AN: So this chapter was kind of a stab at me because I always do what Edward does; live in the past. But I agree with him more than Bella, I love being able to go back and read how something made me feel, how something happened in perfect clarity. I'm a dreadful story teller, whenever I try to explain to a person how something happened I stumble around the point and miss the jokes, every time. If I write it down at least I know at one point in time it was a smooth story.

Anyway thanks for reading, if you're reading. ;)

Snapshots in Reverse

Her hair tickles me as she leans over to peer at the computer screen. I've been working for hours typing out things I need to remember; parts of my life that I don't ever want to forget; mostly writing about Bella.

"I hate this desk," she remarks in a cheerful voice.

I turn to meet her eye but she resists, reading what I've been writing for the past while. I feel self conscious; I guess anyone that writes knows what I mean. It seems fine to type up a fairy tale story on 'word' only to later hide it away so no one but you will locate it; fine to hide your personal feelings deep within the zeros and ones of computer technology.

Of course it's almost, but not quiet, as personal as buying a pastel pink diary with fancy Italian scrawl and a flimsy lock. Maybe I was being just as childish…

So the flip side of course was showing the most important person in your life what you've really been thinking, what you've been getting out of a situation when their own mind has been formulating an entirely different interaction. And of course since she's reading my words she'll now know everything, all the embarrassing things that I take note of; that I've always wished she wouldn't see.

"Hmm," she hums, and I can practically feel the vibration from her neck. The song I was listening to through 'youtube' claps and tingles along with her.

"I wish you would tell me what you're thinking," I tell her with as much authority as possible.

"I wish I wouldn't have to sneak a look at your writing to understand you," she points out.

It's waiting just for you

The obscure singer mentions along with the synthetic rumblings that could only come from the eighties.

"Why do you hate this desk?" I finally ask, knowing that she won't tell me anything as important as what she's thinking. That would be much too easy.

"There is nothing worse than seeing you diligently typing away."

Her eyes finally find mine and she appears so forlorn that I prod her statement, "What do you mean?"

"Always living in the past, I miss you when you disappear there."

My eyes scrunch in confusion, surely I have no idea what this means. I force myself to say so in lesser words that I figure she can relate to, "My past is full of you, it's all about you; it's only about you."

And that perfect, yet small, smile assaults her affectionate lips. She takes a step around me so she's leaning in front of the computer affectively blocking out my past. "But I'm right here."

I want to say, 'but you won't be forever' or even, 'I miss you when you leave' but I don't. I don't because it's unnecessary and though it might be hard to admit it, I know, or fear one day she won't come back. I don't care if the rest of my life is lonely; I just want to remember her as she was, as she is. I'd rather live in fiction based on fact than push myself into another relationship.

I raise myself so we're level and nuzzle her face next to mine. I can feel that I've taken her by surprise by the way she allows a giggle to break her previously stony mood. And it's worth it, none of our problems have been solved, of course, but if she's with me I don't care.

Her eyelashes dart as she blinks, a butterfly kiss, isn't that what they call them? I remember, very distantly, an aunt teaching me about them when I was eight. She'd raised my hand to her eye and blinked, she was a strange and insightful lady, but her 'kiss' was nothing like Bella's.

I could feel words under Bella's lashes, could feel her passion even in such a gesture.

And when I turn just a fraction to catch her lips under and in mine she doesn't hesitate to deepen the kiss. Her fingers play at my collar bone, nails dipping into my skin just hesitantly. I slow the embrace almost immediately because I've been wanted to ask something of Bella for a few days now.

Her eyes, doe-like in their sensitivity, chastise me for pulling away. I don't apologize, instead I say, "Won't you dance with me," like it's a normal thing to ask of my beautiful Bella who I've never seen dance, not even once before, not even in passing. She grins at me and blushes, God does she blush, taking me on an emotional high.

"I can't," she manages biting her bottom lip like she's just told me she broke a vase.

I don't care; I reach around her, toggle around through my favorite songs and pull up the one I've been dreaming about for months now.

The four vocals emanate from the gray dome shaped speakers, flooding the room in atmosphere. And as the lead promises

I only have eyes for you

I understand and fully believe him. I only have eyes for her I don't see anything else, or at least everything else is blurred in her wake.

I take her hand in mine and pull her away from the desk she hates and toward the empty area in our living room. The carpet brushes my bare toes in a memorable way and I make a note in my head to add that to my description later when I get to jotting down this perfect moment.

I hook my arm around her so I'm as close as can be and sway, she follows me, dancing is honestly all about the leading, and then we're floating there on cloud seven and a half.

She stumbles over my toe and stiffens, "I'm dreadful at this," she blurts.

"No you're not; you're not dreadful at anything."

I breathe in her scent as I spin her around carefully, and she laughs along with the movement. She smells like she always does mixed with toothpaste. I hadn't noticed when we were kissing, how had I missed that?

See, this is what I mean about details, if I don't document her, who will? If I I'm not here to know how she likes her bagels with a minimal amount of cream cheese and half a grapefruit in the morning, who will? Because it feels like nothing but her matters, that I could be shot dead tomorrow and it would all be worth it.

Maybe love isn't so much about compromise as forgetting yourself to another. In the end I don't care. I spin her around once more, a little faster, as the song dies with an unexpected crackle.