Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyers owns Twilight, no copyright infringement intended. This plot and story however, are all mine and of my mind.

Hello Again, old friends. It's been a while - over seven years in fact. I'm not sure if there are any fans left to read this, but I felt I owed it to myself and the readers to finish this story as promised. 2020: what a year! Ten years since I first started writing this fic. The world has changed as have I, and as have likely all of you. Thank you in advanced for reading, and thanks for following the journey. What a neat community!

I hope this conclusion, the punctuation at the end of a very long sentence and story, bring satisfaction. Mostly for me it was healing.

Cheers!

Epilogue

BPOV

August 2012

I pinned the last sheet of welcome-week activities on the bulletin board outside my dorm room, readying for the students I was about to be a live-in resource for during the upcoming school year. Since I was double majoring in English and Journalism with a creative writing minor, I had needed an occupation that would also allow me to do my many, many papers and critiques. I figured I could write them while on duty as an RA when I was routinely required to stay up until two am monitoring the dorm hall. The idea was Edward's, actually. He had looked into becoming one himself because his passion for psychology and interest in helping others, but instead found himself on his Faculty Advisor's research team—something that would look much better for his grad school applications in the next few years.

Sitting in my single, I went over the previous week's worth of training in my head: all of the sessions on how to do rounds, take care of emergency situations, and deal with the really tough stuff like date rape and the like. Some of the breakout sessions were harder than others. The sexual assault seminar was torture. I had to be excused so I could compose myself in the ladies' room—not willing to allow others to see my moment of weakness. It brought back so many memories like flashes; memories that were hard to stomach even under the best of circumstances.

A month ago was three years since that night with the accident and everything that led up to it. I was thankful so much time and space had been put between me and what had happened. Time heals all wounds—or so they say. I found truth in that cliché.

In June after I had found out about the accident, I received a letter in the mail postmarked from Phoenix. It sat on my desk for a week, staring at me as I got ready each day, and daring me to open it as I undressed each night. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and my masochistic curiosity took over. To my relief, it was a letter from Jane.

In it, she expressed how sorry she felt for me, saying she was sorry she hadn't tried to call or text since the accident, and apologized for her avoidance of me. Jane admitted that she didn't know how to interact with me since I became "moodier" – her word – since the accident. Then she told me something she said she had never told anyone about: a month before my accident Alec had cornered her at a different sleepover and she was so giddy with his attention because she too had harbored a crush on him since a young age that she overlooked her own discomfort in his insistent touch. She wrote that they had sex and then he started ignoring her afterward, which was agonizing. She admitted with embarrassment that she didn't realize that it wasn't consentual because she tried to tell herself that it was something she hoped and wanted for years and tried to shut down the screaming discomfort in her mind while it was happening. She expressed her guilt in not having said something sooner because maybe, just maybe, she felt she could have prevented what happened to me.

I sat on that letter without responding for a week until I showed it to Kate, my therapist. We processed it, and I wrote back absolving Jane of her guilt. The only person to blame was him. I enclosed my new phone number in the letter and told her to call me anytime. She did, about a week later. We resumed occasional calls, texts, and maintained the friendship through today. Even though she chose to attend college in California, we met up every time we were both in Phoenix.

I never heard from Lauren, not that I needed to. She and her family had their own pain to heal from the events. Besides, I made my peace to that time period of my life and was happy to simply move forward like one chuck-clad foot in front of the other.

A knock on the door brought me out of my reverie. Edward leaned though the ajar doorway, a large smile eclipsing his face and shrinking the sparkling emeralds in his eyes with the intensity. Excitement was vibrating through him as he held something behind his back and started to walk into the room before I could speak to acknowledge him.

"Guess what, Sugar!?" He burst out both in greeting and not being able to contain his enthusiasm. Looking at my clock, I noted he was early to swing by and walk with me to lunch.

"What?" I responded as I stood to approach him and wrap my arms around him. Before I could reach him his hidden hand whipped from around his back and thrust a rolled magazine at me. As my eyes widened in equal parts curiosity and confusion, he leaned over to kiss my forehead.

"You're published! The essay you wrote about resiliency and the start of your Liberal Arts education won! Sugar, you fucking did it!" He seized me in an engulfing hug before I could react, or even process, what he said, the magazine still curled against my chest between us.

"Wait … what?" Realization sunk in. "Edward, I didn't submit that essay. I decided not to." I muffled into his chest. His arms slowly released their hold on me with his hands coming to rest on either side of my upper arms, holding me more gently this time. When his face came into view an appropriately abashed expression had dimmed some of his excitement, though it was still very much present in his eyes. Before he responded, he sucked in a deep breath.

"Please don't be upset, I know how you dislike surprises or people doing things without your permission, and I promise I had the best intentions … but I submitted it for you." He waited for my response. Conflicting emotions and thoughts collided as I processed this news. Part anger, part surprise, part exasperation, part hope, part doubt, part shame, and everything in between was flowing through me.

I unfurled the glossy paper and found it folded open to my piece, with my name as the credited author. Written by Bella Swan, Freshman at Gonzaga University. It was real. All of the battling stopped inside me and melted into awe and pride. That was me. I was chosen as the top winner – my deeply personal essay about resilience and that through liberal arts education I found another way to heal through knowledge of the world and finding my own story to not be one that is alone, separate, or other — was picked as the most well-written and best argued. It was an essay I had written during the last school year and one that I had chosen at the last minute not to submit out of fear and discomfort of my past being so out there for others to read and know.

