Ponytime: Thank you so much for reading! I'm really glad you've enjoyed it!
TeamEdward3: Thank you so much! I think that is the best compliment I've gotten for My Angel so far haha. And no worries, I don't think you'll have to worry about an update for this particular story after today haha. (Other than the epilogue, which I'll post sometime next month - so keep an eye out) ٩( ᗒᗨᗕ )۶
xxstrigonxx: Thank you so much for reading! I'm really sorry about the wait haha. I just want this to be as perfect as I can possibly make it before I let it go out into the world lol.
alexbou: Distractions... is probably gonna take a hit after a while. Especially when I start writing the My Insanity trilogy (our quadrilogy - still debating on it). But not for a while, I've already got a lot in the pipeline, so its schedule should remain intact for a good while.
My thoughts had always been more practical than they were whimsical.
Growing up, I'd spent most of my time taking care of my mom—handling bills, and groceries, making sure we stayed afloat. There wasn't much room for daydreaming or flights of fantasy when you had to focus on the numbers, the plans, and the things that kept a roof over your head. I hadn't minded it, not really, but it meant that I hadn't had much of a childhood.
And I never felt overly deprived, but still; it meant my imagination was never quite as sharp or free as it could have been. Even with everything I'd witnessed over the last year and a half—the things I knew were possible now—I still couldn't quite conjure anything like that on my own. Not in a million years.
So, I was almost ninety percent sure that she was real.
There was no way I could've made up even a fraction of what Edythe had told me over the past hour. Her stories, her quiet, sorrowful adventures—they were too vivid, too intricate, to be anything other than the truth. The places she'd been, the things she'd seen, the struggle and experience in her eyes—it all felt too real. Too raw.
I was almost completely convinced—almost. There was still that nagging ten percent in the back of my mind, the part that wouldn't let me fully surrender to the idea, the part that whispered this was too good to be true. It told me there was every possibility that my mind—my vampiric mind—was just moving too quickly, processing too much, and creating these incredible stories to fill in the blanks, to make me believe.
But the other ninety percent of me, the part that felt her, that heard the sincerity in her voice, couldn't shake the certainty that there was more to her than just my imagination running wild.
It was weird. For the first time in like a year, I felt like I could trust my own perception of things.
After our conversation in the meadow, we'd started walking back to Charlie's house, moving slowly through the woods. The pace was unhurried, the kind of leisurely stroll that lets you savor the moments in between. She'd offered to run with me, but I told her it would be good to catch up before Charlie threw me in the slammer.
Every word she spoke was like a small release, a gentle lifting of the weight that had settled deep in my chest, offering a momentary respite from the ache that never quite seemed to fade. If this turned out to be nothing more than a hallucination, a trick of my mind, I would still hold onto it—this moment, this feeling. Real or not, it was too beautiful to let go of, too precious to dismiss. I would keep it with me, tucked away like a secret, because it was mine, and it was enough.
However, that didn't mean I wouldn't go completely comatose if it did turn out to be a dream. It just meant I'd feel okay when I woke up from it.
She told me about how she tried out her family's hobbies (apparently something she'd done in an effort to overcome her own depression - which sounded much healthier than what I'd been doing). One of the first things she tried was learning how to cook; which she'd wanted to do for me if she ever had the courage to come back. She said it had been merely a coping mechanism - a fantasy for her to cling to in an effort to stave off ever coming back at all. Which of course she regretted now after seeing the damage she'd done. Her words, not mine. But overall, it had been a poor experience for her.
"I was busy learning how to fry an egg, while you were out running into burning buildings," she said, her frustration slipping through as she ran her hands through her hair. It made her look like a goddess.
The sun had hit her just right then, making her skin glow in a way that made the nickname angel all the more fitting. Her delicate-looking arms lifted just slightly, and her hair fell to the small of her back - it would have taken my breath away had I needed to breathe at all. She was perfect.
"Well, I bet it tasted good," I said with quiet sympathy and a mirthful smile.
