Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Twilight belongs to SMeyer, all poetry belongs to Pablo Neruda.
A/N: Thank you for the reviews off the last chapter! I hope that this second part is able to clear up a bit more of Edward and Bella's story.
We are For Each Other
Part Two
**
It's 10:59. And he wakes with a start to realise that he has not at all been listening to the willowy blonde sitting opposite him. He scrambles to plaster an interested smile across his face whilst taking a nonchalant sip of his drink. He is relieved when she doesn't notice, and continues with a hilarious Christmas story about her sister's cousin's best friend's uncle's twin toddlers and that time they threw cake all over the kitchen.
He shouldn't be here.
Even if his date is charming and relatively attractive. So far, he is somewhat impressed. She is intelligent, witty, and successful. She owns a house, and currently has a small business which keeps her hands full. But, she adds with a sly grin, she can always make room for attractive men.
Cue forced laughter and awkward silence.
It's not that he isn't attracted to her. In all honesty, she is a girl that he could take home to meet his mother with no second thoughts. His parents would be thrilled, his sister would adore her, and his brother could finally lay the homosexual jokes to rest.
And even as he is thinking this, he knows that he won't call her again. Clichéd as it is, there is no spark between them. She is a beautiful woman, and he sees the men who are glancing in their direction. Despite their conversation being consistent and engaging during the course of the night, and he sees that familiar glimmer of determination in her eye. She wants that second date and she will most likely do anything to get it, even if it means tricking him into it.
The thought makes him want to rip his hair out.
His mother worries because he has been single for most of his adult life. It could be the desperate need for grandchildren talking, but there have been many, many set up dates like these, all in the possible hope of him finally finding a woman that will hold his attention.
He's never told his mother that there has only even been one woman. He doesn't want to admit that he was too much of a coward to pursue things with her, and he has wasted many nights hating himself for it.
He doesn't want to think about her tonight. He shouldn't be thinking about her.
Their table is littered with littered with empty wine glasses and discarded napkins and he is subtly trying to get the attention of the waiter. Around them, the music has softened considerably, lulling into an easy melody that is atmospheric for the restaurant. Couples are loitering on the dance floor, while others sneak out into the cool night to continue what has started here.
All he wants to do is leave, despite the fact that he is due to be at a former student's art exhibition. Tanya had been excited when he'd mentioned it, offering to accompany him. He had hesitantly agreed, and when she had suggested a restaurant and a live jazz band, the plans were set. He had been apprehensive, but the look of hope on his mother's face had been his undoing. He planned to go with an open mind, and no expectations.
He shouldn't write her off, not just yet. The night is still young, and things could change.
The waiter finally arrives with the bill, and he slips his MasterCard into the leather binder before handing it back. Tanya watches him with speculative eyes but smiles when he meets her eyes.
"We should probably get going if we're still going to make it to the gallery," he hints, pushing back from the table and preparing to stand. He wonders if the brief look of annoyance on her face is because he has paid for their dinner. He has dated a few women who have bristled at the notion, and furiously demanded to pay their share. It's not that he enjoys displaying gallantry; it's just that his mother raised him a certain way. And in her day, men took care of the women they were with.
As he escorts her out of the building, she links her arm with his and he can't help but stiffen at the contact. She smiles up at him, and he sees right through her calculated grin when she simpers, "Thank you for dinner. I'm having such a great time tonight".
He graciously murmurs, "You're welcome" before stepping outside into the brisk night. The street lights cast a dull glow onto the footpath, illuminating the dark greys of the shadows that lurk beneath them. Tanya is quick to hail a cab and he can only enjoy the weather for a moment before ducking into the warm interior of the car.
Tanya cosies up to him, touching her thigh to his, and he settles uncomfortably into the seat.
"This is so nice of you, going to all this effort for a student," she notes, watching the rush of the city pass by.
"He's a talented kid. I was happy to be of some help," He replies, not elaborating further. He is uneasy with the attention she is giving him now.
"No, really," she laughs. "If I called my college professors up today, asking for a leg up, they would probably tell me to stop wasting their time"
He laughs politely in response before moving his eyes to the scenery outside. He doesn't explain that his students were his lifeline. That it was them who saved him. That it is a pleasure to be involved with adults who have a lifetime of potential in their minds. That it is he who is honoured when they would come to him for help.
