Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer

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Where the Lines Overlap

All We Know

~~ Edward ~~

(Before It Gets Any Better) We're Headed For A Cliff

The coffee in my cup has gone lukewarm, but I barely notice. The cafeteria hums with low conversation, the steady clatter of cutlery against plates, and the occasional hiss from the espresso machine.

I lean back against my chair, letting my exhaustion settle in. Twenty minutes. Just enough time to pretend I have the luxury of a real break.

Then the energy in the room shifts.

Jasper walks in, accompanied by three people.

I recognize two of them from the introductory meeting—Mr. Owens, the head of HR, and Ms. Greystone, the Healthcare Assistant Manager. The third, a short young woman, stays close to Jasper, jotting things down as he speaks. His assistant, most likely. He glances at her notes and points something out, guiding her with the same quiet authority that once came effortlessly in other ways—ways that had nothing to do with work.

The four of them settle at a distant table, and Jasper remains standing, speaking to them, his smile effortless, his presence commanding. The woman, the assistant, makes a move to get up as if to run an errand in his place, but he shakes his head with a soft smile, motioning for her to sit. Then, he strides toward the cafeteria counter himself.

Even from here, I can see it.

That same gravitational pull he always had, stronger now, refined. The warmth that makes people gravitate toward him. Staff members acknowledge him as he passes, some offering quick greetings, others exchanging small pleasantries, and Jasper responds to each one with unforced kindness. The cashier lights up when he speaks to her, and the kitchen staff seems eager to serve him. It's the same effect he had when we were teenagers, only amplified. More assured. More dangerous.

I should look away.

Instead, I watch him order something, still smiling, still engaging effortlessly with those around him. They practically melt under his gentleness.

"Dr. Hale is stunning, isn't he?"

I blink, torn from my thoughts as Dr. Carter—Marla—settles into the seat across from me. She's holding a sandwich and a coffee, her expression keen, amused. I don't answer immediately, and she chuckles before continuing.

"He's also brilliant. And kind. Which almost feels unfair."

I exhale sharply, finally picking up my coffee again, more to give my hands something to do than because I want it.

"He seems well-liked."

"That's an understatement." She takes a sip of her drink, tilting her head slightly. "I doubt there's a single person in this hospital who doesn't find him utterly enchanting." She chuckles. "But like any great catch… he's taken. Very taken, I might add."

Something sharp twists in my chest, and I glance at her.

"How do you know that?"

Marla raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the question.

"It's hardly a secret." She gestures with her cup. "Besides, there's no missing that rock on his finger. And if you ever catch sight of the Irish god of a man who put it there—" she smirks, "—well, then it's impossible not to know."

My grip tightens around the cup. I keep my expression neutral.

"It's common knowledge, then?"

"Oh, yeah." She shrugs. "Hospital functions, fundraisers, formal events—Dr. Hale always brings his fiancé."

I don't react. At least, not outwardly.

And still, I don't look away from Jasper.

Marla hums, oblivious to the quiet storm tightening in my chest.

"They're endearing together. Dr. Hale is tall, but next to his skyscraper of a fiancé? He almost looks small. Delicate, even." She chuckles, shaking her head. "It's something to see."

I don't respond. I can't.

Jasper is out. Completely, undeniably out. Not just tolerated—acknowledged. Accepted. He's openly committed to Mark, and everyone here knows it.

That wasn't a privilege I had.

When we were together, Jasper had still been tangled in uncertainty, held back by doubt and fear, fighting himself every step of the way.

And now?

Now, he wears his love for Mark on his hand, in front of everyone, without hesitation.

A sharp thread of jealousy weaves through my ribs, fast and uninvited. Not just because he's moved on—but because he gets to.

Marla, still unaware of my turmoil, sighs and shakes her head with a small smile.

"But, you know, above all that? He enchants everyone. Women practically drool over him, and the men—" she gestures vaguely, "—they respect him. Admire him. And, in some cases, have a bit of a crush on him." She grins. "Can't blame them."

