I hear him before I see him. The delicate sound escapes the closed door and caresses my ears so softly. I stop momentarily, drinking up the sweet melody I'd never heard before. Yet the music surrounds me, wraps me in an embrace that is so terribly familiar.

I can't help myself then and I turn towards the room I had never truly entered. I reach for the brass door knob and turn, ridiculously slow and deliberately, before pushing ever so slightly. I'm concentrated on the sound still, only it's louder now and clear as crystal. I don't know what I'm doing, only that I can't stop, that I can't turn around and continue on my way.

I open the door wider, registering vaguely that this is the music room, and step inside. I'm not sure what I expected but when I see him, seated at the piano with his back to me, I know it wasn't this. I move closer, just so, and watch him.

I don't recognize his bronze hair or pale skin and I realize that he must be the new student everyone has been talking about.

I wonder for a moment why he's here and not out there, spending his lunch surrounded by friends. I wonder who he is and where he learned to play so beautifully. I wonder why I'm here and not out there, spending lunch surrounded by friends. I wonder why I'm watching him and why I'm so entranced by the sound he's creating.

But then I decide that maybe it isn't so bad, being away from everyone and everything for once and just losing myself in his melody.

Just listening and not having to give anything back.

So I do just that and I listen.

And when the last note rings before being swallowed by the silence, I still don't move. I think about saying something, to announce my presence or just to break the silence, but I can't think of anything to say. So I don't.

After a moment, I see him run his hand lightly over the keys in such a way that one might caress an old love. I find myself fascinated, with his long elegant fingers or his seemingly light and strangely gentle touch; I'm not sure which. But the question of how those fingers would feel wrapped in mine or how that soft touch would feel against my skin dances through my mind for much longer than I would care to admit.

He stands then, swiftly and gracefully, before turning to face me. I feel guilty and out of place for a moment as his gaze meets mine, but the feeling is gone just as quickly and replaced with something I can't identify. I don't look away though, I can't.

I'm taken aback by how green his eyes are and how impossibly handsome he is. My eyes take in everything they can from his flawless pale skin to his absurdly unruly hair.

I want to hate him then, for being so terribly beautiful, but I can't because his eyes are still penetrating mine and making my heart beat just slightly quicker.

But I try hard not to let him see how his eyes affect me and instead stick my chin out and arrange my features into an expression of indifference.

We both look away then and whatever had hung between us was now broken.

It's a few seconds before I look up again but this time his eyes are focused elsewhere. It gives me time to look at him a bit more and I notice this time how thin and lean and tall he is. I notice how stiff yet casual his posture is. I notice that he hasn't said a word and then I remember that neither have I.

"That was lovely." I hear myself saying, my voice slicing through the lingering silence. He turns back to me and I realize that I want to hear his voice.

But he doesn't say anything. The quiet now is uncomfortable and awkward.

So I turn back to the door and make to leave when I hear him.

"Thank you."

His voice is smooth and reminds me of silk and velvet and I find that I want to hear it again.

I don't turn around though and keep my hand on the doorknob, hesitating for a brief second before pulling open the door and continuing down the hallway.

I can't stop noticing him after that.

I see his bronze hair standing out in the hallways much too often. I hear his name, Edward as it turns out, among the chatter of my group constantly. I hear his music every day as I pass the music room at lunch, sometimes purposely.

And with each passing day as I walk past that closed door and allow his melody to engulf me, if only for a second, I feel myself remembering. Remembering parts of myself I had never realized were gone.

Music had been a part of me, ever since I could remember. Not in the sense that I created it but more that I simply appreciated it. I would wallow in the graceful sound of music, classical, and let it flow through me. The delightful sounds of a piano or a violin and sometimes a woodwind use to comfort me in a way no person could.

But something changed. I changed. I tell myself I don't know why, or how, but I do. I do know.

I had let myself be changed. Let myself be molded into something that wasn't me but was what everyone else seemed to want, to accept. And I told myself that if I pretended to be this girl, than I would be. It had worked too, or so I had come to believe.

I had let go of myself, lost sight of the real me. I left classical music behind in favor of whatever people thought I should listen to. I replaced the contents of my wardrobe with whatever clothes my 'friends' thought I should wear. And I changed from the quiet, minds-her-own-business girl, to the confident notice-me girl; the one they wanted me to be.

I was coming to realize though how trapped it felt. How trapped I felt. Trapped within myself.

And by now I was so use to being this person I had believed was me that I had all but forgotten that it wasn't.

