Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer

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Where the Lines Overlap

All We Know

~~ Edward ~~

Crush Crush Crush - Part III

The door closes behind him. The sound barely fades before the weight of it crashes down on me.

My knees hit the floor. Hard. I don't even feel it.

A broken, ragged sob tears through my chest, and then another, and another, until I can't hold them back anymore. The pain rips out of me, too big, too unbearable to contain. I can't breathe. I can't think. The world blurs around me, drowning in the flood of my own doing.

Jasper's gone.

I drove him away.

I made him believe I wanted this. I made him believe I didn't want him anymore.

And if he came back right now—if he opened that door and saw me like this—he'd know the truth. He'd know that was all a lie.

For a second—one desperate, reckless second—I want him to.

I want him to come back and see me like this, shattered on the floor, wrecked with grief, so he'll know. So he'll understand. So he'll undo it, undo everything, and take me back before it's too late.

The thought lodges deep in my chest, twisting into something unbearable, and before I know it, I'm whispering it.

"Come back."

My voice is hoarse, raw, lost between sobs.

"Come back, love. Please, come back. Please."

I don't even know how long I beg. My face is wet, my hands shaking where they press against the cold floor. But he doesn't come back. He's not coming back.

And then it hits me.

I don't deserve him to.

I see his face in my mind—the way he looked at me when I confirmed it. When I told him I cheated. Not just once… three times. And I didn't only cheat. I had him after having another. I tainted him. I touched him with hands that had just defiled everything we were.

I saw the disbelief first, the desperate reach for denial. Then the hurt. The raw, visceral agony. The moment something inside him broke.

I squeeze my eyes shut, dragging my arm across my face, wiping the tears away as if I can scrub out the weakness that let them fall in the first place. But it doesn't change anything. It doesn't lessen the hollow, gaping wound inside me.

I deserve this. I deserve every second of this agony.

But he doesn't.

He doesn't deserve to be haunted by this, to carry the weight of my betrayal alone. He doesn't deserve to wonder if this was somehow his fault, to question if there was something he could have done to stop me from becoming the worst version of myself. He doesn't deserve to pick up the wreckage of what I did by himself.

But I can't be the one to help him. He doesn't need me—he needs someone who will actually be there. Someone he can rely on.

I push myself up, my body aching, my head pounding, but my fingers are already reaching for my phone.

I know who to call.

Mark cares about him like a brother. He'll make sure Jasper has the support he needs. He'll take care of him when I can't.

I swallow hard and dial.

The phone rings four times.

I take a slow, steadying breath just as Mark picks up.

"Golden Boy." His tone is sharp.

I close my eyes, gripping the phone tighter.

.

.

.

My mother stands by the door, watching me with that look—the one that makes my stomach twist, the one that says she's choosing her words carefully.

"You lashed out," she says softly. "You made a mistake."

I close my eyes briefly, inhaling through my nose before correcting her.

"Mistakes." My voice is quiet but firm. I drag a hand through my hair, gripping the strands for a second before letting go. "Consciously. Willingly. I sought them. And there's no fixing it. The damage is done."

She presses her lips together, and for a moment, I think she might argue. But then my father's voice cuts through the silence.

"So that's it, then."

I glance up at him, standing by the window, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—they're sharp, assessing.

I straighten instinctively, muscles coiling tight.

"Yes," I say, looking away. "That's it."

"And that's why you're leaving." He doesn't ask.

"Yes."

A pause. Measured. Deliberate.

"And running away makes this easier?"

I let out a bitter, breathless laugh, shaking my head.

"You think this is easy?" I look at him then, my throat tight, my pulse loud in my ears. "None of this is. I ruined everything. I wrecked Jasper. I wrecked us. And I—" My voice catches, but I push through. "I don't get to take that back. So yeah, I'm leaving. Because staying there? Staying in that apartment, in that town, in that life? It's unbearable."

My mother shifts, crossing her arms, but it's my father who speaks again.

"You made a choice," he says evenly. "You hurt him. You chose to do wrong by him." A beat. "And now you have to live with that."

"I am living with it," I snap, the words sharp, cutting. "I'm living with it every second of every day."