The cab ride is short, and within minutes they arrive at the rustic warehouse that Dwayne chose for the event. There is a small crowd gathered inside, where it seems a tipsy Dwayne is making an entertaining speech. Leaving their coats at the door, he follows Tanya inside, only to catch the last few lines.
"...to the gorgeous people who were able to help little Dwaynie find his way. No, seriously, this would have been a much harder road to travel if I didn't have friends by my side," Dwayne slurs the last part, adding a devious wink towards the perfectly groomed man standing beside him, an arm looped around his waist. The group chuckles quietly as Dwayne is now wiping at misty eyes.
"So as much as this night is about me, it's about you. Because without you all," he declares, raising his champagne glass, "this exhibition would not exist. And alas friends, neither would young Dwayne,"
Tanya chuckles beside him. "Oh my, he certainly is precious," she grins, raising her glass along with the others.
He smiles and raises his own glass. His face does not express the pride that is coursing through him at the moment. He has gotten to know this young man quite well over the past year, and to see him stand on his own feet and make a name for himself is a moment of quiet satisfaction.
It is, he realises, what a father would feel for a son.
He is pulled from his thoughts by fellow colleagues who rush to greet him. In between introducing Tanya, and catching up with old friends, his mood is significantly lifted. It is not until he's deep in conversation with a former colleague from Dartmouth about a new Literature program that he smells it. A distinct floral and fruity infusion.
He smells her.
Distracted, he scans the room. Tanya is laughing and talking to a close friend of his, Seth. The clatter of conversation buzzes louder in his ears as he spies a young woman standing in front of an abstract painting of a human heart. From the back, he swears it's her. Her hair is the same colour, perhaps a bit shorter. She is the same build, same pale skin. He stares at her, willing her to turn so he can confirm his hopes.
"Edward. Edward?" Eric is waving a hand in front of his face, attempting to get his attention.
Shaking his head, he moves his interest back to the conversation. A few minutes later, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. It is the same woman, now making her way for the entrance. Frustrated, he moves slightly trying to catch a glimpse of her face. She's stopped by a former lecturer, who moves to embrace her. She moves her face slightly to the right, nose wrinkling with distaste, and his heart drops into his feet.
It's her.
It has to be. He would recognise that face anywhere. He is trying to get a better view when Tanya approaches him and lays a hand on his arm. He is startled, and glances down at her in surprise.
"Edward? I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I have an early day tomorrow. Um," she pauses, pointing back to Seth who is waiting near the door, "your friend Seth offered to give me a ride home. Thanks for tonight, I really mean it"
His sudden realisation is that he is being let of the hook. He also acknowledges that he is neither angry nor annoyed.
He smiles, and she relaxes visibly when he isn't irritated.
"It was my pleasure, Tanya," he says, pressing a swift kiss to her cheek, and nodding at Seth who is now jiggling his car keys with impatience.
She does not offer to call him, or arrange a second meeting. And he is only too happy to let her go.
Eric is nowhere to be seen, and he quickly snaps his eyes back to where he'd seen her moments ago.
Nothing.
Defeated, he moves through the crowd towards the front entrance. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him. Exhausted by tonight, he is ready to leave. He bids a quick goodbye and congratulations to Dwayne, who is now thoroughly incapacitated, and pushes open the door, eager for fresh air.
And that's when he sees her again. Isabella Swan.
She's leaning against a brick wall, and her eyes are closed. Under the pastel glow of the surrounding lights, she looks deathly pale, and her face is covered in a light sheen.
"Isabella?"
God. Those eyes. They have visited him in his sleep for the past few years.
Her face resembles a deer caught in headlights; however she is quick to compose her features into a neutral state, and smiles casually.
"Edward! What are you doing here?"
She has changed. Of course she has changed. She has grown into a striking young woman, but she is thinner than he remembers. As he comes closer, he sees the deep shadows beneath her eyes, the lack of colour in her cheeks.
"Well I'm here for the opening!" He replies, moving forward to press a gently kiss against her cheek in greeting.
Her skin is ice beneath his, and he wonders what the hell she's doing out here, possibly freezing to death in nothing but a thin dress. She is silent when he steps back to observe her.
"So, how do you know Dwayne? This is crazy, us meeting here like this," He says, wondering why she is so quiet. He is always happy to run into past students, but he wonders if he's being too forward, if she genuinely wants to be left alone.
