All rights belong to their rightful owners; I own this plot.

FROM: Angela Weber

TO: Isabella M. Swan

Subject: (None)

Isabella,

I have been doing some thinking since you just up and took off that day weeks ago to go back to that addict. (I would apologize for calling him that, but it would be a lie.)

I suppose I owe you an explanation of why I am the way that I am today; the reasons of why I treated you so coldly. The first and foremost reason is that you remind me of my former (younger) self; back when I was in High School. You would probably never guess it or believe me (and I wouldn't try to convince you otherwise), but I was a mousy little thing in those days; quiet, shy, kept to myself most of the time. I hardly went out, I had a couple of friends, but mostly I kept around my house, read, and studied. I hated High School Isabella; despised the way the faculty members acted, and especially the kids. As I stated, you remind me of myself from that time. As I'm sure you're finding out, Hollywood and its business is a lot like High School, only multiply it by about 1,000,000. It is a cruel world to live in; people are cutthroat, Isabella – more so than they are in the regular world. If someone backstabs you in this industry, you either pay them off or you're done; normally it's both though. (Unless you're of a specific "type" here.) I didn't want that for you; you're much too good to be fed to the wolves, Isabella. Although you most likely will not believe me (and I'll understand completely), I was simply trying to protect you, in a sense; trying to prepare you and make you understand what people in this business are like – Alec Volturi, for example. You may not believe it Isabella, especially with how young he is (only thirty), but he has quite a bit of power allover the industry, and he could and would make your career a living hell (or simply end it altogether) because of you going off on him – especially while still in the interview. The Volturis have been in this business since the beginning, and they have never changed; Alec is just one of many whom are like him in this business though.

I apologize for being so crass/rude to you during our final conversation, talking about your . . . boyfriend that way; I was only trying to get you to see what you would be doing to your career. Ask Rosalie Hale if you won't take my word (Which you shouldn't always take one person's word for anything); she has had more than her share of dealing with the Volturis.

I shall end this now, however for some ungodly reason; I just wanted the chance to explain that I was not always this stone like. (Also, if you're looking for another agent, I'll give some recommendations who come very highly recommended.)

-Angela Weber

I'm on the phone with Charlotte, a friend of mine who lives in Long Island, New York; I'm also staring at Angela's email.

"Why don't you come here for awhile?" Charlotte says, breaking me away from the email.

I frown and sign out of my email account.

"What do you mean, go there? Where's there, exactly?" I ask her, smirking.

"New York; Long Island, more specifically!"

"I don't know. . ." I pause. "Where are you staying now?"

She sighs.

"I'm at another apartment, closer to where I work. It's near Mom's, plus when that fucker left me with the rent to pay at our old apartment, I decided it was time to move."

She's referring to her ex-boyfriend slash ex-fiancé slash . . . whatever. They had a less than amicable break-up; he cheated on her.

I hum

"I could use some getting outta here," I tell her. "I don't wanna bother you, though."

"B, you never bother me. Besides, I could use the company—plus, I invited you, so you have to accept!"

I bite my lip.

"I don't know . . . I don't wanna impose."

"Bella, really; it ain't imposing if you're invited! Besides, I think you could use getting away for a bit," she says.

I sigh, knowing that she's not wrong.

"Okay," I concede.

One week later – packing

It's almost the end of November, and already snowing in most of New York, including Long Island. I pack the warmest clothes I have, along with some things to hang around in. I zip-up the suitcase and put it near the front door; it's 3:30 in the morning Pacific time, and I have to be at the airport soon. I lock everything up, and then meet Liz outside. She helps me put my stuff into her car, and just as I'm getting in, Edward shows up.

"Wait," he says, a little out of breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, bite my lip, and then turn around to face him.

"Yeah," I say.

I can hardly see him because it's still dark out, but I know that he's wearing that fucking hoodie.

"Um, I—I just wanted to catch you before you left," he says quietly.

I nod and glance down at the ground.

"How long are you gonna be gone?" he asks softly.

I shrug and look back up.

"I-I don't know; Char invited me for an indefinite amount of time, so I guess 'til we get sick of each other?" I say, trying to joke.

He nods.

"Charlotte, of course—I should've guessed since it's New York you're going to," he says, and I just know that he's rolling his eyes.

I don't bother asking what his problem is because I already know.

It has to do with Charlotte's ex; I may or may not have had a crush on the guy a few years ago—I was fifteen and naïve, though; Charlotte's not quite five years older than me, and her ex is ten years older than I am, so I knew nothing would ever occur between him and I; trying convincing Edward of that, though. He always swore something 'more' happened when I visited one time.

"I gotta get going," I tell him, opening the passenger door.

He nods, tells me to be safe; I don't say anything back to him as I get into the car and Liz pulls away from the curb.

Hours later, I'm in Charlotte's car on the way to her apartment; we catch up on the drive. She asks about my books, writing, and then Edward. I tell her everything because there isn't any use in hiding things from her. In return, I ask her if she ever hears from the dumb-fuck (my nickname for her ex); she shrugs.

"I hear of him . . . the last I saw him was when our goddaughter was sick in the hospital—he didn't stay long though, only an hour," she answers.

It's silent the rest of the drive, but it's comfortable. She asks if I want some music on; when I nod, she switches on one of our old favorite artists, and I smirk, looking out the window at the cloudy sky.