Dad studies me for a long moment. The silence stretches, thick and unrelenting, pressing against my ribs. I hate the way he looks at me—like he's dissecting every word, every crack in my composure. Like he sees through everything I'm not saying.

I force my gaze away, reaching for the other cushion over my mattress. My hands shake.

"I was tired, okay…?" I mutter, grasping for an explanation that doesn't exist. "I am tired. Tired of always having to be perfect, in every situation. Tired of being rational, logical—the one who holds everything together. Tired of knowing that the second I slip, that's all anyone sees." I exhale sharply, my grip tightening around the soft fabric. "I didn't lash out, Mom. I just—" My voice falters, my throat burning. "I just let go of restraints I never should have put on myself in the first place. Fuck, I'm eighteen, but I feel like I'm forty."

My mother's breath hitches, barely audible, but I hear it. My father's jaw tightens.

"I didn't want to do it that way," I continue, my voice rough. "I didn't want to hurt Jasper. I didn't want to lose him. But I knew it had to happen. And maybe that was good, okay? He's free now too."

My father exhales heavily, turning to look out the window as my mother lowers her gaze. We're silent for a moment, the weight of my words settling between us. Maybe, for a second, they see the logic in it. Maybe they understand, even if they'll never accept the way I did it.

My father is the first to break the quiet.

"You should come to the funeral anyway." His voice is steady, measured. "It's Jasper. No matter how badly you messed things up between you, you grew up together. You were there for most of his life. He just lost his father—he needs all the support he can get right now."

I move my eyes to the floor, my fingers curling against my palms.

"It doesn't matter." My voice sounds hollow, detached. "The last person he wants to see right now is me."

My mother sighs, her arms tightening around herself.

"Edward—"

"He hates me." I cut in, lifting my gaze just enough to meet theirs. The weight of their disappointment sits heavy in their eyes, even though their voices remain calm. They don't have to say it. I already know. "And he should. He's right to."

My mother studies me for a long moment, and I wonder if she sees how exhausted I am—if she sees how I've been holding everything back just to stay standing.

"If you don't want to go, fine," my father says finally. "We won't make you. You're an adult. But you can't run from the consequences of your mistakes forever."

He waits—for an answer, maybe—but I have nothing left to give. Eventually, he exhales and leaves, his footsteps quiet against the floor.

My mother lingers a second longer, watching me with something softer in her expression—something like sorrow.

"Think about it, honey." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You still have time to make a better decision."

She follows my father out, and the silence they leave behind feels heavier than their words.

I let out a slow breath, my head tipping forward, hands gripping my knees.

My dad's right.

I don't deserve to be there. I don't deserve to stand beside him, to grieve alongside him like I still have that right. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't go.

Jasper lost his father. And no matter what I did, no matter how much I shattered us, I know him—I know this is breaking him apart in ways he won't let anyone see. I know the way he holds his pain, tight and silent, like if he lets it slip, it'll consume him whole. And I know, better than anyone, how much he loved his father, even if he never showed it, never allowed himself to admit it.

I should go.

And I should tell him about Cambridge.

It won't change anything. It won't make up for what I did. But maybe—maybe—it'll give him something. Not closure, not peace, but relief, however small. A sign that at least one part of this mess—me—is leaving for good.

Maybe that's the only thing I can give him now. My absence.

.

.

.

Fingers dig into my hips, nails biting into my skin, but I don't care. I push down harder, chasing sensation, dragging in a sharp breath as sweat slicks between us. The bed creaks beneath the strain, the air thick with heat and the sharp, restless edge of something frantic, something mindless.

The guy groans beneath me, his back arching, hands grasping at my waist, my ribs, anywhere he can reach. His fingers trail upward, skating over damp skin, over muscle, until they find it. The ink, right above my heart.

I grab his wrist and shove it down.

"Anywhere but there," I say, voice rough, warning.

He blinks up at me, dazed, lips parted like he might argue, but I don't give him the chance. I pin his wrist to the mattress and roll my hips, pushing him past words, past thought.

He gets the message.

And then his hands are back where they should be, and I can stop thinking again.

I don't remember his name. I didn't bother to ask. I'll probably forget what he looks like by the time I step out of the shower. It doesn't matter. None of them do.