I force a chuckle. It feels hollow in my throat, but it's enough to keep her from noticing how unsteady I feel.

Because I understand exactly what she's talking about.

I know how brilliantly smart Jasper is—cunning, impossibly sharp, always three steps ahead before you've even moved. I know how generous he is. How loving. How his attention, once given, makes you feel like the only person in the world.

I know—because once, he was mine.

And I was stupid enough to let him go.

Jasper returns to the table carrying a full tray—coffee, snacks, enough for everyone. Mr. Owens stands to help him, but Jasper shakes his head with that same easy smile and sets everything down himself before taking his seat.

I should stop watching him. I should focus on my break, my coffee, literally anything else.

Instead, I turn to Marla.

"Who's the girl next to Dr. Hale?"

She follows my gaze and nods in recognition.

"Keira Miller. His assistant."

"I see."

Marla tilts her head.

"Why? You interested, Doctor Cullen?" she teases.

I chuckle, shaking my head.

"Not exactly. I'm gay."

Marla blinks.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," I say simply.

She exhales through her nose and leans back.

"Damn. That's disappointing."

I glance at her, amused.

"You have a crush on me, Doctor Carter?" I tease.

She shrugs, smirking.

"I mean— a little."

We laugh, the sound light, unweighted. It's the first time in weeks I've laughed at something that isn't bitter or forced.

Marla sips her coffee.

"Not that it matters, anyway. You wouldn't be short on options even if you were interested. Plenty of women around here have a thing for you." Then, with a small grin, she adds, "And some of the men too."

I smile politely.

"I'm focused on work right now."

It's the truth, but only half of it. The other half is much uglier.

I wish I could move on that easily. I wish I could push past it the way Jasper seems to—standing there, carrying on, smiling like he's weightless. But I'm not. Ever since that conversation two weeks ago, I haven't even been able to muster the energy for a simple hookup, let alone anything more.

I just want the pain to stop.

I just want to get numb again.

But with Jasper around, that feels impossible.

.

.

.

Emmett talks about the camping trip, his voice animated as he goes over the details, but I only half-listen. We're sitting at one of the picnic tables in his backyard, the same yard where everyone is gathered for his birthday, laughter and conversation filling the air.

My attention, however, is elsewhere.

Jasper stands across the lawn with Mark, talking to Jacob and Anna, and I find myself watching him.

He's always been good-looking, but now—now he's striking. There's an effortless strength to him, the kind that doesn't need to be obvious to be noticed. The short sleeves of his t-shirt reveal toned muscle—not bulky, just defined enough to catch the light as he moves.

His hair, trimmed into a classic taper with a fade at the nape, is sharp, clean—sexy. The golden hues in his light brown strands glint under the sun, making it look even shinier. It suits him. Everything about him suits him.

My gaze shifts before I can stop it.

Mark. He's incredibly tall—I remember Jasper once saying he was 6'9—but he's not bulky like Emmett. He's strapping, broad and powerful in a way that makes him stand out without trying.

There's something about his presence—commanding yet effortless, much like Jasper's. His haircut is the same as Jasper's, too, though his hair is straighter, a bit longer, always falling over his eyes. The color is striking—light copper—adding to that Irish look he has.

They fit so fucking well together it hurts.

Jealousy lodges itself in my chest—plain, undeniable. I don't want to look, but I can't help it.

Emmett's voice finally cuts through.

"How you holding up?"

I exhale, looking down. I don't answer, just shake my head. He knows. He doesn't need me to say it.

His large hand lands on my back, solid, grounding.

"You gotta find a way to move on, man." He nods toward Jasper and Mark. "Because they're together. Really together."

Right on cue, they move in sync, like it's second nature, mirroring each other without even realizing it. It's seamless. Effortless.

I glance at Emmett, and he gives me a knowing look.

"You know what I mean?"

I sigh.

