I do not own Twilight. SM does.

No excuses for the delay in updating - it's called life! Future updates will be shorter, but hopefully more frequent :)

Not beta'd - all mistakes are my own. Please let me know if there's anything drastic I've mixed ;)

For you Bree! xx

I don't know how long I sit there, letter still clenched firmly within my sweaty hands. I'm certain hours have passed, and more questions filter through my head. How many letters has she written? Who has she written them to? What do they say? What was she thinking and feeling? I can picture her seated at the bay window in our bedroom, her back propped against the day bed with her knees bent, a pillow on her lap with a notebook and pen in her hand. She would have been biting her bottom lip, or even tapping her teeth with her pen as she was inclined to do when deep in thought.

I wonder who else has received letters, or have letters written to them but haven't gotten them yet. There's Mom and Dad of course, and Em definitely has one. She's been so sneaky doing this and I can't help but wonder what she has in store for me. I had no idea she'd been writing them. Sen was never much for writing, always saying that I was the writer in the family and I did enough for both of us. She would sit and play for hours on her piano, while I worked on my novel. It's odd how I could never write with the radio on or other noise around me, only Senna's piano music.

All of a sudden I have an intense need to go home—to sit at the window and feel closer to her. I know that there's no chance that will happen right now. Mom and Dad have me under house arrest and there's no point forcing the issue. I have no idea how long I'll be here, but I hope it's not too long. My legs start to cramp as I realise I've been in the same position for longer than is probably advisable. I unfurl my scrawny legs from underneath me and stand shakily while I get my balance. The action is an effort; not having realised how much strength I've lost while being sick.

On weak limbs I make my way back to the bedroom, foregoing the trip back downstairs. I gracelessly drop onto the bed, too tired to even draw the covers back. Pulling Senna's tank from underneath my pillow, I curl in on myself and drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I wander into the kitchen some time later, yawning and rubbing my eyes.

"Hey sleeping beauty. You were sound asleep when I checked, so I left you be. Did you sleep well?" Mom's concern is clear, but I can tell she's trying to hold back from babying me.

I nod, making my way over to the kitchen stool. Mom pushes a plate of sandwiches toward me, before she starts speaking again. "You slept through lunch, so I kept these aside for you." She takes a seat on the stool next to me, before continuing. "Are you okay? I mean, I know you're not, but how are you feeling after reading the letter?"

I chew my sandwich slowly, trying to formulate a response to her question. Am I ok? Just. I'm alive, that has to be something. Will I ever be happy, content with my life, feel fulfilled ever again? No. I'm only just existing, but how to do I tell my mother that? How do I tell the one person that loves me unconditionally, who brought me into this world, who taught me to be open and honest, that I have no reason for living? My heart feels likes it's shattered into a billion pieces, and each day that passes, those little fragments continue to float, never binding back together. The only person that can fix me, that can help heal the broken pieces, isn't here. So I tell her the only thing I can.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I answer as I swallow the bite of sandwich I'd started. Mom places her soft manicured hand on mine and I turn to face her. Frown lines trace her forehead, a telltale sign that she's either worried or angry. She does that mom thing, like she's looking deep into my soul and she knows I'm lying.

"Honey, I know you're really not. And that's okay. I just want you to know you can talk to me any time. It's not easy opening up, letting your feelings out in the open. Most times though, it needs to be done so we can move on. I've never been in your situation so I'm not going to say I know what you're going through, but I've lost both of my parents, so I understand what grief feels like." She pauses, before making her way to the other side of the counter where she pulls something out of a drawer. "I bought this for you. I thought that maybe... well since Senna has written you letters, you may want to write back to her? Or not. Do with it what you wish." As if unsure of her gift, she waves her hand in the air dismissing the leather bound journal she's just placed in front of me.

"Mom, it's actually kinda perfect, thank you," I say, rising from my seat. "Lunch was great, sorry I can't eat anymore. I'm going to rest again, I'll be up soon." Kissing her on the cheek, I turn to leave—journal firmly clasped within my hands.

Back in my room I sit at the small desk underneath the window, placing the book in front of me. The cover is smooth, and the distinct smell of pure leather drifts up to my nose. It's been years since I've handwritten anything; my novels are typed on a laptop. I keep a pen and paper handy by the bedside if any ideas come to me in the middle of the night, but writing on birthday cards and my signature scribble are the extent of my penmanship.

Opening the journal to the first page, the crisp clean lines await my chicken scratch. Senna would joke that I should have been a doctor, with my illegible scrawl. I rub at the stubble starting to grow back on my chin, knowing I will either have to shave again or let it grow. Looking back down at the journal, I don't even know where to start. How do I tell someone in writing that I love her more than life itself, knowing she'll never get to read it?

Knowing the best place to start is at the beginning, I put pen to paper.

My Sen-Sen,

Where do I start? First of all, you are so darn sneaky! When did you write all these letters? You must have been doing them when your parents were with you. How did you know that this would be what I need? Today—seeing your handwriting and reading your words—was the first time in over a year when I felt a little of the pain in my chest ease. It felt like you were here, scolding me for not moving on. What I wouldn't give to have you here, even if you were angry with me. I miss the way you'd stomp around the house, ranting as you moved from room to room. Once I thought you'd calmed down enough, I'd pin you to a wall, kiss you and tell you I was sorry, then we'd have the best make up sex. No more thinking about that, it brings up more issues than is needed. Yeah, I can just imagine you snickering at that. You always did have a dirty mind.

Those years ago, watching the movie...I didn't understand it, couldn't even comprehend the pain someone would go through losing the person they had vowed to spend the rest of their lives with. It must be a male chromosomal thing, because while you were crying through the movie, I was weirded out by the way she clung to his memory desperately. But I know now, I feel the pain, like my heart has been ripped out of my chest... I understand the reasons she couldn't let go—the same reason I can't let go of you now. You are my world, my everything. From the moment we met, it was always going to be the two of us, a united front for whatever we would face in life. But now, I can't do it alone, without you. I don't want to do it without you. Our whole lives, everything we had planned was swept away from us in the blink of an eye.

Please Sen, tell me how to go on? It's tearing me apart not having you here with me. I can't eat; sleep is either full of nightmares, or dreams of us together. I wake up happy, only to remember you're not here anymore. Tell me what to do—I need to be close to you again. How do I get that back? It's like my memories of you are fading. I want to hold you in my arms, nuzzle my nose into your neck and hear you sigh when I do it. I need to hold your face in my hands, and kiss your soft lips in that little pout you would do whenever you wanted something.

Senna, I miss everything about you, even when you would rub your cold feet up and down my calves, trying to warm them up.

My life has no meaning without you, and I can't go on without you.

I love you to the moon and back, baby.

Yours for eternity, Edward

My body is shaking—uncontrollable sobs forcing their way out of my throat. Time has no meaning anymore. It could be an hour, or it could be three before I feel the masculine hand of my father reach down to pluck the pen from my clutches. He wraps both arms around my waist, and lifts me slowly from the antique wingback chair. Soft words are spoken to my mother, but I can't discern what is being said. Within the safety of my parents embrace, they lead me back toward the bed where I collapse. Exhaustion has overtaken my body and mind—I just want this all to stop. The pain... the heartache... the putting on a brave face so everyone thinks I'm okay. If I could only go to sleep and never wake up—to be free of everything.

I'm barely aware of my mother slipping something in my mouth, holding a glass of water to my lips and telling me to swallow. The water is cool and eases the dry, scratching feeling in my throat. I lay my head back on the soft downy pillow, close my eyes and wait for sleep to draw me into it's depths.

**TTD**