Sex is punishment as much as it is release—hurting myself in the only way that gives me a fleeting moment of relief. The sharper the edge, the deeper the ache, the better. If it leaves bruises, if I wake up sore, if for a few minutes I can drown in pleasure just long enough to silence everything else—then it's worth it.

And then it's over. And I feel nothing.

It used to be different. It used to mean something. I remember that much. But now—now it's just bodies and heat and hands, just sweat and need and the illusion of feeling something, anything.

I'm a whore. I know it. I don't even try to pretend otherwise.

I fuck anyone who wants me. I use them while I let them use me, but there's nothing in it. No connection, no warmth, nothing beyond the frantic, messy rush of it all. The moment it's done, I leave, or they do, and I wipe the slate clean.

I don't have friends. I don't have fun. I don't go out except to find the next body to pull into bed. When I'm not fucking, I'm studying. And when I'm studying, I'm thinking about fucking.

Because if I stop—if I let myself be still for too long—I'll feel it. The pain I refuse to acknowledge. The grief I keep locked so far down it suffocates me in my sleep. The memories I should have let go of by now but still claw at me every time I close my eyes.

This is what I deserve.

So I keep going.

The guy falls apart beneath me, his body tensing, breath shattering, but I barely register it. I pull out, roll off him, and stare at the ceiling as he catches his breath beside me.

"That was—"

"Yeah," I cut in, already reaching for my jeans.

I don't look at him as I stand, as I fasten my belt, as I drag a hand through my damp hair and exhale through my nose. He doesn't ask to stay, doesn't expect anything else. He knows what this is. They always do.

He's still sprawled on my bed when I walk out, leaving him to find his own way.

It's the same every time.

It isn't pleasure. It isn't connection. It's a flickering reprieve, a brief silence in the never-ending noise inside my head. I take what I need—rough, detached, brutal—and I give nothing in return. They don't mind. I don't care.

It keeps me sane. It keeps me moving.

The days bleed together, time slipping through my fingers without weight or meaning.

My parents visit once a year, flying across the ocean to spend a month with me. For those weeks, I pretend. I sit through dinners, listen to their stories, show them around the city like I'm someone who belongs here.

They never say his name, never mention anything from before or related to him. They keep their promise.

And I keep mine—I play the role. The good son, the driven student, the promising young doctor. They smile at me with quiet pride, and I smile back, an empty mimicry of what they want to see.

Then they leave, and I shed the skin of that person like an ill-fitting coat.

I graduate with honors.

My parents fly in again, beaming, celebrating, taking pictures I won't look at twice. The world says I should be happy, so I act like I am.

My internship rolls into residency, which rolls into a permanent position at one of the best hospitals in Cambridge. I specialize in ER surgery, and somewhere along the way, I understand that this is it. The only thing I'm good at. The only thing that makes sense.

So I give myself to it completely.

I work ridiculous hours, take extra shifts, let my hands move with practiced precision over open wounds, shattered bones, failing organs. In the chaos of the ER, in the blood and urgency, I don't have to think. I don't have to feel.

I still fuck strangers, but less often. The routine changes, but the numbness remains.

That's when he comes into my life.

Afton Jonah Holt. Affie, as everyone calls him.

He's the third intern I'm responsible for—fresh-faced, eager, hanging onto every word I say like it means something. At first, I'm not attracted to him at all. He looks too young—way younger than his twenty-six, with his slim frame, smooth dark hair, and deep, intelligent eyes. Creamy skin, somewhere between porcelain and sun-warmed ivory. Not my type.

But he's good. A fast learner. Quick with his hands, sharper with his mind. He absorbs everything, meets every challenge, doesn't flinch at the worst of it. And then, a week in, he smiles.

It's not even at anything particularly funny—just a half-assed joke I toss in his direction while we scrub out. But that smile—God, that fucking smile—stops me cold.

Jasper.

It's not exact. The shape is a little different, the dimples less pronounced, but the essence of it, the way it lights up his face, the way it cracks something inside me—

It becomes a mission after that. Making him smile.