She blushes, and for a moment, he is captivated by the colour that blooms in her cheeks. She's staring at him, and then glances at the ground before answering.
"Dwayne and I worked together. We just have a few mutual friends," she answers, not making eye contact with him.
Small world. He vaguely remembers Dwayne mentioning a Bella from work. And it hits him now.
His Bella. Oh.
She seems to have regained her composure when she glances at him and asks, "What about you? I didn't peg this to be your scene"
He laughs at this, and watches her face change at the sound.
He shakes his head, "Dwayne is actually an old student of mine. He emailed me a couple of years ago. He was looking to open a gallery, and he asked for some assistance. Wanted to know if I could help out with networking, that sort of thing," he answers.
"Oh," she smiles and her face transforms. He feels a pang in his chest when her lips widen, and her eyes warm. Her beauty is breathtaking, even now.
"Looks like everything worked out perfectly", she says, glancing at the throng of people still inside.
He congratulates her on her job, a copy editor at her age is impressive. He knew she would go far. She is a brilliant woman, and her intelligence and perception is remarkable.
"You've trained me well for editing, Professor Cullen," She jokes. She's nervous again, and he's reminded of the shy, clumsy girl who would sit in the front row of his class and her incessant questions.
For the first time tonight, he genuinely laughs. His standards are well known by his students. He had caught many students complaining about the workload and his harsh marking. He was not always easy on Bella, forcing her to maintain a high standard of quality in her work. He knew she was capable of achieving better marks. That's why he pushed her, but she was not always thankful.
She is noticeably shivering now, and he wonders why she isn't inside spending time with her friends.
"What are you doing out here anyway? There's a party inside. And it's bloody freezing"
He voice has a noticeable shake in it when she answers, "I just needed some air. It was a bit stuffy inside"
Her words are layered with meaning, and it is difficult to decipher her tone. He wishes he could open her up, but he is not really sure where he stands. He thinks to offer her his coat, but instead he asks her if she would like to go back inside.
He is not expecting her reaction. Her face withdraws and she looks absolutely drained. When she looks up to reply, her eyes are fiercely resolute.
"Actually I was just about to head home. Can't stay up as much as I used to," she quips, trying to alleviate the sudden drop in her mood.
He doesn't want to leave her, not just yet. He has tried to put his feelings for her behind him, but she's here now, and she looks so frail and tired. He wants to press her body into his and offer her comfort and warmth. He doesn't know why she looks so weak, but he would do anything, anything to change it.
When she informs him that she's planning to walk, his heart almost stops.
What? Hell no.
"In this city at this time of night? You must be insane"
She laughs sardonically and he can see that she will brush him off.
"I'll walk with you," he says firmly, leaving no room for her protests. Before she can complain, he removes his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She looks tiny in his jacket and he feels a surge of protectiveness as she hugs herself tighter in it.
"Thank you," she whispers, giving him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
Bella, he wants to ask. What's happened to you?
Silently, they begin to walk. She is looking down, but he can't help but notice the pretty flush of her cheeks from the cold weather. Despite her earlier reluctance, she is quick to start a conversation, and before long, they have slipped back into the easy camaraderie that they have always shared. She fills him in on his past students, and he finds himself wanting to share details from his own life with her. She asks about his new students, the new curriculum at Dartmouth, why he returned to Seattle. He answers all her questions, not prepared for the warmth in his chest when she eagerly listens and demands more details.
It had always been like this between them. She was a student of only eighteen when he first met her, but her maturity and insight surpassed her years. It showed in her work and her attitude. And he had never, ever met anyone like her. He was always careful to keep a professional distance, but the more he'd stayed away, the more he had found himself drawn to her kind nature, her goodness.
It had started innocently. He was her professor, and she was a bright, young student, full of innocence and naivety. She was always happy to share her opinions and analysis, and he was mesmerized by the way her eyes would light up when she was excited, or the simple radiance of her smile when she achieved a solid mark. She emailed him frequently when exam time was near, always with queries or difficulties in deconstructing texts. He would reply, and then find himself desperately waiting for her answer. The subject never stayed the same, and their emails would regularly waver into slightly more personal conversation-into a book she was reading, into a weekend spent at his mother's house, a funny conversation with the bus driver.
He didn't want to admit it, but he was slowly, but surely, falling in love with a student.
