Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns everything recognizable in the land of Twilight. No copyright infringement is meant. FYI, there are about five more chapters to this story. Everything is outlined, just need to really organize it. Updates will be more frequent. Song Suggestion: The Killers - Be Still.

Something You Never Had

"Until this moment, I never understood how hard it was to lose something you never had." – Anonymous

.~~.

Rosalie's POV – Middle of October, 1932

Hours upon countless hours my life have been spent staring into a shining piece of reflective glass; some of it by choice, but most by demand. Oft times, I wonder if it shows my true reflection.

Yes, I can gaze out, as if staring into a pool of water, and see my perfected-self staring back at me. She is quite beautiful, a stunning masterpiece truly broken from the mould. Unlike any other. But what part of her is real? Which parts are fabricated and which inherent?

Yet, like the reflecting glass, sometimes I feel what I am seeing is the opposite. When something written is held in front of a reflecting glass, it shows letters as if backwards. It's a distortion. Why would my reflection be any different? Why would a shiny piece of glass show me a true distortion of myself? Why would it be any different for me than simple writing? Questions, which answer, continuously escape my mind.

I think back before meeting Edward and the surety of which I knew these answers. Doubt, if any, was a fleeting afterthought before it even took root. There was no room or patience for such weakness. I was the Rosalie Lillian Hale: socialite extraordinaire. Prima Donna Assoluta . . .

Now, it feels as if I am a former rumination of her; I'm not the exclusively confident girl which was built to shine. I can still feel her inside me. I know she hasn't completely disserted me. It would be an impossibility. Too many years of instruction and training and lessons have gone into me. No matter how much I would ever want to drive her out, it wouldn't be accomplished; debutante Rosalie is ingrained. Organs, tissue and soul deep.

But even with her inside, there are things I didn't seem to truly consider or even think possible. Mother's instructions have always been taken with a grain of salt and little rebellions to keep me sane, grounded. Unbeknownst to her, the plans she created for me fortuitously fit into the grand plan I have for myself. It was all a cycle, to get me to where I truly wanted and instinctively needed to be. So I allowed her to take command, allowed her to flurry in her blindness.

Plans were made, contingencies thought out and private thoughts keep closest to my heart. Things were going well, things were well at hand, things were never to be knocked off course.

Yet, there was something I hadn't planned, hadn't foreseen. Where is a fortunate-teller when needed? Not in existence, I remind myself rationally.

What blindsided me isn't new, isn't something wholly unknown to men (and women alike). To some it is the most basic building block of life, the common interwoven thread of human race, the great unifier, something I never thought would apply to me in reference to the opposite sex. Love was only meant for my family, (rarely) friends, and future children. No other scenario entered my equation. I don't understand why.

I can easily place this blame at my mother's feet. She taught me to respect, revere and follow my husband. "Yes", I could have my "own identity amongst the ladies of society", but I was to take my "husband's last name and represent him". No instruction was given on how to in reality love him.

But even with her taking the blame, it doesn't give me the practical knowledge or wisdom I need to press forward. How does one take these feelings and progress with life?

Falling into love isn't simply a metaphor. It's quite literal to one's heart. Like jumping from extreme heights, one's heart feels as if it soars and flies with indescribable exhilaration . . . elation . . . happiness.

One's heart and unseen spirit simply accelerates at being close to the object of one's romantic love. It's truly and wholly unlike anything ever experienced. Romantic love is the most free-falling and scary of all. It is unbidden, irrational and comes without warning. Yet once there, wants to be coddled and fulfilled.

With such instability, how does one proceed, especially if unrequited? These are questions and situations I'd never envision for my life. A husband was a means to an end. Nothing more . . . nothing less . . .

I took the things mother taught me, crafted my image, enhanced my roles, fortified my different masks, planned for a laid out future and set about attaining those goals. Nothing more . . . nothing less . . .

My love, my adulation, my happiness, my eternal joy was to be founded in my children: the little golden-haired little ones who took after me but also had a personality unto their own. Nothing more . . . nothing less . . .

Yet he became so much more and nothing less. Edward became the more I never knew existed or ever envisioned for myself.

I want to rile at the unfairness of the situation. Why wasn't my opinion initially taken into consideration? Why did fate seem to think I needed an amorous love when it was never sought after or desired? Why did that dreadful elevator have to stop working and trap me inside? Why did I have to be so weak? Why did I have to call for someone to help?