She gave me a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. "No, Beau. It was a disaster. Earnest spent all day cleaning it up with me while the others laughed. Every part of it was atrocious. I'm almost relieved you won't have to suffer through that particular failure."
It was really hard for me to keep the smile on my face from spreading. It was even harder to keep from laughing. I honestly couldn't imagine Edythe cooking - even with how perfect she is at literally everything - cooking just seemed too normal for someone as ethereal as her.
I titled my head side to side with consideration. "Actually, I think that might be the one thing I'll regret about not being human. I would've loved to try your cooking."
She flashed a quick smile, her dimples appearing before she looked down at her feet, her voice softening. "You really shouldn't thank me. It was just a way for me to keep myself distant... from everything. From everyone."
I shrugged, trying to lighten the moment. "Doesn't matter to me. I'm just glad you found something to focus on... even if it didn't last long."
"It lasted too long," she muttered. I couldn't tell if she meant she wished she'd come back to me sooner or if she was frustrated with how long it took her to get over the cooking phase. Maybe it was both.
"How long before you moved on to interior decorating?" I teased.
That had been another one of her attempts to stay grounded while she was gone. I knew it had all started when Earnest had asked her for help with his work—a push that had shifted her from one hobby to the next. But, much like the cooking, it had ended in disappointment.
"A month," she said, shuddering as though the very thought sent a chill down her spine. "I'll never understand that kind of art or Earnest's passion for it. Music is where I'll be keeping my artistic side focused from now on."
"Good," I whispered. "I can't wait to hear you play again."
"As soon as I prove that I'm not just your imaginary friend, I will."
I snorted and kissed her head, making her laugh with me. "You know that's only gonna happen when he lets me out in a hundred years."
"We can sneak you out sooner," she said with a shrug. "He's quite the heavy sleeper."
And just like that, the bit of fun I'd been having went out the window. I tried hard not to cringe, but she saw the tensing of my jaw.
"Um… yeah. Not anymore, he's not."
She looked at me, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
I hesitated for a moment, a wave of embarrassment rising before I pushed it down. It wasn't the easiest thing to admit - especially to her. "When you left… and while I was still human, I wasn't exactly the best to Charlie."
She tilted her head, a softness in her expression. "How so?"
I let out a strained laugh, forcing it through my lips as I awkwardly shifted my gaze to the trees, anything to avoid looking at her face while I tried to find the words. Talking about what had happened—about what I had gone through while she was gone—wasn't easy. They were such a stark difference between the fun she'd had with her family - as depressed as she had been - to my sorrowful experiences.
"WhenIcouldstill sleep…" My voice faltered, and I had to push out the rest of the words slowly. It was hard. "I had night terrors. Bad ones." I swallowed, the memory tight in my chest. "I couldn't sleep without... well, screaming. And being sick. It was... bad."
"Night terrors?" Her voice was calm, but the concern in her eyes when I looked back made my chest tighten.
I shrugged, trying to make it sound casual. Why was this so hard? "Yeah. Lots of vomiting, screaming... all the usual stuff." I paused, my throat tightening, then forced myself to push through. "My nightmares were always about you… leaving."
For a moment, she was silent. Then, without a word, she rested her head against my shoulder, her breath warm and soft against my skin. She bit her lip, avoiding my gaze, unwilling to face the truth of what I had just said—or the way it still haunted me.
I didn't press her, allowing her to lean into me as we moved through the forest at a slow, steady pace. This was hard for both of us, in ways that words couldn't touch.
"I'm sorry," she eventually whispered, nuzzling her head against my arm harder for comfort. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," I whispered back, kissing her head.
We kept walking, the soft sunlight filtering through the trees, casting warm beams of light over us. It lit our skin up in parts and danced together in a very good distraction that took my mind off of the misery we'd put ourselves in. I let the silence settle around us, the quiet comfort of it, and allowed my thoughts to drift.
