He flees so fast that the trees blur around him, just greens and blacks that run together like watercolors in the rain but never seem to fade. He runs, and he can hear them calling, their concern an unwelcome weight on his back that diminishes with the miles. He runs, and he sees their faces with an ache of guilt: Bella, hurt because he left; Dad, gravely stoic in an empty house; and the pack, hobbled by the hole he's creating, but he can't stop. He just can't, anymore, not even for Bella. He can't stay to watch her marry the bloodsucker and die. He can't stand to see her as an unholy mockery of herself. He can't stand by while she trades warmth and life and hope for a barren eternity full of regret.
He remembers, absurdly, how he used to laugh at some of the songs that played on the radio during middle school, the ridiculously agonized ones that were supposed to be so deep and artistic. He thinks, now, that those bands were amateurs. He could teach them a few things about heartbreak.
He runs, shedding higher thought like a cloak, but his heart is still human.