickly followed by a blush.

"Nothing on your mind?"

There was a lot on my mind. But did he really want to hear it? Even if I could speak, would it all be too much. After a moment, his smile faltered before a serious expression covered his face. He looked at me again—really looked at me—before leaning in as if he were going to tell me a secret. As if I were his close confident and he was going to reveal something absolutely outlandish and concerning.

Instead, he surprised me, speaking to something I wished he didn't know. It made sense, however; of course, he knew about what happened. It was a small town with a minuscule population—everyone here probably knew about what happened. Even if they all didn't know about my close encounter with death, they knew about one of their residents meeting his end.

"I … I heard about what happened," he stuttered out quietly, almost as if he was uncomfortable with bringing it all up.

These were fresh wounds, after all. Deep flesh wounds that had yet to fully heal. In fact, they hadn't even scabbed up. Most of these wounds were still bleeding, glistening ever so gently against the dim light of the bookshop.

"Are you all right? Those men … did they?"

I shuddered, wishing I could use my words to explain everything while being glad about my inability to make a sound.

"Look, I'm sorry for bringing it up," he said, looking nervous about a possible misstep.

With an awkward half-smile, looking very different than the one he had given me moments before, he raked his hand through his hair before letting go of an awkward laugh. The man must laugh whenever he felt uncomfortable—there was something about it, that was oddly charming. It seemed like a nervous habit he had never been able to grow out of. It was just one more thing I liked about him.

I shook my head, giving him a wave of my hand as if to say, "It's no problem." He watched me for another moment, almost as if he were wondering whether or not he had ever heard me speak or if this was a new and unfortunate habit I had formed.

"I heard a little," he admitted. "I've been thinking about you a lot since then … I can't begin to imagine how traumatic all of that was for you."

The sad part was that he probably understood trauma better than he ever wanted to admit. While our trauma had been different, we understood pain and how it cut so deeply into the soul. We were close even though we were strangers. Life had shown us too much, and somehow, we were still drifting—still fighting to keep our heads above the water.

A/N: I just wanted to take a moment to say … Thank you so much for all of the amazing comments on this story! It's so incredible to be able to see such lengthy comments and they really impact me, and my writing more than you probably know! With other stories, I felt like I never got tons of engagement, so seeing that happen with this story—especially considering how fragile I felt when I wrote most of it—has been really incredible!

I hope that I'll get to see some of you at this year's TFMU! I'm going to post a few chapters and then pack really quick and drive over to Cleveland! I'm a little nervous about the drive so I hope that me and my car make it there in one piece.

I was going to try and have this entire story posted by the time I went to TFMU but life happened. So, I should have the entire thing posted by the end of the month at the latest. Also, I'll have updates on "A Perfect Submissive" and "Snowed In" really soon! I definitely want to go back and work on completing all of my WIPS. It's difficult with my ADHD brain because as soon as I come up with an idea, I want to write the entire thing and because of that, I tend to leave a lot of things as WIPS. Last week, I went and mapped out the direction of all of my WIPS so now, I only need some time to sit down and finish them. It's been difficult between college, community service, and a full time job (and sleeping sometimes). Hopefully in the future I'll be able to better manage my time. (Fingers crossed!)

Again, I hope I can see some of you all today! If you are going to TFMU, just know that I'm super shy and probably won't talk that much haha. (There's a reason why I love writing and reading all day.)

Love you all!