More questions with unavailable, unanswered outcomes.

And at the center of this upheaval is my dear friend, the person I come to revere and need, the person my heart beats happily for and the one I've fallen into: Edward. Always seemed to be Edward.

Now I stare into the mirror and dissect myself, tearing everything asunder to search for ambiguous answers. What does he see when he looks at me? Truly looks at me! Am I at all pleasing to him (sink deep, or much more)? Is he able to see the things I keep suppressed the most (my constant need of reassurance, the sad disdain for my mother)?

Sometimes, I think he sees me like no other, understands me like no other. And at other times, I feel as if he can't stand to look upon me, as if my very presence makes him want to continue running in the opposite direction.

These are insecurities and uncertainties that come especially with Edward. These are things I didn't plan for; stupidly on my part. They are things I'd never envision happening to me. Confusion isn't in the blueprint lines of Rosalie Hale, but are crisscrossed lines drawn all over Rose.

After New York City, I knew I fell into love with him. I couldn't lie to myself or evade myself any longer. All the longing, affection, adoration, and consistency in wanting him near me were there. I don't have a true reference as to what love entails. I can only go off my own assumptions and feelings. And I knew, after our kiss, with a surety, I had fallen. I also knew it wasn't a simple metaphor. My heart truly fallen for him; abundantly, wholly and unequivocally.

I left the city with the hope and new love of any person bitten by the enigmatic bug. Nothing could reach my heart at the levels and heights it soared. Even mother's constant disappointment and vocal frustration couldn't bring me down.

In Rochester, I carried on with my social obligations and schooling. I couldn't embarrass my father and I couldn't squander the opportunity he provided me to further my education.

Mother's dissatisfaction seemed to come with my not readily obeying her every command, being her little marionette. The stings had been severed with my need to now want to please someone else. I was respectful and courteous to her, but being the astute woman she is to my performance, she knew it wasn't the same. Something definite had changed.

Even in social gatherings I wasn't the same person. There were still fragments of my mask; I wouldn't share my new love with anyone else. It was something kept close to my heart and cultivated privately. Yet, I was genuinely more cordial with people, more approachable. The practiced and formal practiced lines were slightly released.

I floundered at times in public, unsure of this new, happily flourishing in-love person. I tuned out involuntarily, didn't go with the status quo of gossiping, didn't gladly and freely welcome gentlemen's attentions, and allowed other's their time in the spotlight. I didn't need it to shine so readily on me. I already had my own internal exquisite lighting shining from my new, tender love.

But even with all my social missteps and slight faux pases, I wasn't brought down. My love for Edward kept me so very buoyant.

My excitement kept the slow moving time from seeming to constrictive, suppressive. Day after day (for the next two weeks) I told myself Edward would return and things would be magnificent. And perhaps we could be in more situations where our lips could touch.

Our kiss had been absolutely stunning and everything beautiful a first shared kiss should be: romantic, heart-stuttering, flush-enduring, sigh-worthy, never forgotten.

And what had seemed like forever, the day of Edward's return finally came. I didn't know the next time I'd see him, having not set up a meeting beforehand, but I knew it wouldn't be long. Edward wouldn't make me wait so unfairly.

But as the days passed, and no word came, my new love and flourishing spirit began to dim. Uncertainty crept into my mind; my soaring heart began to eat away. With one bite came another and another, until I was a former shell of my vivacious self.

The truly pitiful thing was that it didn't take long. A week, and the vibrancy to which I took flight, had me stranded on the ground. I was no longer a love-filled, flying-freely Amelia Earhart. My wings were clipped.

Seeing Esme had all but assured me I had reason to worry and truly doubt. Hers and Doctor Cullen's presence were a surprise. Mother usually knew the advanced guest list and filled me in accordingly. It wouldn't do to be caught unawares.

But seeing lovely Esme and the so very handsome doctor had me confused. Over the week I had tried to contact Edward, through phone and post. Yet every communication avenue went unanswered. I could have gone to their house, but even I had my limits and diminutive sense of worth.

Throughout dinner and after cocktails, Esme (and to an extent Carlisle) resolutely ignored me. Every attempt to get her attention was unnoticed. Like her brother, she was hurting me, and I didn't even know if it was intentional. What had I done to receive such censure?

