A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts.

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.

And without further ado…

Chapter 14 – Before, During…and After

September 14, 2024 – New York City, NY: 12:21 a.m.

Edward:

Cocking your head sideways, you ask, "How do you remember it, Edward?"

Your curls tumble over a slender shoulder once intimately familiar to me - its delicate curve, its silky smoothness, its addicting scent... I have only a second to lose myself in that thought when a strand of curls breaks apart from the rest, and my heart skids, only averting a plow against my ribcage by a hair's breadth. My hand twitches at my side because that same wayward strand – a chocolate ringlet as defiant as its owner – always broke free from the rest.

Christ, how is it possible that the same curl now dangles before me almost twenty years after I last settled it into place behind your ear? The inward effort to puzzle that out is almost as maddening as is the struggle to tame the urge to tuck that strand back for you. As if it were still my right. My privilege.

This bombardment, this onslaught of memories, has been at me like one-two punches that keep me from catching my breath since the wall of smoke cleared at The Last Call, and you, Izzy, appeared at its other side.

Can I call you Izzy in my mind? Will you know, just by holding me locked in that amber gaze, that though I'm forcing myself to call you Bella, Izzy is who I see before me?

Now you ask this question: How do I remember it? The memory threatens to buckle my knees; that's how. This one may be the TKO because if that's not a loaded question…

How do I remember it?

I manage a rasped whisper past the lump forming in my throat for hours.

"How do I remember it?"

You offer me a slow nod, and I wonder if you know that the echoed question is a delay tactic, if it's a tell, a giveaway to my unease, perhaps not as telling as raking my hand through my hair. Then again, just because you once knew my tells so well doesn't mean you remember them.

See, the problem is, I remember so much more than what you're asking for. And when you consider the sheer number of memories we collect over a lifetime, it's telling which ones stick with us.

I mean, some memories hang around for a while – months, years…even decades. But they're like leaves on trees, a part of you 'til the seasons change and the winds blow. Then they're yanked off their branches and either flutter off in a cascade or get scattered by a storm. Either way, they're gone, whether slow or brisk, gentle or rough.

Some leaves, though…are unshakeable, weathering all seasons and storms. They're more like tattoos, marking you from the moment they touch you 'til the end of your days. And yeah, like with a tattoo, you can try to undo these memories. Remove them. Pretend they never happened. That they were a mistake. The folly of our youth, right?

But there will always be a trace, a scar…an imprint left behind of when that tattoo was rich, vibrant, and the most mesmerizing image your mind ever conjured. No, those memories can't ever be erased. They're enduring.

But none of that is what you've just asked.

You've asked for my view of our end. But in almost two decades, I've never been able to separate the memory of our end from the memory of our beginning. Or even from the memories before our official beginning. Because, Izzy, the first time I saw you is still imprinted on my mind, indelibly etched in permanent ink.

How do I remember it?

I remember it was September 2003, Intro to Comp Sci, and the beginning of the fall semester. I remember being bored witless, jotting down music and lyrics in my notebook's margins – music and lyrics I don't remember – just to pass the time. Back then, 'passing the time' was all music and lyrics were. This was in the Before You era, before those defining categorizations of 'Before,' 'During,' and 'After' you even existed.

How do I remember it, you ask?

I remember carefree, rolling laughter in the middle of class. Looking up and being struck, bulldozed, fucking mesmerized from the top level of a packed lecture hall, entranced by a rich mane cascading in wild spirals. Such a perfect juxtaposition of silk and savagery defied description – except perhaps in lyrics.

And I remember it viscerally like those 4D theatres where they pop popcorn for the butter smell or spray water for the thunderstorm simulation or create mechanisms to grab your ankles and scare the shit out of you, all to engage every sense – eyes, ears, nose, etc. That's how I remember the view a few rows down. The room smelled of industrial-grade disinfectant mixed with sweat and perfume. Your laughter was musical notes taking form in midair. When I caught sight of your curls, I felt the soft tufts wrapped around my fingers. At that point, the chorus wrote itself.