"I know I have to move on." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, but I don't take it back. "But I can't. I've tried—how many times now? Twelve whole years." I huff a humorless laugh. "It never worked."

Emmett shakes his head.

"You never really tried."

I glance at him, brows pulling together, but he doesn't let me argue.

"You just shut it all down, fucked your pain away, and called it healing." His tone is firm, but not unkind. Just Emmett being Emmett—blunt, straight to the point. "You thought sex would fix a broken heart?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "Come on, man. You know better than that."

I look down at the beer bottle in my hands, fingers tightening around the glass.

Emmett sighs.

"The only way out is through. You have to face it. Accept it. Feel the loss, let the pain do its worst until it's done with you." His voice lowers slightly. "There's no other way around it."

I swallow hard. I hate that he's right.

His grip on my shoulder tightens.

"Going back to your whore routine isn't gonna help. You know it won't. You think spending your free time picking up twinks at clubs for meaningless hookups is gonna make this any easier?" He shakes his head. "It's just gonna make you feel worse."

I don't say anything.

Emmett exhales.

"I'm gonna go talk to Jacob about our trip. You should focus on that for now." He gives my shoulder a final pat. "One step at a time, and you'll get there."

Then he stands, hollering Jacob's name and gesturing for him to follow.

I lift my eyes just as Jacob turns toward Emmett—but Mark is gone. Only Jasper is still there.

And he's looking at me.

The moment stretches. He hesitates, then starts moving in my direction.

My chest tightens.

I understand what's happening before I can fully process it—he's coming to me.

I steel myself. I need to be cool. Calm. I need to control my reactions. I need—

God, he's so fucking handsome.

I catch the tentative smile he gives me, the one that deepens the dimples I love so much, and something inside me twists violently. I want to go to him, pull him in, kiss him senseless.

I shove the thought down, shove everything down, just as Jasper reaches the bench and sinks down beside me.

He tilts his bottle toward mine, and I tap mine against it, but my mind isn't on the silent toast. I can't stop watching him, memorizing the easy way he moves, the way his sheer presence still feels like home. It's disorienting, this effortless comfort we slip into, like the past hasn't torn us apart.

I need to say something—anything—to keep the moment going.

"Can you believe Emmett and Bella are married?" I ask, letting my disbelief color my voice. I latch onto the topic because it's safe, distant from the aching thing sitting between us.

Jasper chuckles, and the sound is so familiar it aches, twisting something deep in my chest.

"Remember how we used to tease them about each other? And they'd just brush us off like it was nothing?"

A faint smile tugs at my lips before I even realize it. The memory feels warm, something untouched by everything that came after.

"Yeah, we were relentless."

The laughter we share is brief but real. For a fleeting moment, it's just us, the past stripped of all its pain. It lingers in the air, filling the spaces I've been too afraid to cross. But then the silence stretches, and I know it's up to me to keep this from slipping away.

"How are the nerves? The wedding's only three months away, right?" I ask, making sure my tone is easy, casual—like the answer doesn't mean everything to me, like it doesn't have the power to cut me open.

Jasper shrugs.

"Not really nervous. Mark and I have been living together for over ten years. It's not like much is going to change—just making it official, finally."

I feel something crack inside me, but I nod like that answer doesn't sting. Like it doesn't remind me of what I lost, of what could have been.

Ten years. A whole decade.

The life I could have had with him is no longer just a dream lost—it's something real, something lived, just not with me. I should be used to the pain of it by now, but it never stops feeling fresh.

I force my gaze away from his face, looking down, needing something to anchor me. My eyes land on his wrist. The ink catches my attention—something I hadn't noticed before, but it feels familiar somehow.

It clicks almost instantly, before I have time to think too much about it. And the question slips past my restraints.

"Is it… a couple thing?" I ask hesitantly.

His brow furrows.

"What?"

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like I shouldn't have asked. But I need to know.

Gesturing toward the tattoo, I explain.