I push too close, let my voice drop too low when I speak to him, let my eyes linger in ways that aren't appropriate between an attending and an intern. He responds in kind—shy at first, then bolder, until one night, I take him home.

And I don't look at another man for the entire year we're fucking.

At first, I tell myself it's just because he's convenient—always around, always eager, always slipping into my bed like he belongs there. But then he starts touching me in ways that aren't just about sex. A hand on my jaw after I kiss him, fingers tracing absentminded circles on my wrist when we lie in bed. I don't stop him.

I let him touch my tattoo.

He's the only one I ever let do that.

I remember the first time. The way his fingers ghost over the ink, the soft hum of curiosity in his throat.

"AJH," he murmurs, voice teasing. "Guess we are fated, huh?"

I freeze.

No one has ever deciphered it before—though he's got the order wrong, he identified the letters, he realized they're initials. It's enough to make my heart skip.

He must feel my body go still because he glances up, brows slightly furrowed. But I force out a breath, force my shoulders to relax, force a smirk onto my lips.

"Guess so," I say. And then I kiss him before he can ask anything else.

For a moment—one brief, treacherous moment—I think maybe.

Maybe, if I keep him long enough. Maybe, if I let this last. Maybe, if I let myself feel something deeper than lust and familiarity and comfort.

But then, over the following month, each time we're in the same room—whether working or fucking—I see it. The way he looks at me. The way he lingers when he should leave. The way his smiles start carrying something softer, something heavier.

He's falling for me.

And I—I can't. I won't.

So I break his heart.

Brutally, efficiently, in a way that ensures he'll never waste another second thinking about me. That he'll move on, hate me, forget me as fast as possible.

It's what I deserve.

I don't deserve to be happy.

Affie requests a transfer the very next day.

He doesn't say goodbye. Doesn't set foot in the hospital again. One moment, he's a constant presence—bright-eyed and capable, filling spaces I didn't realize were empty. And then, he's gone.

It shouldn't affect me. I made sure of that. I cut him deep enough to leave a scar, ensuring he'd never want to look at me again. It worked.

And yet—something lingers.

It's not regret. Not exactly. I don't regret what I did. I did what was necessary, what was right. I spared him from wasting his time on a man who would never be what he needed.

But the emptiness he leaves behind gnaws at me.

It's not about Affie. It never was. It's about something deeper, something unsettled that's been rotting inside me for years.

Maybe, if I were different. If I were better.

The thought roots itself in my mind, and with each passing month, it only grows stronger.

I work the way I always have—long hours, relentless shifts, barely pausing to eat or sleep. But the hookups grow fewer, the faceless bodies in my bed less frequent. The mindless distraction of sex loses its edge, and I start wondering—what if I stop running?

What if I try?

The thought unsettles me, but I can't shake it. It follows me into the operating room, into the silence of my apartment, into every moment where I'm left alone with my own mind.

Emmett calls on a Sunday, like usual.

His voice is the same—steady, familiar, carrying the same sense of complicity and connection that we've shared for as long as I can remember, even from a whole ocean away. We start with small talk, like we always do: Bella, his ridiculously expensive new car, some silly work story. But then, out of nowhere, he says it.

"I miss you, man."

I don't answer right away. I just stare at the floor, fingers pressing into the bridge of my nose.

"You know, your parents never stopped hoping you'd come home someday. I didn't either," he adds.

Home.

It's a word I haven't let myself think about in years. Mainly because it has a face, a name—a smile that's still my undoing.

I keep my voice even when I respond, something noncommittal, a quiet acknowledgment before changing the subject. But the damage is done. The thought is there now, unshakable.

That night, I sit in my apartment, staring at nothing, the silence pressing in.

I miss my friends, my parents. I miss them. And I miss my home.

But most of all, I know there's something unfinished, something I've spent years burying beneath work and sex and the constant, brutal exhaustion of keeping myself numb.

I think about my father's last words to me at the airport, the day I moved across the world, putting an ocean between me and the very reason I still breathe. The certainty in his voice still resonates, sharp and poignant.

"Running won't fix anything, son. You'll see. And once you do... remember, you can always come back."

I understand now.

It's time.

Time to go back.

And maybe—just maybe—time to fight for what I should have never let go.