My mind had been broken for a while—fractured, splintered in ways I couldn't fix. My trust in the world, in myself, shattered over time. And my heart, it seemed, had been slowly breaking apart more and more every day for the past year. It had been too much to bear, too many pieces of me scattered across all the ways she had left me, all the ways I had failed.
I couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like for her, surrounded by her family—her perfect, immortal family—while she tried to live with the weight of a decision that had tied her to a fate she couldn't escape. To be stuck in a world where every part of you was on display, where every emotion was felt and amplified by the people around you. Her psychic brother, her empath sister... all their quirks, their constant presence. It must've been suffocating at times.
Still, in the quiet of my mind, I knew that, no matter how different our experiences had been, we had both carried the same burden. We were both stuck, bound to our own thoughts, and our own feelings. We were both lost in the shadows of our own minds, depressed by the cards we'd been dealt and by how we saw ourselves.
I could feel it in every part of me: I was nothing. Just a boring, ordinary nobody—vampire or not. It didn't matter. I was still just me. That's what I'd been dealing with.
But she didn't see herself as something as simple as boring. She couldn't. That wasn't her. She saw herself as something darker—something monstrous. The kind of thing that haunted nightmares and folklore, the creature that had been feared for centuries. She saw herself as the vampire her kind had built their identity on.
All because of a few mistakes she couldn't forgive herself for.
It was the most human thing she could do, though. To make mistakes. To stumble, to fall, and then learn from them. It was how we grew, how we became who we were supposed to be. But for her, that understanding was buried under layers of guilt, shame—self-loathing.
Convincing her that she wasn't a monster, that she was still the person I knew and loved—that wasn't going to be easy. It would take time and patience. Just as it would take time for me to figure out how to let her in again, without constantly fearing she'd hurt me.
More than anything, I needed to believe she loved me the way I loved her—that I wasn't just a fragment of her past, something she was trying to forget. In both of our cases, healing wouldn't be quick. But at least we had one thing in our favor: all the time in the world to figure it out.
"Beau," she said, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts. I smiled softly at her.
"Yeah?"
"Can… can I ask you something I probably shouldn't?" she asked, wincing as if just saying it made her uncomfortable.
I shrugged, trying to keep the mood light. "Ask away."
She took a deep breath, her gaze dropping as if she were carefully choosing her words. "When we were in Italy, and I saw Archie… he gave me a brief overview of your recent history. But it wasn't everything. I couldn't focus on it—everything was moving too fast—and he didn't know all the details." She spoke slowly as if each word required careful consideration.
I waited a moment, then asked, my voice barely above a whisper, "What do you want to know?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her eyes drifted away, the uncertainty in her silence louder than any words.
"Edythe?" I prompted gently, trying to bring her back. She looked nervous—something so rare for her, something I didn't want to see. I never wanted her to feel like this with me, to feel like there were things she couldn't say or ask. I wanted her to know that nothing, nothing was off-limits between us.
But she wouldn't meet my eyes. Instead, her gaze dropped to the ground, her expression apologetic. It was clear she thought there were boundaries, things I wouldn't want to talk about.
"Forget what I said, Beau," she murmured, her voice filled with hesitation. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."
Before she could pull away any further, I reached out, gently lifting her chin with a finger, and guiding her gaze back to mine. I didn't want her to hide from me—not now, not ever.
"You can ask me anything," I said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I really don't mind."
Her breath caught in her throat.
"I can't ask that," she whispered, a trace of regret thick in her voice.
"Please, tell me," I said with a low velvet voice, trying to imitate the same way she'd pry out every stupid thought that flew through my own head back in the day. It was weird to hear myself sound so… seductive. But it was the only way I could think of to show her she didn't need to hold anything back—not from me. Not anymore. I needed her to feel safe with me, to feel like she could say anything.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she leaned in a little closer like she was trying to catch every word, to hold onto it. I held my breath, my hand instinctively moving to her waist, pulling her a fraction nearer.
I guess it worked.