"I noticed Mark has a moon in the same spot, same style."

A subtle smile crosses his face, and it nearly undoes me.

"Yeah, it is a couple thing. We got them for our 10th anniversary."

It's a punch to the gut, the confirmation of just how long he's been gone from me. I swallow against the sharp pang in my throat and nod, forcing myself to sound unaffected.

"What do they mean?" I ask, careful to keep my tone light, as if I'm just making conversation.

But the truth is, I need to understand. I need to know what Mark means to him in ways I haven't let myself fully acknowledge.

Jasper meets my gaze, searching. I can feel the weight of it, like he's trying to decide if this is something he should share with me. My heart beats faster in the pause.

"You don't need to answer." I rush to add, before he can say anything. "I'm just curious, not trying to pry."

He shakes his head lightly.

"Not a problem," he says. "I have the sun for him, and he has the moon for me. It's tied to what we call each other, what we mean to each other."

I nod, but words fail me.

Mark is Jasper's sun. Jasper is Mark's moon. There's something so final about it, like a story already written, one I was never a part of.

I should let it go. I should move the conversation forward. Instead, I sit with it, letting the silence stretch too long, my mind unwilling to release the ache forming in my chest.

"What does yours mean?" Jasper asks softly, pulling me from my swirling thoughts.

I stiffen, caught off guard. He saw it? When?

"How do you know I have one?" I ask, my voice coming out lower than I intended.

He shrugs.

"I saw it, a couple of weeks ago. That day in the ER, when that kid with the fractured collarbone ripped your scrub shirt open."

Recognition clicks, and my breath catches along with a rush of unease. I hadn't realized he'd noticed.

"Oh, yeah… you were inspecting," I mumble, my throat suddenly dry.

He nods, and I take a moment to process, my thoughts racing. I realize I have two choices—I can brush this off, keep it vague, or I can be honest.

"What did you see?" I ask, my voice quieter now, wary.

"It all happened so fast," he admits. "I'm not sure, but… letters, maybe? Or musical notes? There was a sharp line, like an A or… it seemed like the roof of a house. I don't know."

I stare at him, momentarily stunned.

"Forgot how observant you can be sometimes." I thought out loud.

He saw more than I expected. One glance. That's all it took for him to piece together nearly everything.

I exhale, shaking my head slightly.

Honesty it is.

"You're right. They're letters stylized like music notes, and the sharp line represents the letter A. It's meant to mimic the shape of a roof." I sigh again, barely believing I'm saying this aloud. "One single glance, and you caught everything," I murmur the last part, more to myself than to him.

He tilts his head slightly.

"Not the meaning behind it," he says, his voice trailing off as if he knows he's touching something raw. It almost feels like a challenge. Like he knows there's something deeper.

And there is.

A lump rises in my throat, and suddenly, there's no hiding. He's looking at me in that way he used to, the way that always made me feel like he could see straight into me, past every wall, past every carefully laid defense.

For a second, I want to deflect. To laugh it off, to downplay it like I have with everyone else who's ever asked. But this is Jasper. There's never been any point in pretending with him.

"It's my home," I finally admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "My real home."

I wish I could just tell him—just show him the ink and let him see who my home really is.

But I'd scare him. How do you even reveal something like that?

The moment is too much, too close to everything I've tried to bury. His gaze—his understanding—it strips me down, makes me feel exposed in a way I haven't in years.

The silence between us thickens, charged with something I can't fully name. But then I see it—Jasper's reaction. His breath catches softly, his gaze flickers, and for just a moment, I can feel it.

He's unsettled, just like me.

It's subtle, barely there, but I recognize it instantly because it's the same way I feel.

Something shifts inside me, something small but undeniable.

Hope.

It's reckless, probably even foolish, but for the first time in years, I think—maybe not everything is lost. Maybe I haven't lost him completely.

Then, just like that, he looks away. His breath wavers as he stands, the connection snapping, and I feel the loss of it like something physical.