Two times, when she had thought me otherwise occupied, I'd turn and catch her looking my way. Each time it seemed as if she was looking over my shoulder, but the sad and confused look on her face spoke volumes.

I knew the looks, if not directly aimed at me, were because of me. It had nothing to do with ego or being vain. I had seen that look before. It had been the prelude to something awful, something too pain-inducing, something at the time not understood. I was no longer disillusioned. Something was the matter with Edward and it didn't bode well for me.

After recognizing the look for what it was, I no longer sought her attention. I didn't want it in the slightest. I didn't want to know what was on my horizon. I didn't want to hurt, and I surely didn't want Edward out of my life. I had endured it before, and he had promised. He promised.

.

And so I sit and examine myself in the lying and distorted looking glass. I don't recognize myself. I don't know what I've become or where it might lead. I feel so unstable, as if someone forgot to tie my wandering boat to some dock. I'm lost and swaying from one dizzying swell to another.

I wonder, so helplessly, if there is something inherently wrong with me. There must be something Edward sees that I miss, that my mirror and reflection refuse to show me. Why would they be so cruel as to keep the truth from me? To purposely blind me.

My fingers begin to trace the outline of my perfect face. From forehead to jaw, eyebrow to lips; everything seems in perfect symmetrical balance. I trace the same patterns in my vanity mirror; nothing seems different, except the coldness seeping into my finger from the glass.

Perhaps that's what it is: the coldness which radiates from my reflected image, but not the corporal image.

My body can't help but regulate heat; the blood pumping sluggish through my veins won't allow it. It gives my body warmth, thus making me seem alive, convivial.

Perhaps, Edward knows differently. Though my skin is warm, he knows my inside to be frigid, like my mirror-image. He can see the damage I've created over the years, the disdain I've held so many people in, the coldness to which I've snubbed people with, the intrinsic hardness of my mask which will never fade and always be impenetrable.

He sees it so very clearly and there is no looking glass which distorts this vital truth to him. I'm beyond redemption. Immeasurably, like he explained after our seemingly only kiss. I tasted candid apples and he tasted darkness.

I turn from my hopeless likeness in disgust and move over to my window. It seems a while since the moon and I have had a conversation, since I've shared my deepest ambitions.

"Life was all but simple back then, old friend: be beautiful, find a husband, have my sweet little ones. End of list." I sigh softly, almost brokenly.

"But now, darling, I can't say."

I pause.

"It's not that I don't want to, but would have no idea where to even begin. But perhaps it's unnecessary. You see me at night and your counterpart by day. It doesn't matter when it's cloudy; I know the sun still sees me through the clouds."

I place my hand softly on my dewy window pane and stare up pleadingly at my silent, understanding companion.

"So what now, old friend?" I ask the moon.

No answer is forthcoming, but the twinkling of the fair moon tells me I already have the answer within.

Tears slip entirely too helplessly down my flushed cheeks. I press my stained flesh to the cool glass and sigh as it seeps into my hot skin.

"I don't want that," I whimper vulnerably, sadly, willing the tears to cease. "I just want him. Edward and my little ones. It cannot be too much to ask."

Yet I know it is. I don't need my silent man on the moon to illuminate such intimate knowledge. It is inside of my mind already.

"I know," I answer, almost too choked up to whisper, yet alone continue. But I must. The truth must be spoken and realized.

"I g-go on. It can't matter how much I yearn for my new love, I have to go on. I had a plan before him, and there is a plan after him. The fact that I wanted him included seems all but irrelevant . . . immaterial."

My old friend continues to stare down at me. Goodness is it beautiful, enduring and comforting. Even on cloudy nights, I know my friend to be there. But tonight, it shines uplifting, consolingly to me.

"Thanks, my confidant."

That silent face of the moon.

. . .

Few days later, Rosalie's POV

The wet pavement makes the clicking of my shoes sound muted. The smell of fresh air from rain and deep earth assault my senses. I close my eyes and take in the combination. I may be what is coined a city girl, but it doesn't mean I can't appreciate the smell of the enduring land.

Highland Park surrounds me as I continue on to my destination. Though the grass is wet and impossibly green, it doesn't lessen my need in wanting to run my bare feet over it. I can already imagine the tickling sensation.

I let the rare small smile grace over my lips momentarily before suppressing it. It's seems atypical these days that I ever find something to smile, yet alone, get excited about.