"I'm afraid it'll upset you," she whispered, her voice barely more than a tremor, her hand resting gently against my chest. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from her, and it hit me harder than I expected. That softness, that hesitance—it made my chest tighten, a familiar ache creeping in. She wasn't the only one who could feel small sometimes.
I wanted to reassure her, to tell her that nothing she said could hurt me, but the truth was, I wasn't sure of that. Still, I couldn't let her see the doubt in my eyes. I swallowed hard, keeping my voice steady. "It won't," I promised, though the words tasted heavier than I'd intended.
She exhaled a soft, almost defeated sigh, and I saw the conflict flare in her eyes—sharp, familiar. It was the same struggle I'd always seen in her. The constant weighing of the words she chose, the carefulness she applied to every decision. The one thing she couldn't stand was hurting the people she loved, and I knew that more than anyone.
"But I think it will, Beau," she said, her voice quieter, more fragile. "I don't want to hurt you anymore."
The words hung in the air, thick with something I couldn't name. It felt almost surreal, how the roles had reversed. I had always been the one keeping things from her, hiding pieces of myself behind walls I'd carefully constructed. But now, here I was, standing on the other side of that divide, trying to pry something out of her—something she wasn't ready to share.
I couldn't help it. A soft chuckle escaped me, a sound tinged with exhaustion, and resignation. She glanced at me, those dark eyes of hers narrowing, as if trying to read me, to figure out what was really going on beneath the surface. I knew that look all too well. It was the same intensity I'd seen countless times, the one that made her dig deeper than most people ever dared, the one that always seemed to peel away my defenses.
"Trust me," I said quietly, my voice firm despite the cracks I could feel just beneath the surface. The words were meant to be reassuring, but they didn't come easily. Still, I needed her to believe me. I needed her to know she could say whatever was on her mind, without hesitation. "I can take whatever you tell me."
We both knew that was true. There was no hiding from the things we'd already been through, no pretending we hadn't faced darker moments.
She hesitated, and I could feel the tension in the air, the careful way she was choosing her words. Then, finally, after what felt like an eternity, she exhaled a slow, heavy sigh, as though giving in to some internal battle she hadn't wanted to fight.
"Alright," she said, her voice so quiet, so fragile, that it was almost lost in the space between us. "Archie told me most of what you went through, but there was one thing he couldn't explain. He could only give me what you'd already shared with him. He never told me how you... changed."
"Um… no. I told him about that," I replied, raising an eyebrow, a flicker of confusion crossing my face. I remembered sharing every detail—how Lauren had been caught in the chaos, how the wolves had saved me… well, mostly.
It wasn't a long story, but it was one that stuck with me, each part of it wrapped in the kind of pain that didn't easily fade. I could still picture the way Archie had looked at me while I told him—his face etched with sadness, the kind of sorrow that mirrored the look now filling Edythe's eyes. It had been like I walked right back into that moment—one I couldn't seem to escape.
"You didn't tell him about what you went through, though… in the truck."
Oh. That. I felt a tightness in my chest, a familiar knot of discomfort. "You wanna know about what happened during the change… yeah… I didn't really tell Archie anything about that, did I?" I forced the words out, but they felt strange on my tongue. I hadn't thought much about it before. At the time, the pain had been all-consuming, and I'd barely been able to process what was happening to me, let alone explain it to someone else. And with Archie, it hadn't seemed important. He knew it was brutal—there wasn't much more to say. So why was she asking about it now?
Her eyes never left mine, unwavering, as she shook her head. "No. You did not." It was clear she needed something more, something I hadn't shared. And that's something... I wasn't sure I was ready to give.
I hummed quietly. "Well, I didn't tell him because there wasn't much to say, angel. It was just... pain, you know? Like it is for all vampires, right?"
"Yes, but earlier, you told me that you went through the change with your hallucination?" She asked the question like she was speaking some sort of taboo - like she was worried about bringing up a sensitive topic or something. Which, I suppose, it was to some extent, but somehow it didn't feel as horrible when she was the one asking. There was something about her curiosity that made it seem more… bearable.