"I should find Mark," he says, trying to make it sound casual, but I can tell it's forced. "The girls abducted him a while ago, and he might need saving."

I offer a small smile, but I don't say anything. What could I say? That I don't want him to go? That I don't want this moment to end?

So I watch him go, the moment replaying in my mind. His reaction. The way he looked at me. The way, for just a second, it felt like the past wasn't entirely out of reach.

And even though I know better, even though I know I have no right to, I let the thought linger.

Maybe. Maybe not everything is completely lost.

As I sit there, staring after him, I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I will never stop wanting him.

.

.

.

Jasper stands in front of me, and I feel like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff with nothing but open air beneath me. The distance between us feels suffocating, like a physical force, pressing against my ribs, making it harder to breathe. Not because of space but because of everything left unsaid, everything slipping through my fingers. I don't have time to be careful, to measure my words. I only have time to be honest—because if I'm not, I'll lose him forever.

"I used to be your home too," I say, my voice raw. I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep going. "What we had—it was strong. The strongest thing I've ever had in my life."

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I know he remembers. I see it, just for a second, in the way his lips part like he might say something but stops himself. In the way his shoulders shift, tense. He knows I'm right. He knows what we had was real.

I step closer, barely breathing, my pulse pounding. This is it. My last chance. If I let this moment slip through my fingers, there won't be another.

"You told me you never stopped loving me," I push, my voice cracking on the words. "We can work this out. We can—"

"Edward." He shakes his head, and it's so fucking final that my stomach twists. "I've already told you, it's not like that."

But I can't stop now. Not when I'm this close.

I reach for him before I can think better of it, my hands cupping his face like I used to, the way that once meant something, just like I've been aching to do since the moment I saw him again. He lets me. His skin is warm under my palms, so familiar it hurts. My forehead falls against his, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing him to feel what I feel, to remember the way we once fit together, how we belonged to each other.

"Stop me," I whisper, giving him a way out, but also hoping—praying—that he won't take it.

He doesn't. I have my answer.

For a second, the world tilts, and I feel like maybe—just maybe—this isn't over. Maybe he still wants this. Wants me.

I kiss him.

And—fuck.

It's so soft… But then—

Nothing.

No response. No gravity drawing us back together.

I realize it too late. I realize it in the exact second Jasper places his hands on my shoulders and pushes me back, not roughly, not angrily—just… deliberately. The finality in his touch makes my stomach drop.

And then I see it. His eyes are clear, steady, and I know. I fucking know.

"I loved you more than I thought I ever could," he says, voice gentle, and it punches the air right out of my lungs.

Loved.

No. No, no, no.

"And that love… it's still with me somehow," he continues, his tone unwavering. "But it's not the same anymore. It's not the love that moves me, that drives my life."

A hollow ache swells in my chest.

"But you said—" I start, desperate to hold onto something, anything.

"I told you my love for you changed," he cuts me off firmly. "I told you it's something I keep with me, something I treasure because it was once important. But I also told you I had to let it go. And I did."

My throat tightens so fast it burns.

No. He's wrong. He has to be wrong.

I shake my head, my mind racing to find another way, another opening.

"No. I saw it… when we talked on Emmett's birthday. I saw it in your eyes. There was something there—you were as affected as I was."

"Yes, Edward," he admits, and for a split second, hope flares. "You still affect me. How could you not, what we had was real and it held a huge part of me for a while, but now… now that's just an echo… just ripples in a whole river…"

It hits me, then. The slow, suffocating realization that I'm losing.

It's slipping. He's slipping.

I've already lost.

"What I have with Mark," Jasper continues, his voice steady, sure, and the way he says his name—so effortlessly, so fucking certain—makes me sick. "deep, all-consuming, immeasurable—the kind that grounds me and also makes me fly, that fills every cell in my body, that is the air I breathe—that's the love that drives me. I love him with everything I have, everything I am. He is my whole heart. Even now, over eleven years after I first fell for him, I'm still in love with him as I was on that first day. I've been in love with him for all these years. I love him more than anyone I've ever loved. He is the love of my life."