The thought disgusted him, and he was furious with himself for letting it get that far. He managed to be cautious with her, and tried vigorously to remain vigilant in keeping a safe distance. She was never careful with boundaries though, always stopping by after class to compliment him on a lecture, or thanks for recommending a book. Her brown eyes held such warmth and purity and he would find himself watching her, memorizing the way her hands would move, or the way her hair would smell when she would brush his shoulder on her way out.
It was in second year when he overheard a certain Michael Newton planning to ask her out. Newton's friends had pushed him on, and he had walked away, enraged by the obscenities that the stupid child used to describe her. Bella never mentioned that date to him, and he was curious as hell to find out more, but respectfully allowed her to keep her privacy. When Mike showed up to class a couple of days later, sullen and morose, Edward had to work to keep the smile off his face. He knew she was smarter than that.
And so, it continued for another two years. He can remember a particular day when she walked into class after being absent for two weeks. She was quiet, withdrawn and her face was strained. She didn't participate in the discussion with her usual fervour and he was distracted, deciding to end the lecture early and asking her to stay behind. He asked about her whereabouts, ready to give her an earful about keeping up with coursework. She answered so quietly, he had to lean in to hear her properly.
"My dad had a heart attack," she had whispered, tears leaking silently out of her eyes. "He passed away last weekend"
He was stunned, horrified and had stood there like an idiot, while her shoulders shook and her head slumped as she wept softly in front of him. He fought with himself as his arms ached to pull her into him, and hold her so that he would absorb her pain. He wanted to wipe the tears from her cheeks, and press kisses on her eyelids, her lips, anything to make it easier for her.
Instead, he had grasped her arm gently, and leaned his head down to lock eyes with her.
"Isabella," he stated calmly, "I'm so sorry for your loss"
She had sniffled, her eyes puffy and red and given him a watery smile.
"I'm sorry Professor Cullen, I wasn't really expecting to be away for so long"
He had worked to swallow the lump in his throat before telling her to go home and get some rest. As she turned and walked wearily out of his classroom, he had gone to work organising extensions and extra revision so she wouldn't fall behind. He had emailed her some of the work she missed, ending the message with a reminder for her to take off as much time as she needed. Her reply was brief but undeniably sweet.
Thanks, Professor Cullen. Thank you for being so kind and sending me the notes from the classes I missed. I really appreciate it. Thanks for your support.
When graduation day came, his heart was heavy. He was immensely proud of her for accomplishing one of the highest grades in the senior class. She had come to his office that morning, shy and happy, smiling as she handed him a wrapped package and a card. As she left, she leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, and had stared right at him with blushing cheeks and tender eyes.
"I'm so grateful for everything you've done for me, Professor Cullen. I couldn't have done this without you," she said quietly, and then just like that, she was gone.
Her card was beautiful, a sincere thanks for the years of assistance he had given her. Her package was a book of poetry by Chilean author Pablo Neruda. She had marked a page in the book, and he'd turned to a poem entitled Your Laughter, only to be stunned momentarily.
My struggle is harsh and I come back
with eyes tired
at times from having seen
the unchanging earth
but when your laughter enters
it rises to the sky
seeking me
and it opens for me
all the doors of life
He had held that book in his hands, heart pounding in his chest as he contemplated the choice that lay before him. She had her whole life ahead of her and he was a tired old man with nothing to offer. And so, he had done the most cowardice thing of all-he had shut her out of his life. She emailed him a few times over the years, and he had sent back kind but abrupt replies, until one day, she stopped completely.
He had never forgotten about her though. When she applied at a small publishing house in Seattle, he had written a recommendation letter, allowing her direct entry into her first full-time job. He managed to keep tabs on her through various connections but lives and families drew them down separate and distant paths.
He shakes himself out of the past, focussing his attention back into the present. They are, as always, dancing around the personal subjects, but the same boundary lines no longer exist. She is older now, he can see that she is not a young girl anymore. She finishes telling him about a wedding between two past students and he can't help but wondering if she is seeing anyone. There is no ring on her finger, but he has no idea who she may be involved with.
"What about you Isabella, are you dating anyone?" he asks calmly, while his heart thunders in his chest.
She is silent before she shakes her head no and says, "No, no I'm not"
He is secretly pleased, but her face is so sad that his satisfaction vanishes in an instant.
"Are you married yet?" she asks, her eyes wide with unabashed curiosity.
He laughs regretfully and murmurs, "No," and looks for her reaction. Her face is smooth and she nods, not trailing the conversation out any further.