I go about my day before I allow the tremendous weight of my mask to fall at night. It's something I've kept private: the pain and dejection I feel. If there is one silver lining to all of mother's training and constant need for perfection, it's the readiness and easiness of being able to act as if all is well.

Those who know me best can see beyond the tight control – which thankfully is precious few. Father, bless him, has tried to suss me out of my retreat. But even his love and sweet concern cannot break through. I refuse to burden him any further.

However, these thoughts are irrelevant as I make my way to the predetermined destination.

I don't know why I even agreed to come. Glutton for punishment, I suppose. Or it must be the need for some kind of explanation, some kind of resolution to my never-ending questions.

I clutch Esme's letter tightly in my hand as I walk on. As I near the northeast side of the park, I climb the stairs halfway before sitting on the available bench. It's slightly wet, but I'll survive. There are things much worse than a wet posterior.

The lilac bushes which surround me are beautiful, even though void of blooms. I know when spring comes the little branches will be heavy with the sweet smelling flowers, something Highland Park is quite famous for. Now, they wait for the rebirth of an atmosphere more conducive to life.

I can't help but think of the irony. It seems as if my life is in some kind of holding pattern, waiting for something to pull me out; to come and rescue me. Until then, I wait and keep the pain to myself.

A cool fall breeze sweeps though the leafless trees and over to me. I quickly pull my fur around my thinning frame. Something mother is quite pleased about. She has been nothing but pleasant lately. Though I am not back to being her willing puppet, I do relent to her. It's easier, letting someone else have control.

"Your figure is better than ever, darling. Imagine what it will do for you. You're more beautiful than ever, Rosalie. I can see it so clearly in our circle of gentlemen," she gushed.

I wanted to tell mother to shut up, but refrained. The battle wasn't worth my flailing energy.

Available gentlemen thought my now hollowed look was mysterious, quite the challenge for them. Everyone wanted a piece of Rosalie Hale; especially this new mystic version.

Regardless, I throw the thoughts from my mind and come back to reality. Quick, precise, meticulous footsteps pull my attention to the left. I feel a hysteria starting to build inside me.

Should have realized, I giggle maddening inside my mind. Why would I think otherwise?

Or perhaps you already knew . . .

"Aren't you a little too tall to be Esme?" The question is a little mean-spirited, but I was misled. Where is the fairness in being deceived?

My new companion simply stares at me with something akin to regret, as if deceiving me wasn't the most prudent of moves.

"I feared had I asked you to meet with me, you'd decline. So Esme offered – quite unwillingly, mind – to make the request." His tone is low, as if speaking hurts his throat. I can't understand why. He's the one who wants nothing to do with cold, pretentious Rosalie.

I study my once friend and watch him wince. Perhaps the cold is also getting to him, too. My heart is pounding so loudly in my chest I'm surprised I can even hear him at all.

I give a sad smile, not really sure how else to react physically. I lose my false bravado. Want to cry, but can't . . . want to disappear, but can't bear being without his presence.

"Wouldn't have," I answer softly, truthfully, though I want only to be spiteful. Edward gives me a slightly confused look.

"I wouldn't have declined," I clarify, looking away, ashamed of myself and this need for him which I fear will never relent.

"Yes, well . . ."

We're both silent. I bow my head and bite my already puffy lips. My gloved fingers fiddle with the hem of my fine wool skirt.

"Rosalie?" Edward whispers much too softly near me. I hadn't even realized he's sat down. "Would you look at me?"

All I want to do is yell, about the unfair of his request. How could he expect such a thing from me? I want only a little closure, and perhaps some blessed peace.

"Can't," I finally mumble.

"Okay, that's more than fair, I suppose." His voice is too soft . . . too understanding. My skin starts to itch as the anxiousness in me rises. I can all but feel my blood sizzling with some sort of anticipation.

"Please, Edward," I beg pitifully, forgetting shame and propriety. The tears begin to cloud and sting my eyes. It is wholly unfair. "Just tell me what it is you wanted. Let's not go on pretending."

I can only hear him as he shuffles on the stone bench. The strength it takes to look at him refuses to come.

"What I w-want is to give an explanation." Him stuttering is so foreign. He's usually so sure in himself and his speech. Even the richest of men couldn't hope to emulate his class; it's inscribed into every inch of his beautifully pale flesh.

