When my feet hit the pavement, the surrounding world ceases. My thoughts of yesterday cocoon the existence of all other forms. Edward isn't there this morning. I don't see him until class and when we're there it's not us. It's us and everyone else; listening, sitting, leaving the education Mr. Cullen is giving us as it comes. It floats above us, under, but never through. I'm only awake when Washington green finds me in that bright room full of glass and charts. The touch is like him, gentle and never lasting. Yet he captures all of me, not for his words, but the way he says them. How they linger with passion and precision from those full lips, lips which thunder in the rain, in secret.
If there were a moment I could love, that second is it. My chest pounds when I think of Emmett, how I plan to use him against the man pacing in front of me. It's to claim him. That's all. When we're dismissed I shove my book and papers into my bag giving no care to organizing them.
"Bella, can you stay a minute?"
I look while swinging my bag over my shoulder. Edward stands at his desk, his fingers sliding through papers while the other hand pushes his glasses further up his bridge. He's not looking at me. He simply expects me to stay without regard or question. I step through the rows of desks and eye the door. Do I stay or flee? The room empties and I approach the door, haunted at what I should do to gain him. Stay or go?
"Shut the door, please," he says. This time he's looking at me. Dark frames. Tame hair which appears wild once more. He's been pulling his fingers through, ruffling and upset. I know, then, that he's been thinking of us, pondering, worrying over yesterday and my sudden departure. I look at the door. Black paper covers the square window. I don't remember it being there before. Not yesterday. Not ever.
The latch clicks in the frame.
"Lock it," he says.
And I do.