Finally, I looked up at Edward. He was appropriately anxious while awaiting my reaction. The old Bella, the one before therapy and regaining the memories of the night of the accident would have been pissed and likely thrown a fit. My urge to do so was still there, but now there was a softer yet better disciplined voice that told me to wait and let the feeling pass and to try to take perspective before allowing the anger to take over. With each passing moment in the time I took to discern how I truly felt before responding to Edward, his posture melted and excitement dimmed as worry continued to creep in. Before I could say anything, he started to apologize, hands raised defensively.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have submitted it. It was just too good and you're too talented to not get the recognition. I didn't want it to be another thing that was taken from you and now I've gone and fucked it up. You're right: it was your story to share and I shouldn't have done that. Fuck! I'm sorry Sugar," he hung his head.

"Edward …" I finally found my words, lifting his chin with my hand as his initial excitement finally sparked within me. "Thank you." His emeralds met my chocolates and he saw my sincerity.

"You're not angry with me?" He questioned, confused and wary yet hopeful. I shook my head.

"No, I mean I probably should be, but I know you did it with love, and you see how it was a very risky move, but …" my smile grew wider as did his, "I won?" His elation returned in full force.

"You fucking won!"

This time as he held me tightly we both jumped up and down in mutual celebration. Tears of joy gathered at the corners of my eyes. I felt such pure happiness in that moment, eclipsing so much of the pain in the content of my essay that hope for my future, our future, bloomed even stronger. The past two-plus years since I regained my memories, and the past nearly three of knowing Edward, I had begun to put the shattered shards of myself back together and with each united piece more hope grew.

Hope was something I clung to now more than anything. Each time I awoke with nightmarish flashbacks or got triggered by a tall blonde stranger who accidently touched me in public or the days when it was hard to get out of bed – which were fewer and father between now – hope was the thing I held onto that brought me back to myself, grounding me in my safe present. I got healthier. I had stopped drinking in high school, the awkward acknowledgement of my unhealthy use and the encouragement of Kate as well as Edward, Alice, Emmett and the rest of my supports helped me to know that there were better ways of coping with the darkness that lurked inside my memories. I drank sparingly during my freshman year in college, one or two drinks maximum. There was so much more to live for than the numbness it used to provide.

I was published. I reveled in that thought, basking in the accomplishment it brought. The future, my future as a writer and my future with Edward had never shone as brightly in my mind as it did in that moment. Life was far from perfect and both Edward and I were far from perfect, but it was mine, ours, and I saw clearly how with the both of us together pushing one another forward we were unstoppable from achieving all that we wanted. The tears now fell, me wetting Edward's shirt for the trillionth time in our relationship. He pulled back, realizing I had stopped jumping as fervently.

"Sugar, you okay?" Concern colored his features once more as he regarded me, his eyes searching every inch of my face, boring into my own.

Fervently nodding before I could swallow some of the tears back to respond. "Yes! I'm just so happy! I … I didn't think I could do it. I've never felt this much hope before and it's scary," I realized aloud. He nodded then in understanding.

"Let's not forget the best part," he offered with more humor in his tone, "You won the $1,000 prize too!" I laughed then, having truly forgotten the monetary prize existed. It wasn't about the money and I knew the essay contest wasn't as big of a deal as we were making it to be, though the beacon of hope it presented was everything to me.

"Well, shoot. I guess you'll be wanting your part of the reward?" I teased, winking suggestively.

"Little ol' me?" He quipped in a higher-pitched feminine tone. "Why I never!" Renewed laughter shook us both with how ridiculous he sounded.

"I love you, weirdo," I giggled out.

"I love you more, Sugar."

He grabbed my hand leading me to the door. "C'mon, let me treat my published-writer-girlfriend to tacos before she becomes an international sensation!"

"Okay, let's not take it that far," I retorted, still giggling. "But tacos before calling everyone with the news sounds amazing. I'll probably be held on the phone for a while by –"

"Alice?" We both said in unison, eliciting more laughter from the both of us.

.::.

Life was far from perfection, not that I expected it to be, but I was no longer drowning in a darkness I couldn't name, and hope and love were no longer four-letter-words worth fearing. I still didn't believe in Fairy Tales, but I did believe in Edward and myself, which was so much fucking better.

Fin

.::.

A/N: Okay, so I know I said I don't write Fairy Tales and all ... but this tale was always about healing from dark truths.
It was always intended to be about resiliency. This is the first story I ever started writing, with that epilogue sitting half-written for the last six years. I apologize for letting it linger for so long, though that's life, right?

I have recently rejuvenated my passion for writing now that grad school and career have been successfully completed and started, respectively.
Stay tuned for other writing and YES The Air I Breathe will be finished too.

Thank you again for the interest and the reviews. Writing this story so long ago kept me alive in ways that are hard to describe.
Keep the faith, stay strong in these communally difficult and challenging times.

Hey - if Midnight Sun can be published, then anything can happen right?!

Take care!

XOXO,

~FabulousiTyxXx~