"What if I don't w-want one," I counter, willing my voice to not fail me.

"If it is what you wish, Rosalie," he offers courteously.

And finally . . . finally, the strength, which has thus adverted me, comes roaring into my veins. Instantly I stand up and look at him.

Still he is so stunningly handsome. How is it even fair? He shouldn't be able to have this ability over me. Why can I not be free?

But when I look at him, it is evident he is also suffering. I don't know to what degree or even why, but I can see the pain radiating from within his dark, dark amber eyes.

The righteous anger dissipates almost as soon as it comes. The need to tear into him turns into plain and utter wretchedness.

"It isn't what I want, Edward," I tell him agonizingly. The first tear falls from my overflowing eyes. "The furthest from what I'd want."

Something lighter comes into his eyes at my explanation, but it isn't to stay.

"However . . . what I want doesn't seem to matter much, Edward. That you can toss me away so carelessly, without even explanation beforehand, shows my worth to you." The intensely painful look is back on his handsome face. Instead of detracting, it adds to his appeal. Broken, fallen angel.

Want to cuddle him . . .

"You're so very wrong." I stare askance, disbelievingly. "It's because of your worth, Rosalie," he goes on.

A mirthless little giggle escapes from my lips already parted in disbelief. I wonder if it sounds as hysterical to him as it resonates in my mind.

"Truly, love, I jest you not."

"Don't!" I command, startling both him and myself. It comes out more forcefully than even I could anticipate. "You don't have the privilege of calling me such." My sad tears are replaced with angry ones. I don't even try to wipe the salty water tracks.

"Alright," he concedes. His fingers work over the bridge of his nose as if trying to release some built-up pressure. I could relate so very well. My hands beg to clasp in my hair and pull until all the hurt recedes from my body.

I slowly lower myself until seated on the bench again, making sure to leave as much open space between us. My fingers knit together as they settle into my lap. My shoulders are hunched as I try and ward off further ache.

"What happened, Edward?" I whimper heartbreakingly. The need to know is eating a hole in my belly. The pain becomes almost too much to bear at night. "Between the City and coming home, I can't understand or fathom what could have h-happened. What possible reason could there be? What terrible, unforgiveable sin did I commit?"

He is silent, as if contemplating my question; but I can't take the silence.

"What, Edward?" I demand angrily.

"Nothing, Rosalie," he relents. It's his turn not to look at me as I stare at his side profile. Like me, his body is hunched over, as if trying to protect himself from any danger. His defeatist and almost submissive posture is so out of place on him. I feel no triumph in his bent over position.

"That can't possibly be the truth," I argue. "Something about me had to displease you so. One moment we are close to something I can't even describe, Edward . . . and the next, we are barely even strangers. Is that all it takes, Edward, three measly weeks for our friendship to fail?" I scoff. "Goodness, you must have thought me annoying and awfully silly."

"It is the truth." His fingers drop from his nose, but he doesn't straighten his posture. His fingers now wrap tightly around the edge of the stone bench.

I stay silent, allowing him the time to finally explain his disappearing and ignoring act.

"It is the truth," he repeats, yet even more quietly. "You've done nothing wrong, or offensive! It comes back to my own problems, my own insecurities, my own reclusiveness. Not every decision I make is a reflection on you, Rosalie."

My hand rises to my mouth as I try to stop the sob wanting to tear from my throat. I quickly turn from him, begging him silently to not touch me. I curl into myself as my face becomes buried shamefully in my hands.

This ache inside of me is all but unbearable. I don't know how I'm able to stay upright.

I knew he thought me vain. It is only logical. Even I know how vain I can be; him denying such is a lie. But even above my failings, I thought he knew me better, understood me better.

Tentative fingers start to touch my hunched back, but I can't stand it. My flesh breaks out in sharp gooseflesh.

I twist away from his outstretched hand. I can't bear to have his comfort, especially when he removed it already from my life. His mixed reactions are so unfair!

"This is what I always feared, yet I allowed myself to continue."

I wonder who and what he is ranting about. It makes no sense to me. He feared involvement with me? With anyone of the opposite gender?

"You may not think it or see it, Rosalie, but I am different than you. That's not to say I'm better or superior, simply different. You can't possibly begin to contemplate the difference." His voice sounds exaggerated beyond reason. I want to turn back to him, but cannot.