I remember I was twenty years old, and looking back from this vantage, I know I understood little about life. But in that moment, I learned what lyricists meant when they talked about their muse.

And no, I won't cheapen the moment by calling it love at first sight. I didn't know you, and calling it that trivializes what I came to feel for you. It reduces it to a simple sensation easily caught with a first look, an attraction possible without interaction.

You asked me once, that night on the ferry-

Damn. On the ferry. Now there's a song title and a term that simultaneously takes me back and twists my fucking innards into mush.

But you asked me once, on the ferry, if I always came up with music and lyrics on the fly. At the time, I said it depended on what inspired me. That answer was completely valid at the time because, no, Izzy, I didn't always.

Before You, I didn't.

After You, I didn't.

During You…yes, I did. When we were together, there was constant music encircling my head. Whether hushed in the background like a soothing lullaby or loud at the forefront like a live concert. When we talked, laughed, fought…and made love, it was all music. And when the music is always there, it's so fucking simple to work that, back then, I almost felt like a fraud when people told me how good I was at it all.

Because you were the music, Izzy. In one form or another, my mind created lyrics around you. Before You, it was a pastime. After You…yeah, I could still do it. I won't lie. I built a career around it, didn't I? However short-lived. But it took work, thought, and focus. It was no longer as organic as…as your curls have always been.

So, no, you were not love at first sight, Izzy. You were more than that. You were music at first sight, and I was the grateful vessel by which that music took form for almost two years. And for those nearly two years, I was happy.

The hell with happiness. Happiness is the bland emotion for individuals in love with mere mortals, not with the embodiment of song. I was ecstatic. So damn on the ferry with you, music at first sight with you, and every other lyrical allusion, analogy, metaphor, or symbolism for in love I could come up with, hoping to give you the words you couldn't-

Anyway, that was the first of my many mistakes: trying to give the muse words when you never asked for them, when it was always meant to be the other way around.

Then I messed it up further and in too many unforgivable ways. I bit into the apple when I already had Eden, and I lost sight of you, me, and then of us, of why I'd created music in the first place. So that when I tried to spit out the masticated bitter apple and be allowed back into Eden, it was too late.

Because you were the muse, Izzy. And in the end, you dictated the song.

OOOOO

Saturday, September 17, 2005 – Bainbridge Island, Washington: 8:49 a.m.

Edward:

"I landed in Seattle early that Saturday. When I'd told Heidi right after our fight that I was leaving, she blew a gasket and got Aro Volturi involved, who threatened to-

That's not important. What's important is that I told the label point blank that I'd fulfill my contractual obligations and finish recording. But I was done with the tour, with any other albums, and all promos for which I still needed to sign contracts.

I was pulling out.

In the meantime, I was coming home for as long as it took to heal what my stupidity had damaged. I…I won't blame others, Bella. Yeah, I enjoyed the fame, the live performances, and the dissemination of my music to large crowds. But I admitted all that to you once.

What I never gave voice to were my fears. But I suppose they were easily read by some who thought they had a stake in my life and dropped phrases here and there of what I deserved not only in my music but in my-

Anyway, your well-earned fury on that phone call was a wake-up call. I wanted to find you alone that morning, and I knew that Charlie and Renee spent Saturday mornings running errands while the band practiced in your garage. I wanted to arrive before band practice, but when I stepped out of the airport, Alec, one of my producers, stepped out of a limo.

He'd heard that I planned to fly the coop and offered to take me to the Seattle office for a talk.

'Edward, we can work out a better deal,' he said, 'something much more lucrative.'

As if I were playing hardball. As if my leaving was a ploy to rework my contract. I explained that I wasn't looking for more money or a better contract. But every time I stepped around him, he put a hand on my chest to stop me and threw another perk my way. Finally, I lost my patience and practically shoved him aside to leave that airport.

Unfortunately, the delay meant that by the time I got to your parents' house, you and the guys were in the middle of band practice.

How do I remember it?