"What did it… I say?" she asked.
I paused, trying to sift through the fragments of memory. "A lot of things. Some of it's a little fuzzy, honestly—because, well… it hurt. But I remember most of it was you trying to comfort me. Telling me it would be alright, that I was safe."
Even through the pain, even though none of it had been real, hearing her say those things had kept me alive. It was as if her words had wrapped around me like a lifeline, pulling me back from the brink, holding me just steady enough to keep me from losing myself completely to the madness. Even in the midst of the excruciating change, when everything inside me felt like it was being torn apart, her voice had been the only thing I could grasp onto. It had been like she was right there with me, even though she wasn't. It was a hallucination—a desperate creation of my mind trying to hold onto something, anything, that could make sense of the agony.
"Is that really all your hallucination told you?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, fragile and broken. "You just laid in your truck, going through the change alone, while my ghost haunted you, whispering words of comfort?"
Her question made my chest tighten. The way she phrased it—my ghost—made it feel like she wasn't just asking about the past. She was asking about how I had needed her, even when she hadn't been there. It wasn't just about the change. It was about the fact that, even in my mind, I had been desperate to feel connected to her again.
I smiled softly, remembering how those words had felt, distorted and too perfect. My hallucination of her had been... too soothing, too unreal. Her voice had been too calm, too assured. A voice that didn't belong to the real Edythe—the one who was always careful, always measured. No, the version in my head had been a siren's call, pulling me deeper into a false sense of comfort.
But even so, it had been enough to keep me going. "She told me she loved me," I said quietly.
For a long moment, she didn't say anything. She parted her lips slightly like she was about to speak, but then nothing came out. She closed her mouth again, her face soft with an unreadable expression. Instead, she just nodded.
Very slowly, her shoulders started to tremble, and I felt it before I could even see it—the subtle shake, the sign that she was trying to hold herself together.
The quiet sobs that followed were impossible to hide. The way her chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, the way she had to hold onto herself as if she were trying to keep from breaking open.
"Angel," I whispered, my voice barely audible, as she let out a quiet, broken half-sob. The sound hit me like a punch to the gut, raw and unfiltered, and without thinking, I stopped walking. My heart ached as I pulled her close, wrapping my arm around her shoulders in a gentle embrace, guiding her against me.
"I'm sorry," she whimpered.
Her hand covered her face, hiding her eyes as I held her close. "Hey, beautiful," I murmured into her hair, trying to offer comfort. "Tell me what's wrong."
She shook her head, and I could see she was struggling to find her voice.
"Please," I whispered softly, my voice a plea I couldn't quite contain. "Angel, I need to know what's wrong so I can help."
Her breath hitched, and the sound of it made my chest tighten. "Y-you can't fix this..." she murmured, her voice shaking. "I—I can't believe I let you down... I should have been there… I should have really been there to tell you I love you."
She sounded so small, so lost as if she believed she had failed me in ways I couldn't even begin to understand. She'd been my anchor when I thought she wasn't real—and there were still days, moments when I questioned whether she really was. But no matter what, she had helped me when I needed it most, just hours ago. And now, it was my turn to return that support.
I cupped her face gently, trying to steady both her and myself. My voice was soft, as soothing as I could make it. "You wouldn't have been there anyway, Edythe."
I didn't want to hurt her, but I needed her to understand. She hadn't let me down. It wasn't her fault. She hadn't been able to be there—and I understood why.
But she flinched at my words, despite the tenderness in my tone. I saw the way her body reacted, how her breath caught in her throat as if my words had struck harder than I intended. It hurt to see her like this—guilty, broken.
"Hey, look at me," I said, my voice softening even further. I reached out, gently lifting her chin so she'd meet my eyes. "That's not what I meant. I didn't mean it like that." I could feel the tremble in her shoulders under my hands. "I just—I just need you to know that you don't have to carry this alone and I am so glad that it happened this way."