No, my Bella, he wants to explain, every time I looked another woman, all I could see was you.
When they stop outside her building, he hasn't yet organized his emotions. He is not ready to say goodbye. So when she invites him in for a cup of tea, his heart races and he sounds like an idiot when he manages to stutter out, "Sure, yes. I mean, yes. I'd love to"
Her smile is brilliant and she leads him into the warmth of the foyer, and into the elevator. He follows her into the apartment, not quite believing that he is really here, and in this situation right now. Her flat is small, but there are distinct touches of classical art mixed with modern furniture. There are books scattered everywhere, along with manuscripts for various drafts.
"Do you live by yourself?" he asks, closing the door to the cold emptiness of the hallway.
She nods, and he is somewhat regretful when she removes his jacket and lays it on a chair. He stops to glance at a few photos mounted on the wall. Pictures of her laughing with an unfamiliar, dark haired boy. An older woman who looks just like her, embracing her, and one of an older man with a moustache and a stiff smile. She looks beautiful in each photograph, wide smile, expressive eyes that are never changing with age.
He moves down a corridor towards the bookshelf he spotted when he first walked in. She calls out a thanks for his jacket and he can hear her moving around in the kitchen. He raises his voice in reply, before turning to see a bookshelf filled with the entire works of Jane Austen, along with enough poetry to fill a house. When he returns to comment on her obsession, she hurries to cover a yawn before smiling brightly and pouring him a cup of tea.
He feels awful. She is obviously exhausted and he shouldn't be here, revisiting feelings that he forced himself to leave behind.
"You look absolutely worn out, Isabella," he observes, and he's worried about her.
She smiles and shrugs off his comment and carries their cups into the living room. He feels powerless in her presence. He doesn't know how he will bring himself to leave when the night ends.
"It's been a long week," is all she says in reply and he wants to ask her about it. What happened? Why do you look like you haven't eaten in a month? Who's looking after you?
He watches her relax into the soft couch, and slipping her heels off her feet and massaging them with her hands. It is such a simple and sensuous act, and he has to work to clear his head. Moving his attention to back to her face, he asks about the pictures on the wall. She tells him about her mother's unconventional parenting, family visits to the beach when she was younger. Life in rainy Forks. They discuss books, and he is delighted that she's read every single text that he recommended. Her mind is still just as sharp, and their conversation continues into the very early hours of the morning.
It is just past four a.m. when she pushes her head back into the sofa and looks at him, sleep weighing on her eyelids. Even at the end of this day, with her makeup rubbed off and her mouth drooping, she is still the most beautiful creature he has ever seen.
"I should go," he finally says, turning his face closer to hers. Her mouth is washed pale pink in the moonlight and he can't take his eyes off her.
"No," she whispers, leaning forward, her breath falling into his mouth. "Don't go"
His breath catches. His heart races with anticipation at the thought of a second chance after all these years.
"Why not?" he asks her, wishing for her to tell him, to be honest.
Her eyes flutter shut and she laughs softly to herself.
"Because I don't want you to"
Her words are simple and pierce straight through him. She hasn't opened her eyes, and he gently brushes a hand over her cheekbone, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear in order to see her face better. Her skin is of the softest cashmere, and he wants to touch her again, just to make sure that she is real.
She releases a small breath and her wide, chocolate eyes are searching his face. She looks terrified, and he mistakes her fear, thinking she is scared of him.
It takes him a moment to realize that she is scared of being rejected. Again.
"Ask me to stay, "he whispers, his voice hoarse with unshed emotion, "And I'll stay"
Forever.
She smiles, reaching for his hand and gives him the answer that he is waiting for.
"Stay," she says, enveloping his palm between her soft hands, "Please, stay"
Her voice is heavy and her words are slurring slightly. She needs to sleep.
"You need to sleep Bella, I've kept you up for too long," he tells her, touching her face again.
She doesn't respond, giving him a sleepy smile. Before she can say another word, he stands and lifts her easily off the couch, swinging her into his arms. She is small and soft and he hears her gasp softly when her head rests against his neck. He is trying to concentrate, but all he can feel is her plum lips against his neck, the delicate brush of her hair against his cheek. When she snuggles closer to him, his fingers clench against her bare thigh, his body desperately reacting to her skin and scent.