I clearly remember the stark disappointment when I stepped into that garage and found everyone there. And yeah, I know that's messed up. I knew it then. I also know my lackluster greetings to everyone didn't go unnoticed. Part of me felt like shit for it, aware that while my hectic schedule that spring and summer took me away from you, it annihilated my relationship with the rest of the band. Still, you were the only one I cared about at that moment.

But you wouldn't even look at me. I'd arrived with my heart lodged in my throat, yet it grew worse. Now, the very organ meant to keep one alive threatened to cut off my air supply when you wouldn't even glance my way.

I went through the small-talk motions with the rest, banal 'Hi, how are yous?' and 'How's it goings?' Inquiries sputtered woodenly, their answers barely attended, and yes, again, it was all massively fucked up of me. In the back of my mind, I had vague plans to offer them all my apologies later, after I spoke with you, and explain to them that I couldn't think straight until I fixed things with you.

When the painstaking greetings were done, I was finally free to give you all my attention.

'Izzy, can I please have a minute?' I quietly asked.

You sighed, and although you still wouldn't meet my eyes, you turned to the band and caught each of their eyes, one by one. I knew what was transpiring, discreet assurances and reassurances. I won't lie; it stung. Just a few months earlier, we'd all been friends. But I couldn't fault them, could I? Not only had I abandoned their friendships and allowed them to wane and wither, but I hadn't done much better by you. Emmett, particularly, once pulled me over, man to man, early on in our relationship.

'Now, Ed, I know you've been crushing on her for the longest, and I can tell you're ready to fucking float in midair, compose fucking sonnets, blow a load, and all of that now that she gave you the go-ahead. But that girl's like my little sister. You fuck her over, and you and I are done, buddy.'

'I'm cool with that, Emmett. Cuz I'll never fuck her over.'

"Guys, I'll be down in a minute," you told them after the silent communication. Then you turned to me, and your eyes didn't wander above my chin as you said, "Let's go to my room."

And with those five words, though spoken flatly, my heart, which previously clenched so tightly I could barely breathe, now loosened infinitesimally. I followed you up to your room, hoping and praying that your willingness to talk boded well and meant you'd reconsidered your parting words from that phone call. That you were willing to give me a second chance.

When we arrived at your room, you shut the door and turned around. I strode toward you, instantly reaching to draw you into my arms.

'Izzy…' I exhaled in relief.

But you held up a hand, palm out, to halt my momentum. And as much as it killed me, Bella, I wasn't going to force myself on you.

You were the muse. I was the vessel. And I'd said something incredibly stupid, noxious, and untrue on that phone call, implying that you perpetrated a one-way chase. By heeding you, I meant to show you I knew how false and foolish that statement had been, someone else's thought I'd outwardly dismissed but inwardly retained until I said it aloud and realized how inane it was.

What's more, I knew that after how I'd treated and neglected you for months after promising, swearing I wouldn't change – that we wouldn't change – I deserved everything you'd said on that phone call. Now, I just wanted a chance to prove myself once again.

Still, it wrung out my heart like a rag when you kept me at bay. Our embrace had once been our mutual comfort and refuge. Our Eden. Watching you repel me now was gut-wrenching.

Still, it wasn't the worst moment. The worst was yet to come.

I once wrote a song for your eyes, remember? An ode to their rich, deep expressiveness. I don't know if you remember this, but I once told you that I first noticed you for your hair – those tumbling dark curls that haven't changed a bit in over twenty years, your naturally grown, organic crown.

That was true; your hair was what struck me first. But Bella, your eyes…the first time you locked me in your gaze in your parents' garage for the audition, the rest was a foregone conclusion as far as I was concerned.

So when you finally met my eyes that afternoon, through an empty and impassive gaze, I felt nauseous. I remember that. Even now, my gut clenches, remembering that feeling of bile rising to my throat and spreading, then having to swallow it down to keep from vomiting in front of you.

'Everything's squared away, Izzy. The record…I told them I'll finish it with the minimum number of tracks, but they can't say shit. And the tour…screw the tour. The band can find any number of musicians eager to replace me as opening act at a moment's notice. I'm home to-'

'No, Edward.'