She let out a shuddering breath, her eyes searching mine as though she couldn't quite believe what I was saying.
"If you had been here, you would have never let me turn. I wouldn't have had the chance to share an eternity with you. I would never get to see you again. Never hear your voice, never hold you close. And that... that would have been hell, Edythe. It would've been pure torture. Heaven would've felt like torment if you weren't there."
I took a slow breath before I continued, my voice quieter now, but no less intense. "So... yeah, a year's worth of pain, a year of suffering that you feel you've caused—that's worth it. It's worth it if the rest of forever with you is my reward."
I could see the way her expression shifted—like my words were trying to piece together something she didn't know how to hold. Something she didn't know how to believe. But I wasn't giving up. Not now. Not ever.
"I would go through it all again," I added, my voice unwavering. "If it meant I'd get to be with you."
Her breath caught, and for a moment, the world felt still—like she was holding onto my words, trying to make sense of them. I could see the vulnerability in her eyes, the part of her that still doubted her worth, still feared that everything she had done—or hadn't done—had cost us too much.
But I was here, and I wasn't going anywhere. I just had to trust that she felt the same - that she wouldn't want to leave me again.
"But how is that better? Even with that so-called reward, the pain you went through was completely unnecessary" she mumbled, leaning forward and laying her head on my shoulder. Probably to hide her face again. I held her tighter to my body.
I wrapped my arms around her tighter, pulling her closer, needing her to feel the warmth of me—of us—like I could hold her together even when she didn't think she was whole. And I kinda needed that too. Of the two of us, I was probably in more pieces than she was - so holding on was probably a good idea.
"It's not exactly my ideal scenario," I admitted, my voice quiet, but steady. "But it is better. Would you have turned me? Would you have let me get bitten at all if you'd been here?"
"No," she replied, the word thick with regret.
"Then maybe the pain was worth it," I said softly, almost to myself, but I needed her to hear it. "If it meant I got to be here. With you."
Her breath hitched, and I could feel the tremor in her as she exhaled slowly. "It could have been handled better," she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if the admission was too much to bear. "I could have been better."
Could it have been better? Maybe. But could we have had this? Could we have had the chance to be together the way we are now if it had all happened differently? Was there any point in thinking about what could have been?
"Yeah, but why worry about the if's and why's, and how we messed up when we could just focus on being better?" I said softly, rubbing her back again.
My fingers trace soothing patterns along her back. The fabric of her shirt felt almost ethereal against my skin as if she were something more than human, something impossibly fragile yet endlessly strong. Holding her like this—feeling her warmth, her breath—was like a dream I knew I could never wake from, no matter how many times I tried to convince myself otherwise. I would never, could never, get used to it.
But, slowly, she pulled back, just enough to create a sliver of space between us. Her hands rested lightly on my chest, her fingers brushing against the slight muscle beneath the fabric as she looked up at me with those deep, expressive eyes that seemed to hold everything—the weight of a thousand years, the softness of a single breath.
"I always wanted to turn you," she said, her voice so fragile, so quiet, it almost seemed like the wind could carry it away.
For half a second, I thought I'd misheard her. My mind stopped, not in fear, but in sheer disbelief. I couldn't have heard that right.
"What?" I asked, my voice low, unsure whether I was hoping I'd heard wrong or if I'd just conjured up what I wanted to hear.
She sighed and nuzzled into my shoulder, looking up at me with a tired resignation. "Since our date in the meadow. The first time that is - I wanted to make you like me. It's been my most selfish wish," she admitted.
I'd asked her dozens of times. No—beggedher. Every day, it seemed like I was asking, hoping she'd finally hear the desperation in my voice. I wanted her to turn me, to make me like her. I thought if I could just be with her, like her, we'd never have to be apart. But I never imagined it could hurt this much, this deeply, to hear her say it first. To know she had wanted me to be with her in that way all along—and yet... all this time, I'd been asking, and she had said no. Every single time.