I'm growing increasingly aware though, with each high and low note I hear as I pass the music room, of the fact that I'm not this girl. The fact that I don't have to be this girl. And the fact that I honestly don't want to be her.

I just don't know how not to be her anymore.

He isn't playing. I stop walking and strain my ears but there is no sound except for the far away voices of other people in the hall. There are no notes floating through the door, no sweet melody.

I enter the room then, thinking he might not be here because there is always the sound of his music, lighting up my mood each and every day at this very time. But he is here, seated at the bench with his back is to the piano. He is facing the door. He's facing me.

We watch each other for a moment, this time not as complete strangers.

"You're not playing."

"I know."

I suppose I hadn't been expecting him to talk and his reply surprises me.

"But you always play." I say before I can stop myself. "Every day."

He raises an eyebrow at this, but I don't look away.

"Why do you spend your break in here?" I ask when he hasn't said anything.

The corner of his mouth turns up at this, creating a sort of crooked smile that ignites the overwhelming urge to smile myself.

"It's quiet," he says, and his eyes take on a distant look that is so familiar that I can't place it until I realize it's the one I see when I look in the mirror. "And the quiet is nice."

And it is, I realize.

The next day, he is playing. I recognize the tune this time but that's not why I go in.

I don't hesitate or stand in the doorway and instead I move over to where he is sitting and take a seat beside him. I see him smile ever so slightly but he keeps playing and I watch.

I see the way his thin fingers dance across the ivory and ebony keys, never missing a beat or faltering but instead moving as if playing this piece is as effortless as breathing.

I look up at his face and notice how his eyes are concentrated but his expression is loose. I keep my eyes on his until he finishes the piece and looks up at me.

"Strauss?"

He raises both eyebrows at this and I blush slightly.

"You know Strauss?" He asks and his tone is surprised and slightly impressed.

"Of course," I say. "Anyone who knows anything about classical music knows Strauss."

He smiles this time and I smile too, simply because he is.

After that, I started to come every day. I don't pass by anymore, I enter. I sit with Edward at that very piano bench and listen to him play. I recognize most of the pieces now, and it's almost a game between us; he plays, and I name it.

I feel myself coming back, in small pieces and parts. Not completely but being in that music room with him every day for half an hour was doing something to me. I just wasn't sure what.

When I observed him outside of the music room, he reminded me of myself. I saw how the people around me wanted him in their group, our group. How they wanted to be like him and how they wanted him to be like them.

He was beautiful and different and they loved that. I knew.

But what set us apart was that he didn't care. He didn't let them change him and he didn't pay them any mind when they resented him for it.

I envy that and wish to myself often that I could have been like that, could have resisted and never lost sight of myself as I did.

I wasn't sure how long we kept up that way; weeks or months. But I knew that after a certain amount of time, things had grown different.

We still sat at the piano bench everyday and talked about anything and nothing only it was different now. I was entirely too aware of everything about him. I was too aware of how close he was and how with one move we would be touching. I was too aware of his perfect lips when he spoke and his gentle hands as he played.

The air between us had been casual and light but was now heavier and solid and there was always much too much of it between us.

"Debussey." I say easily and he laughs and the sound is wonderful.

"Of course." He says. "Do you play?"

The question is sudden and I don't expect it.

"No." I say as I run my fingers lightly over the keys, feeling their smoothness and wondering what it felt like to play them.

"How do you know so much about classical music?"

I let the question hang in the air between us and watch as he too fingers the keys, his hand inches from my own.

"I use to love it," I say softly and I'm focused on the way his fingers are moving, swiftly and slowly. "I never played but it was a part of me just the same." His hand is closer now and I watch as he finally touches my own, sending a warm feeling through my fingers.

His are cold though and so delicate as he grasps my pale hand in his. His touch is sweet and I don't want him to ever let go.

We're silent and both concentrated on our intertwined hands. He turns mine over in his and traces the light lines on my palm and fingers teasingly and playfully, but the mood between us is entirely different.

After a moment I look up, my violet eyes meeting his green ones and I hear my heart beating much too fast in my ears. I wonder vaguely if he can hear it too because it's loud, so loud.

"Is it still a part of you….Rosalie?" He asks and his voice is different and low and I love it.

He's so close, but not close enough so I scoot closer.

And suddenly he's leaning forward, slowly, and I can feel his warm breath on my face as I close my eyes.

"Yes." I whisper and then he's kissing me. Or I'm kissing him. I'm not sure.

