Okay, last short chapter (hopefully). I've realised these shorties are bugging you, so I'll try and make them longer, but not right now, since exams have started! -bites nails- Had Latin and Physics today....2 down, 11 to go. Anyway, I really will try and get this story moving after the 22nd or so, but for now, this will have to do. I'm really sorry guys.

Lost

The week went by in an orderly fashion. Edward's course started two days early than mine, so I am alone now. I listen to the house breathing, and I reminisce about the past few days. After a disastrous attempt at making some spaghetti, I settle for a simple sandwich, and hastily clean up the mess I made. The weather has turned dark and gloomy, and I've never been more impatient to start university. Over the past few days, I've gotten used to being secluded, out of the way, but I'm missing the attention. I'm missing the parties, the drinking. I feel as if I'm wasting my days here, alone. When Edward comes home, it gets better.

We had worked out a routine. During the day, we stay away from each other. Edward wakes up early and goes to run, while I take advantage and sleep in. We go about our jobs on our own, occasionally making petty small talk about unimportant things. I call James and ask him about Lauren, finally giving in to my curiosity. According to him, she said she would call me, and I laugh at her utter ignorance. Edward plays his piano on a daily basis, and does a large portion of the housework. I do try to offer, but he only shakes his head in the way that makes his hair sway and grins. Then he carries on what he was doing without saying a word. I shoot him a puzzled looks for he is always peering under his eyelashes to see my reaction. Nothing, he replies and somehow manages to avoid answering the question properly all together. It puzzles me, but I decide to let it go nonetheless. I will ask him later.

He has never said what he is feeling. He has never said he was bored, tired, hungry. Nothing. Unlike me, who complains daily. I want to know what he's thinking- sometimes I see this bizarre look on his face, as if he's in a far away world. It intrigues me, but I always leave it- he doesn't seem like the person to talk openly about himself.

I finish my sandwich and feel uncomfortably full. I stroke my stomach in a vain attempt to make it stop, but of course, it doesn't work. My hands are cold.

I slump on the couch and flick through the channels. I find it hard to see how people are hypnotised by this little box, and feel the need to watch it. It's all made up, nothing is real. No one's life is that interesting.

I hear the door of the porch open, and turn awkwardly on the couch to see who it is, even though I know already. He shoves the key into the door, and opens it with such force that my eyes flinch. I catch his creased brow before he pivots and locks the door again, throwing his keys into the bowl on the shelf. His smell drifts to me.

"What's wrong?" I try to ask, but he turns towards me with such majesty, with such power that I feel naked. I shake my head in order to tear my eyes from his. Already, I regret asking for fear of what he might say. He sucks in a breath, as if he was going to state something important, lifting a finger at the same time. His brow is still creased, his jaw tense. He suddenly snaps his mouth shut and his hand falls back down to his side in defeat. He looks exhausted.

Then he stalks off towards his room, shoulders hunched, without a word. I turn back to face the television, confused. My cocky, irresponsible side gives its input. What if he killed a patient? Then I remember this was only his second day.

Moments later, I hear his piano, loud and assaulting to my ears. The piece is staccato and clashing- it seems as if he's just hitting random keys. The sound completely envelops the television, until I can hear it no more. I look down as my fingers fall over each other, jigging my leg nervously. I try to think up of things to do- should I go to his room? Ask him what's wrong? Maybe I should just leave it, like I always do, and let my mind reel with stories about what happened.

I feel uncomfortable around him. I would rather not be left alone with him, not be left alone with his sharp eyes and his regal posture. He holds his head like a horse, high and proud. I don't want to admit it, but I feel intimidated by his presence. I feel inferior compared to his knowledge and apparent strength. I don't even know if these qualities are true, I'm just going off first impressions. He smiles like any normal person, he makes good conversation, but I cannot relax fully. More than once have I found my shoulders tensing or my hands rubbing together. He has unconsciously given me these mannerisms.

I decide to walk into his room whether he likes it or not. I slowly push the door, the sound getting louder. He sits where I would always find him, on the piano bench. His shoulders are still hunched, hair swaying erratically with the way he moves his head with each clashing chord. I see his hands straining with the intensity of his playing. His body holds so much energy, power, that I cannot imagine how he lets it all out.

Then it clicks for me. His piano. He speaks through his piano- all of his emotions, feelings, thoughts come out of that wooden thing. I inwardly curse myself for not figuring this out sooner.

He stops suddenly, perhaps a slight shift of my weight catching his eyes. It is almost painful the way he leaves the note hanging in the air, without an end. He turns to face me, a stoic expression on his face. Did I even expect anything less?

"Are you alright?" I stutter. He blinks once.