She whispers a direction to the bedroom and he enters it, smiling at the muted and feminine touches of her private space. He drops her softly onto the mattress, and she stretches lazily on the bed, her dress riding up to reveal an expanse of pale, buttery skin. He watches her, entranced and isn't prepared when she grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him down on top of her. He falls on her awkwardly, his mind reeling from being this close to her.
"You promised you'd stay," she reminds him, her fingers tracing the muscles of his forearm. He can't think, can't speak when her skin makes contact with his.
She is everything he ever imagined.
He rolls away from her, keeping their legs tangled. She won't remember this in the morning, he's sure. He lies back and admires the way her hair tangles around her face, the smell of her pillows.
"I'll stay, Bella," he whispers back, reaching over to twine his hand in her hair. He wants to close his eyes and cherish this. He wants to cherish being able to touch her. When he lifts his eyes back to hers, she is watching him and there is little confusion in her eyes.
"Never leave," she orders, closing the gap between them, pressing her lips delicately against his.
The second her mouth touches his, all reasonable thought flees his mind. Her lips are warm and flush against his mouth and he pulls her closer, slipping his hand down her back to firmly anchor their bodies together. She responds excitedly, sliding her hand into his hair in an effort to bring him even closer.
He turns their bodies, pressing her beneath him, before pulling his mouth away as the need for air becomes too great. She is panting, flushed and her eyes are alight.
God, he has only ever dreamed of her like this.
He tenses when she wiggles underneath him, trying to get comfortable. Her frame moulds perfectly into his, and when she pulls his head back down, he steadies his hands on her waist before putting every regret, every lost moment and every memory of her into his kiss. She tastes distinctly sweet, and all he can smell is lavender and honey. His hands are travelling up her bare legs on their own accord, and then he presses deeper against her mouth, touching her tongue. She moans softly and it cuts the silence, snapping him back into reality.
He pulls away, gasping for air. If she is going to make noises like that, he's not sure how much more self restraint he'll be able to exercise. He rests his forehead against hers, touching her reddened lips. She is looking at him, waiting for him to continue.
"I don't know how to control myself around you," he confesses to her, ashamed for giving in to his instincts.
She does not say anything, only brings her hand up to press against his heart. It's thudding in his ears, and he's sure she can probably hear it. Slowly, she moves her hand through the open slit of his shirt, pressing her fingers against his flesh. He sucks in air as her fingernails glide over his skin and collarbone. His muscles are twitching in response to her movement and he closes his eyes in the soft pleasure of her hands coming to rest at the nape of his neck. Slowly, she begins scratching her nails over his scalp, her fingers twisting through his hair. He cannot help himself, and his head falls forward onto her chest, allowing the small trembles of bliss to run through his body.
Her breathing slows, and he notices when it is somewhat heavy and even. A quick glance up confirms that she is almost asleep, and he rolls off her, cursing himself for getting carried away and taking advantage of her fatigued state.
"Shit Bella, I'm so sorry," he whispers apologetically, moving away from her and drawing the comforter around her small form. She whinges quietly when he puts more distance between their bodies and he laughs at the endearing expression in her voice. He crushes her gently to his side, and she presses her face eagerly into his neck, her limbs splaying over his torso. He lets out a soft breath into her hair as she slips softly into sleep.
"I want you here in the morning," she mumbles into his skin, before finally letting sleep claim her.
He closes his eyes, revelling in the comfort of her body next to his. Even though he is exhausted, his mind is overwhelmed with the events that have unfolded tonight. There are many unanswered questions between the both of them, many things to be explained and discussed, but for now, he is content in watching her sleep, knowing she is peaceful.
He tries to get comfortable, but a hard ridge cuts into his shoulder blade. Feeling underneath an abandoned pillow, he pulls out a hardcover book, worn and frayed. It is open to a page, and smooths it, wanting to know what she's been reading. He skims over the words, and closes his eyes, praying for strength.
Tomorrow, he would tell her everything.
Laugh at the night,
at the day, at the moon,
laugh at the twisted
streets of the island,
laugh at this clumsy
boy who loves you,
but when I open
my eyes and close them,
when my steps go,
when my steps return,
deny me bread, air,
light, spring,
but never your laughter
for I would die.
**
A/N: Leave any thoughts, comments, likes, dislikes. I've noticed a few of you have this story on alert, and I would love any feedback from those that are reading this. Did it work, did it suck? Please, let me know, I'd love to chat :)
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