"There is a reason I'm reclusive, not withstanding my dislike for all the social hierarchy nonsense. I yearn to explain it better to you, but cannot."

I finally turn around to study his face. I don't want him to see how wrecked I must surely look, but all vanity is overridden. He cannot possibly think I'd believe such quote on quote nonsense.

"You must be jesting, Edward? Do I truly look so naïve to you? Am I so gullible as to believe a difference in lifestyle would tear our friendship asunder?" His face shows some of his surprise, as if I can't grasp the excuse he's trying to feed me. I could feel even more insulted, but cast it aside.

"If that were the case, Edward, why even begin to start a relationship? Why meet me in the library? Why talk to me? Why worry? Why take care of me? Why teach me? Why even make up after our initial falling out? Why . . . why . . . why, Edward? Why couldn't you have let me be?!"

I take the time to breathe deeply again, having dispelled all my air supply. My heart is pounding too loudly in my ears. My skin is uncomfortably warm, and all I want to do is shed myself of these uncomfortable clothes. They are agitating my skin beyond reason. Or perhaps, it's the indefinable emotions sweeping inside, just under the flesh.

"Believe me, Rosalie," he starts, his face crumples even more sadly. It is as if each confession he tells me is taking some part of him. "I wanted to."

Goodness, and just when I thought nothing could wound me as much.

He never wanted any part of me!

I nod my head, understanding finally ripping through my heart. My fingers entwine painfully with each other and my toes curl in my shoes. Perhaps if I hurt them enough, the throbbing inside of me will somehow relent.

When I think Edward done, with his simple yet comprehensible explanation, he does me the disservice and continues.

"If I hadn't initiated our friendship, if I let you alone, none of this would be happening. But for whatever reason, I ignored all my correct instincts, going against grain I represent. There are no explanations I could give you, Rosalie, for continuing on."

I give a mirthless chuckle, not out of anger or strife, but fatigue. Many things could have been avoided . . . or perhaps not. Fate is known to be cruel.

"You know, Edward, I thought you close to infallible. It is rather silly of me, hmm?"

He shakes his head, but I ignore the gesture. It seems almost too late for his denial.

"Snobbish, pretentious Rosalie falls for unapproachable, unrelenting Edward. And goodness, does she fall. But perhaps it was fate. She finally receives a dose of her own medicine. She didn't truly know what it meant to hurt people, you see, because she thought herself above the simpleton fray. She is so very wrong. Fate proved her wrong. Fate sent punishing Edward to show how infallible she really is. But even with the agonizing lesson she is learning, Rosalie would have endured it all . . . all because of her falling in love with unseeing Edward."

I don't yell or scream at him, but explain things so tiredly. It's all so overwhelmingly sad.

I give my silent friend the saddest smile of all – because this is the end. I have nothing left to give – not that he would even want anything from me.

"It wouldn't have mattered to me, Edward. Anything you thought the matter with you or which separated us wouldn't have mattered. I know it sounds so terribly clichéd, but love conquers all. Or so I believed. But not always, hmm, Edward? You brought out that belief in me, and you also sent it away. I guess I should thank you for that."

He turns his beautifully shameful face from me and stares at the wet grass. I wonder what is going on in his mind.

"Not everything, Rose," I hear whispered. I turn sharply and stare at him unwaveringly.

To think, he would question my commitment to him! I haven't been the one to leave him in doubt . . . quite the opposite in fact.

"There is something you've wanted before me; so very intently, so very desperately."

Of course! . . . You told him so, Rosalie, I remind myself. I feel so out of my skin, so uncomfortably unpleasant.

Without even having to ask, Edward answers my unspoken remembrance.

"Seeing you with Henry and Benjamin, Rose, simply sealed up the truth for me. Never have I seen someone so made for the role of motherhood. Like I've told you before, it is so intrinsic in you. As if it's woven into every fiber of your being. You want someone who will love you unconditionally as you love him or her with your entire might."

I smile wistfully at his beautiful explanation of my fondest, ardent wish.

"And there is nothing shameful about that, love. It is the very essence of your existence: to procreate the next generation. Some do it out of obligation. But you, Rose, simply would do it out of unfathomable, bottomless love. I saw it so irrefutably with your siblings. You long for motherhood like nothing else."

I concede to him and nod. It is something I want, something I desire so very much. But I can't understand his reluctance in wanting to peruse a relationship with me. Unless . . .