His lips are soft and the kiss is gentle. My hand is on his neck, pulling him closer, and his is on my waist, just holding me.

When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine and I see the faintest of smiles upon his face. We don't say anything anymore because there are no words.

Things aren't awkward anymore. The wall between the two of us had been broken. Our time in the music room was no longer spent just playing and talking. Sometimes we talk, sometimes we exchange quiet soft kisses and sometimes we just sit beside one another, in a comfortable silence because the silence is nice.

And as we locked ourselves away, I felt myself returning, even if only for those few moments each day. He was bringing me back to myself and I was grateful because that was something I couldn't even do.

Time is passing and he's becoming a part of me. He's a constant now and I realize that I don't want that to change.

He's standing outside. I recognize his lanky figure and copper hair immediately even from a distance. I continue walking, wondering why he's out here, and struggle to control my racing heartbeat.

As I approach, I notice how the afternoon sunlight bathes him in a golden glow that accentuates the contours and shadows of his handsome face, making him look much too perfect to be real.

I stop a few feet away, suddenly unsure. He's looking at me now and I'm looking back and neither of us says anything. I don't know what to say now that we're not enclosed by walls and comforted by the piano. I don't know what we are and what we've been doing all this time and I don't know who I am for a moment. Because when we're in there, just us, I never need a label or a name for what we are. I'm never unsure or uncomfortable. I know how to be me in that room with Edward because he pulls me, the real me, out and makes it easy to never question it. To never question myself.

I wonder if he feels as out of place as I do out here in the near deserted hallway, standing just feet away from each other. I ache to move forward and erase the space between us and to talk and laugh like we always do but I don't know how.

In the end it is he who steps forward and grasps my hand in his, lacing his fingers through mine. He who breaks me from this stupor and makes me realize nothing is different except for the fact that we're on the opposite side of that door today.

I'm still looking up at him, getting lost in his emerald eyes, and after a moment because I can't stop myself, I reach my other hand up to his face. I trace the smooth line of his jaw and chin until my fingers wound their way into his hair. It's soft, so terribly soft, and I run my hand through it slowly, watching in fascination as his eyes darken just so.

"Rosalie…." He says quietly and I decide I rather like the way my name sounds when he says it.

I pull his head down then and press my lips to his and suddenly everything is real. He is real and this kiss is real and whatever feeling is growing inside me is real.

Things change after that. We're no longer us just inside the music room and him and me everywhere else.

We don't always spend our mid day break in there anymore. Sometimes we sit outside at the picnic bench farthest away from the others, just talking and sharing and talking some more. Sometimes we sit in the library, to escape our own stories and be surrounded by everyone else's. Sometimes we don't sit anywhere and just wander through hallways, simply because we can.

And when we don't happen to stay in the music room, when we don't happen to be alone, we still pretend as if we are. We ignore the dragging world around us in a way I never had been able to before.

But he's so good at it and I'm not.

He shows me how though, shows me how to pay no mind to them and just to let myself be.

We don't talk about the future. I don't want to.

But suddenly it's a month until we graduate. I hadn't ever fully realized how quickly time could pass before and this fact hits me like a slap in the face.

And I know deep down that we're going to have to talk about it sometime.

When we do though, it doesn't go so smoothly and turns into a fight. I hate to call it that but that's what we're doing, we're fighting.

It's stupid and pointless and I know it's overdue.

I'm saying things I don't mean and he's saying things I hope he doesn't mean. I'm trying hard not to cry and he's constantly running his hand through his hair. My eyes are narrowed and his are hard.

We're not even talking about the future anymore. It's just angry words about anything and nothing but neither of us can seem to stop.

Until he leaves. We both grow quiet as he turns around and storms out of my front door.

I watch, my mind still reeling, as the door shuts behind him. He doesn't slam it. Just shuts it.

And suddenly all of my anger is gone and I feel silly and foolish as tears roll down my face. I close my eyes and press my hands against them until it hurts before turning to rush out of the door after him.

But when I open it he's there with his hand raised as if to knock. We're both silent then and he lowers his hand slowly. I'm staring into his green eyes and he's staring back and neither of us says a word.

After a moment I reach out and wrap my arms around his waist, leaning my head against his chest. I close my eyes and listen, just listen, to the sound of his beating heart.

And when I feel his arms around me and his face in my hair, I know everything is fine.

That very same night, as we lay together on my bed staring into the darkness that surrounds us, he tells me he loves me. The words are sweet and beautiful and unexpected. I turn onto my side to face him before saying it back.

I finally found myself.