"Alice, it's okay. Seriously. Five months is plenty of time to find a new florist. No…no…wait, what's wrong with fake—" I wince at the earsplitting screech that meets my words, but the bluetooth follows my movement, not allowing me to escape. "Okay! I'm sorry! Fresh it is! Look, can we talk about this later? Yeah, I'm in the parking garage now. I'll be at the elevator in a few seconds…I don't know…my day's pretty tight…all right, I'll try and give you a call at lunch if I can squeeze in a few minutes. If not, then I'll talk to you tonight. Okay? All right. Love you, too."

With a sigh, I pull the device out of my ear, shutting it off before tossing it into my handbag. Not even nine o'clock, and already I just want this day to be over. What's so wrong with silk flowers, anyway? They look pretty, don't wilt, and can be bought ahead of time and stored until needed. No water, no rushing around at the last minute…and most of all, no florists suddenly going out of business and throwing your maid of honor's precisely choreographed plans all out of whack.

The elevator doors open in front of me, and as I step out into the hallway I deliberately leave that train of thought behind, turning my attention instead to the full calendar I have ahead of me today. Morning meetings with the art department. Three articles that need proofing and resizing. More meetings later in the day with writers about revisions, and another with a potential contributor. Copies. Rejection letters. Inquiries to field.

I check my emails while waiting for the computer to load the newest set of concept ideas, absently deleting the spam as I wonder just exactly how I am supposed to come up with some kind of intelligent analysis in the less than forty-five minutes I have before meeting with Mike and Tyler. I still don't understand what was wrong with the ones they showed me last week…

I almost delete it. "I know it's been a long time" in the subject line, and my brain automatically labels it as a sales pitch at best, crippling virus at worst. Nobody you actually know ever sends an email with a title like that.

But as I click on the box to select it, the sender's address catches my attention.

My hand freezes, eyes widening. No. It can't be the same…it's just a coincidence.

"…it's been a long time."

I clear the box, and continue down the list, all thoughts of meetings and art nerds and wasted time gone from my mind. I'm on autopilot, methodically cleaning out my inbox, somehow keeping my eyes from returning to the one place they keep trying to fixate on.

I don't have time for this right now. I should just click on the message, read it. Show myself that the sender's email is just some insane coincidence, that it really is just nothing more than some faceless stranger trying to show me how ultimate sexual satisfaction can now be mine.

I try not to think about why seeing that name can still send me into a tailspin, even after all these years. Try to ignore the pounding in my head, the shaking of my hands.

This is ridiculous. With a deep breath, I scroll back up and let my cursor hover. I can't spend the rest of my day distracted over what may or may not be hiding behind that name I never expected to see again.

I press down with my finger, and the email opens.

Bella,

First off, please let me apologize for contacting you at work. This was the first contact information I found, and once I had a way of getting hold of you, it just seemed like it would be even more of an invasion of your privacy if I went looking for anything more personal. It took me months to work up the courage to even look this far.

I've thought so many times about what I would say if I ever saw you again. Sorry usually tops the list, although what I am sorry for changes as the years go by. I'm sorry for hurting you; that much has never changed. I was sorry even before I did it, even though it wasn't enough to stop me. But there are other things I'm sorry for now, as well.

You know that old saying, "you don't know what you have until it's gone"? Well, I guess it's kind of like that, although not completely. I knew what I had. What we had. And you were right, what you said all those years ago. We were something special. What I didn't know was how lucky we were, and how rare that was. You asked me once to remember you without regrets, and I have tried. I swear to you that I have tried not to have regrets, but sometimes it's hard.

I grew up surrounded by love stories. You know my parents, and what kind of relationship they have. My grandparents were the same, on both sides. My aunts and uncles…everybody. And when you spend your whole life surrounded by something, you tend to take it for granted. Then I met you, and it just reinforced that impression, the idea that love is always so intense and all consuming. That it's everywhere, always waiting for you to just look up and see it. I mean, hell, if I could find it at seventeen, when I wasn't even looking for it, how difficult would it be when I was actually ready to settle down and be a grown-up?