I bury my shaking hands in my disarrayed waves. It's falling out of the pins anyhow.

"And this is a determent to you, my wanting to have a little one?" I can only stare as he confirms my question.

"But not how you would assume?" My interest is piqued more than at any time this afternoon.

I tilt my head as I study his sorrowfully handsome face. "How?" I ask softly, without rancor.

"In the simple fact that it's an impossibility. My body won't allow me to procreate."

My eyes widen in shock as my mouth falls open. I know I must look rude and offensive, but I'm so taken aback by his admission.

"So you now know one of my greatest secrets, Rosalie," he tells me matter-of-factly. It doesn't matter how stoic he tries to pretend to be, I can see the pain from his confession.

"I'm terribly sorry, Edward," I say inadequately, knowing it won't change anything. My heart is bleeding for him, and I know he'd hate that . . . my exceedingly self-reliant, stoic friend.

"Not at all, Rose. Nothing you or anyone else says or does can change the outcome. We all have our afflictions in this life, and infertility is just one of my many misfortunes." Again, I can see beyond his front. There is real, awful pain radiating in his soul. Yet, he refuses to share it with me. Again . . . he keeps it all to himself, unwilling to share . . .

"So, you see, we being together would never succeed. Something vital to you would become an impossibility. I can't be that person which takes it away, love. Many things I've done in this life are already unforgivable. I couldn't bear such a sin."

Without consequence to myself or the unknown future, I reach out and grab Edward's hand. I'm still hurting so very much, but so is he and I can't bear to see it.

Lightly I pull on our clasped hand, and surprisingly he relents and comes to me. The space between us is erased.

I direct his heavy head to my shoulder as my left arm encircles his firm back. My right hand cards through his untidy bronzed hair.

I forget about my own pain as I take as much of his as possible. My problems seem almost inconsequential to his. But in the grand scheme of friendship and companionship, I share his pain. I share his problems, and I take them unto myself willingly. Glutton for punishment, I am.

"I can't do that to you, love. I can't," he continues to repeat brokenly into the skin of my neck. I simply let him talk as I caress the side of his face and into his hair.

How long we sit here is unknown to me, and though the bench is terrible hard, I ignore the discomfort. The rest of my body is smarting enough to override the numbness in my legs and back.

When he finally quiets down, I take the time to still my hand. I rest it lovingly on his un-giving cheek.

"What if it were my decision, Edward?" I broach carefully. I don't want to upset him, but he also needs to know I have my own choice and accountability.

Ever-so-gently, my sad companion pulls away from me, but not out of the comfort of my arms. His face is mere inches from my own and his breath is sweet as it sweeps over my skin. My thumb automatically brushes over the underside of his darkening eyes. They seemed to be bruised, as if he hasn't slept in days.

He sighs sorrowfully as his hand in turns reaches up and touches my face. I lean into his gloved fingers. How I wish to feel his bare hand on me.

"It isn't, love." The words which slip from his parted lips tear the little hope I have left asunder. Like so many other things about me, Edward seems to know them so inherently, sometimes even better than I seem to comprehend them.

"You wanting to be a mother is definite . . . infinite. As long as you breathe and as long as your heart beats, you'd give up everything for the chance."

I don't want this to be the truth. I want to scream at him, to demand he stop telling me falsehoods, but I simply can't. But even with this knowledge, I slowly shake my head in denial.

My friend becomes too blurry as my eyes fill and then spill over with fresh, useless tears. They accomplish nothing! They run desolately down my face. My hot cheek becomes even more cuddled in Edward's hand as the truth of his eloquent words surrounds me.

Before I can crumble on the bench and truly hurt myself, Edward brings me into the shelter of his arms. I know nothing but my vigorous pain, the absolute realization of my dreams shattering and my lovely darling consoling me. My body shakes with sobs and with the truth of what is about to descend upon me.

More than anything, I wish I could be Edward's Rose forever. I wish we could have that beautiful ending which my dreams love to torment me with. I wish and aspire for the impossible. For one dream comes without the other.

But as I've come to learn in the last couple hours, some things are truly impossible, unattainable. Nothing to be done about it, no solution to rectify the crippling pain radiating inside me.

With all the courage, pride and elegance I posses, I peel myself from Edward's arms and let them fall away from me.