The words land like blows, relentless, inescapable. My chest caves in on itself.

I don't realize I'm crying until the tears hit my lips, salt and humiliation and heartbreak. My hands tremble.

"It's him, Edward. I'm sorry. I can't go back to you. I love him. It'll always be him." He adds with a gentle tone, but might as well rip my heart out with his bare hands.

My legs feel unsteady. My lungs won't fill properly. I try to hold back the raging pain, to swallow it down, to keep my breathing even, to keep myself from breaking apart right in front of him, but I can't. A choked, fractured sob rips from my throat, my whole body shuddering with it as the agony consumes me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

And then Jasper is pulling me into a hug.

I shouldn't let him. I should pull away, hold myself together, but I can't, I don't have the strength, I'm shattering. I fold into him, my forehead pressing against his shoulder, trying—failing—to muffle my broken sobs. His hand moves over my back, steady, grounding.

"I had to try," I rasp, barely getting the words out. "I couldn't just give up again."

Jasper exhales, tightening his grip.

"I understand."

I don't want him to. I don't want his fucking kindness. It only makes this worse.

"Do you think…" My voice wavers, and I hate how weak I sound, but I need to ask. "It would have been us tomorrow? If I hadn't broken us?"

Jasper is silent for a moment, and then he steps back. When he meets my eyes, I kind of know what he's about to say.

"I think… you were right back then when you said we'd eventually break," he says. "Not for the reasons you thought, but because, no matter what, my feelings for Mark would've prevailed. They would've only grown stronger, just like they did."

My breath catches. It shouldn't hurt this much, not after everything, but it does.

"I'm sorry," Jasper says, voice softer now. "I just—I have to be honest, Edward. So everything is clear, once and for all. We can't keep carrying this with us."

My breath stutters. I nod, even though it feels like my whole body is shaking apart.

"I'm sorry for barging in on the eve of your wedding, but—"

"You just needed closure," Jasper finishes for me, understanding something that took me enduring all this pain to grasp. "Like I did when we talked right here, eight months ago."

Closure.

The word feels foreign. Impossible.

I should feel lighter. I should feel something lifting.

All I feel is the crushing weight of what's gone.

"I should go," I say, because there's nothing left to do, nothing left to fight for.

"Edward," Jasper reaches out, catching my wrist. His touch is light, careful. "You're not going away again, are you?"

I hesitate.

"I don't know," My voice is hoarse.

"You don't have to do that." His grip tightens briefly before loosening. "You should stay. You should be here."

I look at him, exhausted, wrecked.

"Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes," he says right away. "I want you in my life. You're still important to me, E. I want to fix this—our friendship."

Friendship.

It feels impossible right now, like trying to breathe underwater. But the way he looks at me—it's not pity. It's real.

I exhale, forcing my hands steady.

"I'll stay, then," I say, my voice quiet. "For you."

Jasper shakes his head, letting go of my wrist.

"Not for me. Stay for yourself. For your family."

I swallow hard, forcing a smile, bitter and broken, so he won't feel guilty or sorry for me.

"Take care, love."

And then I turn away, stepping through the back gate. The latch clicks behind me, final and inescapable.

And I know, even as I walk away, that closure doesn't change love. It just tells you where to leave it behind.

.

.

.

Laughter rumbles low in my chest before I can stop it. Emmett's joke is stupid—so fucking stupid—but it lands anyway, and Bella shakes her head like she can't believe she married this man.

"I can't take you anywhere," she mutters, sipping her drink, but there's the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

Emmett grins, unbothered, stretching an arm over the back of her chair.

"You knew what you were signing up for, babe."

She hums noncommittally but doesn't pull away when he leans in to kiss her temple.