'Izzy-'

'Please, stop calling me Izzy.'

'I'm so damn sorry I called you Bella on the phone. Yes, I was being an asshole. Yes, I was-'

You fisted your hair in both hands and God, I'd always hated to see you do that. You used to do that when Phil frustrated you, and I abhorred seeing it. Curls as perfect as yours should never be mistreated.

'Edward, I meant it when I said I can't do this back-and-forth with you.'

'Iz- Bella, I won't be back and forth anymore!' I grinned. 'I'm done with the label! Almost done, I just have to finish recording,' I qualified, 'but I won't go back to it right away. I don't care. I'm done with the tour and any additional record deal. I'm not extending my contract, not if it'll cause hardships for us.' Unable to keep myself in place, I stepped forward. You, however, stepped back. 'Baby, there won't be any more back-and-forth,' I repeated. 'I know the past few months were bad-'

'The past few months showed me that you and I are two individuals on separate paths. We're like that alien movie, Edward, but I can't allow you to grind me up, bones and all. To consume me. And the sooner we admit to the incompatibility, the better. Edward, when I say I can't do this, I mean I won't.'

You finished clearly and concisely.

But I kept trying.

'It'll get better. We'll be how we were before.'

You swallowed hard and remained silently inscrutable.

'We'll be how we were before,' I said again.

And as I stared at you, a…a surreal feeling welled in me, even more surreal than earlier tonight, when I saw you at the bar or when I knocked on this hotel suite's door. I still wasn't wholly convinced until you answered. Seeing you at the bar and finding you standing at the other side of the door were both mind-boggling moments.

But that afternoon, watching you steadily hold my gaze with zero emotion, with neither anger nor sadness nor…it was all just too inconceivable.

So, I didn't believe it. Just as I'd chosen not to believe you were breaking up with me over that phone call.

Was I hurt? Yeah.

Angry? You'd better believe it.

More than all those, I was scared shitless.

I had no idea where our relationship stood and even less of a clue on how to repair it.

But that you and I were actually over? No. No, that I could not fathom.

So, in that moment, I clung to that surreal feeling, wrapped myself in it like bubble wrap that would cushion me from your steady gaze.

'Edward, this isn't one of your sci-fi movies. There is no going back to how we were before because there is no going back, only forward. We're exactly where we were always meant to be: you, all over the country, with your star on the rise, and me…here, with my friends, figuring out my next steps. Which is fine,' you shrugged. 'So, please, don't give up an auspicious career, something real, for something that wasn't meant to be, one way or the other.'

You spoke each statement resolutely. Delivered the whole speech evenly, without a break in your voice, with no hitch of breath. Afterward, I angled my head and studied you, searching for the faultline I was sure had to be there, the one that would crack if I only waited you out, much how I'd waited you out in the beginning when you couldn't decide whether you wanted to give us a try or not. Whether you wanted me or not.

Yet you remained stoic, imperturbable. Between your lack of emotion, the ongoing sensation that none of that was actually happening, that I was, in fact, trapped in one of my sci-fi movies…and the growing fear that maybe I wasn't, and the fact that you really had no interest in giving us another chance, a toxic mixture brewed.

Before I arrived there that morning, I promised myself that this time, unlike on our phone call, I wouldn't allow confusion and hurt to dictate me. I'd never before been a man ruled by impatience. But…at that moment…something snapped.

And I've never forgiven myself for the things I said, Bella, for how, in my immaturity, I tried to force a reaction from you. My desperation at that moment, the fact that I felt like I was drowning, and a drowning person can rarely think clearly enough to save himself, much less worry about those drowning with him, is no excuse for the things I then spewed.

'Something that wasn't meant to be or real?' I asked. 'Or do you mean something that was never real to you?'

'I didn't say-'

'Oh, I know well what you said and what you never said,' I scoffed while a potently toxic brew of despair and frustration simmered just beneath the surface. 'What were we then, Isabella?'

I'd never called you Isabella. It was your full name, but I'd only heard your parents call you that when they were really pissed off at you. Based on how your eyes widened, it hit its mark.

