Over the next few days, I sort of just drifted by, not really feeling or thinking anything. For Carlisle's sake I tried to maintain a cheerful façade, but to be honest I don't think it fooled anyone.

On Thursday, there was a test in History class, and seeing as I had already written pretty much the same test innumerable times in the past, I was finished within twenty minutes. With time to kill, I headed to the library and started browsing for a book to read – it'd been ages seen I last picked up one and I felt like this was as good a time as any to get back into reading. At least it would give me something else to think about.

As I stood with Sartre's Nausea in my hand, considering reading it for maybe the fifteenth time, Edward Cullen suddenly swooped past me, without taking any notice of my presence. Sticking out me head from between the bookcases, I saw him head into the back section.

Moving swiftly, I dared to come as close as the other side of the bookcase he was currently browsing.

… already read that one, God it was boring … Alain de Botton? Essays in love ...

He spent some time reading the back cover and flipping through the pages, but didn't – as I had expected him to – discard the book as cheesy, or girly. Sure didn't sound like a guy book to me, though.

Just then, I realized exactly what I was doing, and shaking my head I thought to myself: My God woman, get a grip. Who cares if he likes girly books? I turned to make my way out of the library before I lost it completely, but found myself instead bumping into a soft, pointy shoulder (well, it was soft to me, anyway).

"Oh, sorry, I didn't – Oh. Hi."

I looked up into Edward Cullen's face and cursed myself for ever entering this wretched resting place for words.

"You all right?" he asked, and I nodded. "You dropped your book."

Bending down quickly to pick it up for me, the smell of his blood was caught by the airflow from the AC and into my nostrils, making me shiver slightly with pleasure. Oh, God, he smelled nice.

Wait, no. His blood smelled nice. He smelled just like every other human being.

"Jean-Paul, huh?" said Edward, handing the book to me. "Wouldn't have taken you to be the existential type."

"Well," I replied, snatching the book roughly from his hands, "I wouldn't have taken you to be the girly type."

He frowned at me, but seemed more amused than offended by what I had said.

"You really are a little diva, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You act like you're this social outcast – this- this deep, misunderstood, brooding soul; but deep down inside you're just a little brat who wants everybody to walk at her heels."

For what seemed an eternity, I just stared at him, my eyes flaring, but he wouldn't flinch. I didn't even know where to begin. I felt the heat rise up in me as the thought of just killing him then and there presented itself to me. How dare he – Who does he –?

As he looked away and tried to pass me, I lashed out and grabbed a firm hold of his arm, clenching it as hard as I could without actually crushing his bones.

"Hey, what the hell –? That hurts!"

"Maybe you shouldn't be so quick to judge. You have no idea who I am, or what I've seen. You don't get to judge me."

"So you're the only one who gets to judge people, then?" he exclaimed angrily. "You took one look at me – one look – and then decided I'm a loser not worthy of your time, how do you think that feels? I may not know you, but you definitely don't know me."

"What's going on out there?"

Mr. Webster, the librarian, had stuck out his head from his office and glared disapprovingly at us. Letting go of Edward's arm, I grunted loudly and stormed out.