Too painful, my heart revolts. Return . . . return.

I straighten my shoulders and push my hair from my smarting eyes. Edward continues to watch me wearily, but I cannot offer him anymore comfort. I'm all out.

Shakily, I take the leather glove off of my hand. My left hand rises until my fingers are resting on my lips. I press them firmly into my skin before removing them. With the gentlest of care, I now place them over Edward's. He tilts his head to the side, as if gravity is too much for him to contend with. I can empathize with him readily.

I allow my fingers–my adorned flesh–to linger before they slip softly from his parted lips. A lone tear falls from my right eye. I refuse to let anymore slip. There are some things I can still control, and I refuse to be a victim to my body for long. It can have its way later tonight; in dark privacy.

"I do, you know," I can't help but saying. It's my one rebellion. Understanding blossoms on his devastated visage. . . . love you . . .

Edward's entire body looks as if it will crumple at any moment. I feel as if my soul is demanding to leave my body, since I refuse to hold him up. My arms start to reach out, but I snap them to my side.

It's done.

Rosalie Lillian Hale is emerging, not in her full glory, but to a lethal extent. She's what I need to proceed. To carry on with my life, sans Edward.

"It is my right and prerogative to leave first," I explicate resolutely. "I have to survive, Edward! It is my only way forward." I want to add there was a chance for something else, but refrain. We both know our ultimate choices.

His fingers wrap once again around the edge of the stone bench. It looks as if they want to demolish it to tiny bits.

"I shall be leaving for a time," I hear him murmur. More parts of me are torn to shreds, but I am Rosalie Lillian Hale . . . nothing and no one is more beautiful.

I nod my head in understanding and refuse to bite my lip in weakness. I squeeze my toes again and will this pain to leave me. There is no purpose to it and nothing is to be accomplished with the weighing tribulation.

"The clinic went well, and I was asked to extend my time."

"I knew you'd be a success, Edward," I say softly, graciously. My heart knows no survival it would seem.

His wobbly smile greets me only fleetingly before disappearing. It's enough to almost floor me.

I gird my deepest strength. The time has come and already left.

"Take care, won't you, Edward?" I need some assurance he will be fine. It seems as if I can't leave without it, as my feet refuse to move.

"I shall, Rosalie. I promise." And once again, he seems to understand why my mind, body . . . feet, need to finally leave.

Our eyes hold for a moment. So much passes, but it remains unspoken. All's silent.

Later, I won't be able to even explain or extrapolate how I was able to turn about-face and leave him. But somehow I do.

My mask falls into place with practiced routine. I'm scared at how easily it comes to me, but I take what I can. Beggars' cannot be choosers. It is my only saving grace.

My back is painfully ramrod straight as I push myself, forcefully, to leave him behind. I shall survive because I am Rosalie Lillian Hale. She bends down to no one, not even her counterpart's most ardent desire. Stupid, silly Rose, she scorns. Utterly weak and mortifying. No more, she whispers silkily.

She reins over every aspect of her life and hardly anything is beyond her control. With the little remaining audacity inside me, I cling to her. I've never been more grateful for her emergence in my life.

Very smart, she compliments.

And if not for the mask descending on me and giving me the boldness I need, I would have surely fallen at Edward's parting remarks.

I simply pretend not to hear or even contemplate as I continue on. Head held high and walls impenetrable.

"I do too, you know," bounces off my public persona and back onto my unattainable Edward.

". . . love?"

It settles sadly and unfulfilled in the breeze at my back.

.

.

Author's Notes: Wow, took a lot out of me. I know, "What the Hell!" many of you are thinking, but it was always planned. How could Edward watch Rosalie, so beautiful with her beloved brothers and not see her wanting that indefinitely? He couldn't. No matter what he may want, he wants Rosalie's happiness more. Seeing her in action with her brothers was the cherry on the cake. The need to put her above himself was inexorable. But sigh . . . I know. I teared up writing and editing this chapter.

Anyhow, I wanted to thank all those who reviewed last chapter. They were so amazing and wonderful. I could never thank you enough. I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. Mine was plagued with traveling, getting a nasty flu, then pink eye. But it was all done with my wonderful family . . . LOL.

If you have the time, I'd love to know your thoughts (mad as they may be *wink*). All are always welcomed and appreciated dearly.

Updated: Tuesday, 12 February 2013