'Were we just a way to piss off Alice that night, to remind her who was the top dog in the band?'

When you remained silent, I chuckled bitterly, then spewed more poison that had been dripped in my ear, drop by drop. I added my scathing drivel to the lethal potion that rightly made you hate me afterward.

'Or was I just a way to grow Olympia's popularity? To attract bigger crowds full of assholes like the one who approached you that night, wanting 'Pretty Girl,' I spat, 'to scribble her number on his fucking arm? Is that what we were?'

'Edward, let's not end it this way.'

'Let's not end it this way,' you said. Meaning you'd already made up your mind. No matter what I said or did, we were ending, and I spiraled further down the dung pit I'd been clinging to.

'Did you lead me on that night on the ferry?' I seethed, all the while knowing I'd sunk to new lows in that pit, dug it deeper to a level of fucked up hell beyond description by destroying that night on the ferry for us.

Yet, narrowing my eyes, I kept going.

'When I said I'd quit the band if it was the only way to be with you, did you panic and allow me to stay for the sake of your band? Because you were worried your crowds would dwindle again if I quit?'

You grimaced. Then you shut your eyes and swallowed hard.

And I rejoiced.

Because here's the thing, Bella: That was my goal – a reaction.

Until then, you'd shown no reaction from the moment I walked into the garage, and it bewildered the hell out of me. We'd fought before, although, yes, that last fight over the phone was by far the worst. I'd said some horrible shit on that call – which I'd now surpassed. Before that, yes, I'd been a shitty boyfriend for the past few months. Before that, our friendship had a rocky start.

So, yes, we'd had some rough times in a friends-to-lovers relationship that spanned almost two years. But even though you never quite said those three words, you'd never been cold. You'd never been aloof. Bella, since the moment I first set eyes on you, you'd never been so damn dispassionate.

So, I expected that the dull emptiness and the impassivity would finally be gone when you reopened your eyes. I expected you to be justifiably livid. Indignant, and aptly so. I expected you to open your mouth and curse the living shit out of me with your justly righteous fury.

'You condescending prick.'

'How dare you accuse me of any of that?'

'How dare you defile the sanctity of our night on the ferry? You take that back! Apologize for that shit right now, Edward!'

I could almost hear you fuming, and I swear I nearly smiled in relief. I felt it begin to wash over me because there was no way you'd let me get away with that one - not with questioning our sacred night. Now, we could really get down to business. We could have it out, lay it all out there, and release the pain and anger from the past few months on both sides. I'd learned my lesson, and we'd move on.

And yes, yes. It was a hugely immature thought process. I'm aware of that now, which is why I wanted to come clean. My plan's stupidity is probably also why it backfired so horrifically.

When you reopened your eyes, the ice-cold reserve that had marked them since I arrived, that impenetrable indifference hadn't disappeared from eyes that had once been so expressive, so warm that I'd convinced myself I didn't need those three words.

You opened your eyes, and my plan hadn't morphed your detached apathy into angry passion.

Instead, it put an end to the patience, to the forbearance you'd shown a man who should've known better than to ever neglect the best thing that ever happened to him. Big breaks only come around once in a lifetime. And I don't mean my career.

'Don't come looking for me anymore, Edward. You'll only make it harder. When I said it's over, I meant it. When I said I wanted a clean break, I meant a clean break. A total severing. Now, you have your life to lead, and I have mine. So, don't call me. Don't reach out to me. Don't look for me. Focus on your career and allow me to focus on moving forward. And good luck. I mean that.'

Izzy—forgive me for calling you that, but to me, you'll always be Izzy. You asked how I remember our end. Iz…that…that is how I remember our end."

A/N: Thoughts?

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I have a playlist I created and listened to while writing this story. I'll post the entire playlist once the story is complete, but for this chapter, the song choice is a cover of Evanescence's 'My Immortal.' This version is performed by the cover band, 'Boyce Avenue' with vocals by Alejandro Manzano. Breaks my heart so good. 3

"See" you Friday.