"I'm fine," his voice is smooth again, like liqueur. It coats my ears. I wonder what to do now. Edward's eyes travel around the room, never meeting mine, giving me precious seconds to study his face. However, I quickly realise the gauche atmosphere, and ask him another question. I really don't expect him to answer, since he never does.

"What was wrong?" I make sure to use the past tense to avoid one of his witty answers.

"Nothing. Just stress," he tries to make it believable, but I can just about see through his fine attempt.

Another silence. I don't know what to say, I never know what to say. My mind is panicking, my palms sweating. We both tap our feet anxiously.

"Well, I'm cooking tonight," I blurt before thinking, reminding myself of the earlier spaghetti debacle. He meets my eyes again, and smiles.

"You can't cook, Jasper," his answer stupefies me. What does he know? He doesn't know anything, even if he is right. It was just a lucky guess.

"You don't know that!"

"But I'm right," he pauses, studying my expression. My face defies me, and I can see his features softening as he realises he was correct. His mouth breaks out into a smile. Cocky bastard, I laugh to myself. "I knew it. So, I'm cooking," he stands and walks into the kitchen, leaving me to follow. Abruptly, he stops and pivots around to face me. He grins, and I immediately know he's up to something.

"No. No, in fact, I'll let you cook," he smirks playfully. I open my mouth to protest, but he interrupts me. "Come on, it'll be fun! I'll show you how; I promise I won't let you set yourself on fire or something."

I can't help the small beginnings of a smile from escaping my mouth, and I think I should be offended, but I just can't bring myself to feel it. Meekly, I accept, prepared to look like an absolute idiot.

"Right, we'll make something easy. How about stir fry?"

"Sounds good."

And so we start. Or, I start, Edward laughs from the sidelines. He can't control himself when the onion makes my eyes water so much that I have to stop and wipe them up. He scolds me for putting the vegetables in the wok before the chicken, lecturing me on proper food hygiene. He manages to save the noodles from being overcooked, and somehow, we end up with a half-decent meal.

"This isn't bad, Jasper," he says, his mouth half full of noodles. "For your first time, that is," he grins. I roll my eyes and meet his green ones for a brief moment before looking back down to my food.

The dim lights accentuate his sinewy hands. The clouds grow closer and seem angry, covered by the tree that eerily scratches on the window. I feel Edward's eyes on me, and turn, but he's looking past me somewhere in the distance, so I quickly avert my eyes, and for some reason, a blush creeps up on my cheeks. I rub the back of my hand on my face and feel the heat. Edward seems oblivious.

We finish, and for once, I offer to clean up, even though it is only filling the dishwasher. Edward slouches on the sofa, so different to what he was earlier today. I join him, my nose scrunched up because my hands smell of onion and dishwasher liquid. His chest rises and falls steadily, I can see it out of the corner of my eye, and somehow, I'd rather watch him than the television. Quickly, I turn back to the little box, slightly scared of my small confession just then.

"I have a lot of respect for gay people." I turn to Edward, my eyes wide and my mind reeling. Where did that come from? He catches my surprised gaze and points to the TV with his glass. I look, and true enough, there was something on the news about same-sex couples. I mutter something incomprehensible, unable to come up with an actual answer for I haven't even actually thought about it. Edward carries on.

"I mean, they're bullied and yet they're still some of the nicest people despite of what they've been through. And they're not prejudiced," he nods quietly. I'd rather not humiliate myself with a short, uneducated answer, so I quickly change the subject.

"I wonder how you actually find out you're gay."

"I'm sure you'd know. Not being into girls, liking a guy, those kinds of things. But I think most of it's to do with personality."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you think about it, I reckon that half the straight population could actually love someone of the same sex. If personality is very important for them, then I don't think it matters what gender they are. Say, their spouse's opposite counterpart," he looks at me for my reaction, but finds nothing. "I'm sorry, I'm confusing you," he smiles and makes a move to get up.

"No, wait, explain," I call. I want to take hold of his hand, but I stop myself. He hesitates before sitting down.

"Well, if they found exactly what they were looking for in a person of the same gender. Fair enough, some people wouldn't be attracted, but they would feel some kind of…connection, I guess. And it would go from there," he finishes. I open my mouth, but I can't find anything to come out. I just thought gays were gays, and that was the end of that. I can only agree to his thinking.

"I guess," I reply shyly. I feel out of my depth talking about this. Edward senses this, and turns around. He sits stiffly, hands fidgeting again, eyes downcast. I can't say anything to make this situation better, but I don't want to shrink into myself like I always do, for I found out that it just makes Edward more nervous. And I didn't want that, because were we ended up back to square one again. Edward loses what confidence he seems to have very quickly. I don't know whether it's just with me, I haven't met his friends yet. Sometimes he seems lost, and it takes a while for me to find him again.