I couldn't even count how many times I'd practically begged her, how many nights I spent pleading with her to make me like her. I thought I might have driven her away with how often I asked. I thought, for sure, she'd gotten tired of hearing it, and one day, she might just leave me for it. But no matter how many times I pressed, she always said the same thing.
That I was too precious. That she wasn't worth my humanity - my soul. And the whole time, she'd wanted to do it?
"So, every time I asked you to turn me and you said no… you…" I trailed off, the words feeling like they were stuck in my throat, heavy and confusing. It was almost too much to process. It didn't make sense, and yet... somehow, it did.
"Yes," she whispered.
I tilted my head slightly, my eyes searching her face, trying to understand. I felt so dumb. So stupid for not realizing it sooner. "I thought that you just didn't want me for that long - like… I don't know. That you didn't plan on being with me… forever."
The shift in her expression was immediate, like a switch flipping. The sleepy, soft gaze she'd been giving me just moments ago vanished, replaced by something sharper, more intense.
"What?" she asked, disbelief flooding her voice, and I felt her pull back slightly, lifting her head off my shoulder. "What…Beaufort Swan?" she repeated my name, and there was a spark of incredulity in her tone that made my chest tighten. "You thought I didn't want you even then? That me refusing to turn you... you thought I didn't want you because of that?"
Her outraged tone was matched by the sudden wakefulness in her eyes. She looked gorgeous even as she glared at me angrily, her eyes wide, searching for an explanation - as if she couldn't even fathom how I could have thought that.
"Just a little bit."
"A little bit?!" she repeated, her voice a mixture of incredulity and frustration. "After all the times I told you I loved you? After every time I saved your life? After I did everything I could to be with you, even when it hurt me? And you thought I didn't want you?"
"I… yes," I said slowly. It felt like the wrong answer - even if it was true. I'd never been enough for her - human or otherwise, I was still just boring old me.
She scoffed, her expression a mix of frustration and pain as if she were fighting against the urge to unleash a torrent of thoughts. Her gaze dropped to our feet, and I could see her angrily chewing on her lip, the tension in her body palpable. It was as if the words were trapped inside her, struggling against the barrier of her restraint.
"I'm sorry," she suddenly spat, her voice sharp and slicing through the tension in the air.
"Um… for what?" I asked.
Her eyes flashed with a mix of regret and frustration. "I'm sorry I made you feel like I didn't love you… again. And again, I'm sorry I didn't explain things properly. I didn't realize how profoundly my mistakes affected you, and it's only made everything else I've done seem so much worse."
"You didn't know," I reassured.
Her frown just got worse. "But I should have… Beau, I need you to listen. Having you here with me getting to keep you here; it's as though I've been granted every single selfish wish I've ever had. But the price for everything I wanted was to take the exact same thing away from you. All of your life. I'm angry with myself, I'm disappointed in myself. And I wish so much that I could undo what I did… to call myself a fool… to just make my younger self run back into your arms and never let go… to never let you doubt me or what I feel for you…
"The reason I didn't turn you myself wasn't that I didn't love you - or that I didn't want you - it was because I loved you. You deserved better than the life of a vampire. I wanted you to have what none of us ever could - a human life. But you have to know, if it had been only about me if there had been no price for you to pay, then you… you being this breathtaking," she said running a hand along my jaw - I almost made an embarrassing purring sound from it, "then I would have done it day one, and I would have been the happiest woman alive for the rest of time, because now, after a hundred years of loneliness, it looks like I may have the chance to actually enjoy my time here on Earth. With you."
My chest felt warm as I heard it all.
I could once again see every single one of her regrets flashing through her eyes. See the pain of messing up. And I could definitely see how she was beating herself up over it in her head. It was as though her self-loathing was as bad as my depression.
"Edythe…" I whispered, my voice light. "Love, I really, really hope you're not thinking bad things about yourself right now."
"How can I not? Once again, I hurt you! Why do I keep doing this?! I am an idiot!" She groaned with frustration. "I should have told you that I wanted you… I should have made it more clear. I shouldn't have shattered your trust in me!"