So I left, and I didn't look back. I was the typical college kid, doing the typical college things, too busy having fun to feel serious about anything or anyone.

And when I was ready to stop being a kid, to settle down and start building a life, that's when I began to realize that it isn't quite that easy.

I looked, and I looked, but I could never find it.

Over the years I learned that there's a difference between loving someone and being in love. That what my parents have, what my grandparents had, what we had, is something so rare and precious that many people don't even know it exists in real life. They call it a fairy tale. They settle for loving somebody, because they don't believe that there's something else out there. Something more. Something that makes your average, everyday love look like nothing more than a pale, washed-out, faded old photograph.

And once I realized that…

For a while I hated you. I know that's not fair, but I did. I blamed you for my inability to be happy with what I had, to settle for the same things that everybody else does. But somewhere along the way that changed. I started to think about what my life would actually be like, living in a sea of mediocrity and "good enough", simply because I didn't know there was anything better out there. About how it would be to never know what it was like to give yourself so completely to another person that you get lost inside of them. And I realized that wasn't what I wanted at all.

You're probably wondering what the point to all this is, why I'm suddenly disturbing your life after so many years of silence. I wish I had the words to explain it to you—hell, I wish I could explain it to myself. I don't expect to hear back from you, and I'm not trying to get "closure", whatever that is. I guess if I absolutely had to boil it down to a reason, it would be to say thank you.

Thank you for showing me what is possible. For being my proof that love like that does exist, and that I'm capable of feeling that much. Because even though sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel for anybody else ever again what I felt for you, I'll never stop looking for it, never stop hoping to find it; I will never settle for anything less. And even if I don't, even if all I had was one chance at it…well, those two years of perfect were worth more than a lifetime of "good enough."

I don't know if I will actually send this or not. I'm too much of a coward to even go back and re-read what I have written, afraid that if I do I will completely lose my nerve and just delete the whole thing. So for right now I'm just going to save it in my drafts, and in the morning I'll either send it or delete it. But I won't be reading it, or editing it, or trying to make it sound less pathetic or make more sense than it probably does. This is me, and whether it ends up finding you or not, this is what I wanted to say. So that's it.

I'll end this by saying that I hope you're well, and happy. You deserve nothing but good things, and although I know that life doesn't always work like that, I sincerely hope that it has treated you well, and continues to do so.

Edward

I don't know what to think once I've finished reading. The email was rambling, and jumpy, and awkward, and…

Honest.

If there's one thing that's clear, it's the absolute sincerity with which it was written. It shows in every line, in every word. But, still…

What am I supposed to do with this?

I read it again, perhaps hoping to find some meaning that I missed the first time around. But there's nothing. No clue as to what he wants from me, or why this is suddenly here now, after the better part of a decade of silence.

I'm not quite sure how I feel. Confused, certainly. Off-balance. Angry? I just don't know. I do know, however, what I don't feel. I don't feel sad. I won't. I've spent enough of my life being sad over Edward Cullen.

There was the year after he left, when I cried each and every day. Anniversaries. Birthdays. There was me, huddled up in bed and heartbroken when the day came that we had officially been apart longer than we were together. The tears in the week leading up to that final phone call, as I gathered my courage to say goodbye.

Sitting up all night next to the phone after leaving the message, never taking my eyes off it, willing it to ring.

To please, please ring.

Seeing the early morning light start to filter in through the window, and realizing that it never would. That it was actually over.

So, no. My life is good now, and I'm happy, and I won't let this make me sad.

Glancing at the time, I realize that I have to be downstairs in less than five minutes. Crap. I still have no idea what I'm supposed to say about the new artwork that I've barely even glanced at…

Gathering up what's needed, I deliberately push the morning's unexpected event out of my mind. I don't have time to think about this now, and it's not important enough to put off until later. It's a non-issue.

With my hand on the doorknob, I hesitate. Look back toward the computer sitting there so innocuously on my desk. With a sudden determination, I walk quickly back over. Pull up my email. Select the message.

Without a pause or a second thought, I press delete.

Somehow, the sound the door makes as it closes behind me is not quite as satisfying as I thought it would be.