Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; this plot belongs to ME.

Don't kill me, please. Not every relationship is ideal (in fact, I'm pretty sure that's just Hollywood writing), and sometimes, this is what happens before it gets better.

"So I come to you

For rest in your heart

Rest in your home

It's all you want

Well you learnt to hate me

But you still call me baby

I guess you forgot my name. . .

Still I stand to save your soul

Yes I stand to save your soul

Before you're too far gone

Before nothing can be done." Too Far Gone, Sam Bradley

"It was you," I accuse, standing in front of her.

She keeps her eyes focused on the computer in front of her, typing away at something.

"What, coming up with other ways to try to break things up for me?" I say snidely.

This time she rolls her eyes behind her glasses.

"Please, don't be so immature, Isabella," she says.

I scoff, folding my arms.

"That's hilarious."

She looks up from her laptop, pausing.

"I did it for your own good, Isabella. What was going on was not good for you at all," she tells me.

While she might be correct, I don't say a word.

"What," she says, still looking at me. "Did you really think that I had no idea, no clue that your first book wasn't taken from your personal life? Admittedly, it took me until the second book to realize just how ridiculous it all was (you putting up with everything, and especially taking him back in the end). Oh come on, don't give me that look Isabella; you're better off without him, and you know it." She rolls her eyes again.

I'm seething inside, wanting and ready to smack the shit out of her.

"Do you have any idea, any fucking inkling of what you've done? Angela, he's so fucking fragile!"

She sighs.

"He'll be fine. Besides, what you two have (and I'm assuming have always had), is a co-dependent relationship, which is not healthy for anyone anywhere. You will thank me for this one day; maybe not tomorrow or even a year from now, but someday you'll see that it was the right thing to do. Now come on; I have your schedule typed up and planned for the next two weeks."

I have trouble sleeping that night.

My mind is consumed with thoughts of Edward, how he's doing, if he's tried to do anything to himself, or if he's back on drugs. I stare at my phone that is in my hand, contemplating calling his sister. She's probably just going to bitch me out, but I need to know, so I dial her number. It's 3am New York time, so it's only midnight on the West Coast.

It rings, rings, rings until I'm beginning to think that she's either a) ignoring me, or b) already asleep, when she finally picks up.

"Do ya know what fucking time it is?" she greets, pissed off.

"Um, hi Em," I whisper.

"Oh . . . it's you," she says coldly.

I bite my lip.

"Y-yeah, it's me."

"Whataya want? Calling to torture him some more?"

I shake my head.

"N-no! Emma, I didn't do it!"

She laughs.

"Right right . . . look, I don't know what, exactly, happened—he won't tell me shit other than you broke it off with him—but really Bella, this is a shitty thing to do—just when he's getting better!" she whisper-yells at me.

I sniffle.

"Emma, I did tell him—I didn't break-up with him, I swear!" I insist.

She huffs.

"Well, if it wasn't you, then who was it, a ghost?"

I roll my eyes through tears.

"It was An-Angela, my soon-to-be former agent," I explain.

"Really," she says with disbelief. "Why would your agent break you two up?"

I clear my throat.

"'Cause apparently I'm not focusing enough on my career; look Em, I just called to see how he is. . ." I trail off.

She sighs.

"I don't really know, to be honest. He's pretty much blocked me from his life as of right now. I've been worrying Emmett so much because I'm worried about him," she reveals.

Emmett McCarty is her boyfriend; he's a really good guy, who is also hilarious as hell, and looks tough but is really a giant kid, one that gives the best teddy bear hugs—he's amazing for her, even if they are polar opposites on most things.

"If you find anything out, please, please, I'm begging you—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"I'll let you know."

I'm sitting in the hotel room in New York when Angela gets on my last nerve.

"That's it!" I exclaim. "I'm done!"

She looks up in surprise.

"What do you mean, you're done?" she questions, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm going home—back to Washington State!" I tell her. "The next flight out going there, I'm on it."

"You cannot do that, Isabella! You will jeopardize everything that you've worked for!" she tells me.

I give her an incredulous look.

"No, Angela, it will only ruin what you have 'worked' for. I'll be damned if I let you continue to ruin my life further," I tell her.

"Hello?"

I'm sitting in JFK waiting for my flight back to Washington. I decided to call Kyle.

"Hi," I say.

"Oh . . . uh, did you need something?"

"I'm coming home—I'm at JFK waiting for the plane," I tell him.

"You d-don't need to do that," he tells me quietly; I can hardly hear him. "Focus on your career, just like you w-wanted."

"Edward, I never broke-up with you! It was my agent, Angela," I try to explain.

He humorlessly laughs.

"Right—why you're bothering with lies, I don't know, but there's no need for you to come back though."

"W-what are you talking about? And I'm not lying!" I insist.

"I'm saying that there's nothing left for you here," he says.

My stomach starts to twist.

"Edward, what're you fucking talking about?"

I know that people are watching me, probably even taking videos, but I couldn't care less right now.

"I-I cheated on you—although I guess that's not technically true, considering you—or whomever you're claiming it was—broke-up with me."

His words cut me worse than any blade ever could; they slice through my heart, my soul, making both of them bleed with disbelief and pain.

"I-I-I don't believe you," I say quietly.

"Well, believe it," he tells me and hangs up.

I sit there with the cell phone in my hand, clutching it like it's a life support-saver. My mind is reeling, trying to comprehend what he just told me.

I don't get on the plane that night.

"Hello?" I say into my phone.

It's a week later after Edward and I spoke—after what he told me—and I'm still in New York.

"Bella, you need to get your damn ass back here, now!" Emma says.

I sigh.

I've been in a funk ever since.

"Why, Em? There's nothing there for me; just ask your brother," I tell her in a dull tone.

"That's why you need to get back—he's in the hospital."

My heart picks up speed.

"W-why?"

She's close to tears when she says the next words.

"He—he fucking overdosed on pills."