I didn't say anything for half a second. She did completely obliterate my trust. Even now, my instincts were screaming at me that this was all a trick - I was happily ignoring them - and she did hurt me. But none of it really mattered. Not when she was here trying to fix it all.
"And you called me ridiculous for all my insane thoughts," I chuckled softly, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw, a nervous habit I hadn't quite managed to shake. "If that makes you an idiot, then I'm the biggest moron on the planet."
Her eyes flickered up to meet mine, just a flicker of something—amusement, maybe? Regret? Whatever it was, it eased the tension in my chest, just a little.
"You made a mistake," I said, my voice softer now, like I was trying to soothe something inside her. "Yeah… my trust is a little shaky right now. I'm probably never gonna let you out of my sight for the next couple thousand years…" I paused, trying to find the right words, but they felt too big. Too heavy. "And, yeah, I doubt you love me, not after everything."
She flinched, the sharp breath she took was almost a physical blow to me. I felt it deep, a pit in my stomach that I couldn't shake.
"But, it's like… it's ingrained in me, angel," I continued, trying to get the words out before the thoughts in my head could spiral again. "For the whole past year, I've been living in a world where you didn't… love me. Where you weren't even here. And to suddenly flip the switch back on like this… It's a little hard, you know? But that doesn't mean I'm not trying. I'm here. Taking this first step with you… I'm proving to myself that you're actually here. Because, honestly…" I let out a breath, shaking my head slightly. "I'm a psycho who can't always tell the difference between reality and wishful thinking. I've been so damn terrified of waking up and realizing this whole thing isn't real - that you're not really here."
"But you not turning me… I should've told you how much it hurt," I said slowly, the words dragging behind them like a weight. I stared at the ground for a moment, letting the frustration of the past year settle on my shoulders. "I should've told you why it hurt, instead of just bottling it all up." I exhaled sharply, my hand tightening around hers. "I was being dumb, expecting you to read my mind, expecting you to just know what I was feeling. But I didn't clue you in, and that was on me. That wasn't fair to you."
I looked up at her then, and I saw that subtle shift in her expression—the way her shoulders seemed to soften, even if she didn't fully understand or agree with what I was saying. "So, yeah," I continued, a little more firmly, "I think this is something we're both going to have to work on. Communication, I mean. I don't want to keep holding things in or assuming you know how I feel. I don't want us to keep building walls between us over things we don't talk about."
She looked at me for a moment, her expression a mix of reluctance and exhaustion, as if she didn't want to accept any of what I'd said but also knew I was right. Finally, she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, "You're not a psycho."
I chuckled softly, the sound more out of habit than genuine amusement. I leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her lips. It was a fleeting thing, just a simple brush of our mouths, but it said everything I needed it to say - that I was in heaven. I let it linger for just a second longer than I should have because it felt real, it felt like us. I wanted her to feel it, to feel how much she meant to me.
"I don't know… I'm pretty crazy about you," I murmured against her lips, joking. I felt the corners of her mouth twist up.
She pulled back slightly, her gaze flickered away for a moment before she let out a quiet sigh. Then she said the word with the kind of distaste you'd expect from someone who's been asked to eat something they don't like. "Communicating," she mumbled.
"A foreign concept to you, I'm sure," I teased gently.
"It is," she admitted, her voice barely audible.
I smiled softly at her admission, a faint, fond smile that carried a bit of reassurance. "Well, don't worry. I suck at it too." I leaned in, placing a tender kiss on the top of her head, letting my lips linger again for a moment as I held her closer. "We can get better together."
"I suppose," she sighed, her breath shaky against my chest as she hugged me. She burrowed her face into my shoulder, her arms tightening around me like she was afraid I might slip away. I held her tighter, feeling everything wrong with us, but also some healing slowly beginning to grow.
Even if we didn't have it all figured out yet, at least we were trying. And for now, that was enough.