For a moment, the lightness of it all settles over me, warm and easy. It's nice. Comfortable. I let myself sit in it, let the sound of clinking glasses and quiet chatter fill the spaces inside me that have felt cavernous for too long.

Then Emmett nudges Bella's side and jerks his chin toward the dance floor.

"Come on."

Bella raises a brow.

"You want to dance?"

"Hell yeah." He stands, pulling her up with him, grinning. "I've got moves, baby."

"That's debatable," she mutters, but she doesn't fight him. She lets him lead her toward the small clearing where other couples sway to the slow rhythm of the music.

I watch them go, something tight and distant curling in my chest. Then I sigh, exhaling as I settle back in my chair.

The reception stretches around me in a soft, golden haze. The morning light filters through the canopy of trees, turning everything into a watercolor painting—dreamlike, weightless. It fits. This whole thing—the serenity, the quiet joy woven through every movement, every conversation—it fits them.

I let my gaze drift over it all. The tables, still dotted with plates and half-empty glasses. The flowers, pale and elegant, catching the breeze. The hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter.

And then—

My eyes catch on something.

Someone.

A little ways off, beneath the shade of an old oak tree, Jasper stands on his toes, his arms looped around Mark's neck. Mark leans back against the bark, his hands resting at Jasper's waist, pulling him in. It's intimate without effort, a closeness that needs no announcement.

Jasper cranes his neck, and at the same time, Mark dips his head, meeting him halfway.

They kiss.

Even from here, I can see it. The way Jasper melts into him, the way Mark holds him like nothing in the world could make him let go.

I swallow hard.

There's nothing left for me here.

I push back my chair, leaving it slightly askew as I stand. I don't say goodbye. I just start walking. I walk back to my parents' house, counting every step, remembering the countless times I made this same journey when I was younger—after spending the day with Jasper in the very yard where he's now celebrating his life union with the man of his life.

Other memories flood in, but the most special ones, the ones that belonged only to him and me, linger.

Those memories lead me to one place, and thinking about it, I make my way back, rush into my car, and drive.

I let the memories take me completely as the road that once felt so familiar passes by. Once I get there, I don't halt. I kill the engine and stride.

The path comes back to me easily, like my body remembers what my mind tried to forget. The lake isn't far now, tucked away behind a grove of trees, hidden from the rest of the world.

It looks smaller than I remember. The water is still, reflecting the sky in a way that makes it seem endless.

I step closer. My breath comes faster. My chest feels tight, my ribs locked around something enormous, something I've kept buried for too long.

This place—all those moments—feel like another life.

I exhale sharply.

And then it happens.

It fucking happens.

The sob punches out of me, ugly and raw. My knees buckle, and I don't stop them. I collapse at the shoreline, hands digging into the earth, breath ripping out of me in shuddering, broken gasps.

Pain explodes inside me, clawing its way out.

I cry. I fucking cry. Not the quiet, restrained grief I've let slip through the cracks before. Not the aching weight in my chest I've learned to carry without making a sound. This is different. This is something else.

This is devastation.

I clutch my arms, as if I can hold myself together, but it's useless. I'm breaking—crumbling, shattering. I sob into the dirt, choking on it, my whole body shaking.

I don't stop it this time.

I don't push it down, don't fight it. I let it wreck me, let it tear through me with its teeth, claws, and fury.

And underneath it all—beneath the agony, the loss, the unbearable hollow Jasper left behind—there's something.

A sliver of quiet.

Something that holds me together, even as I fall apart.

Jasper's smile. Jasper's dimpled smile and wide grin.

I see his eyes shimmer, becoming slightly smaller as the corners of his lips curve up and his whole face lights up. I hear his chuckle... then his laugh... his rare shortles.

It's like a fractured ray of light seeping through cracks in a dark room...

Jasper's happiness doesn't make the hole in my chest disappear, but somehow, impossibly, it softens the sharp edges of it.

Emmett's words rush in like a gust of wind.

"The only way out is through. You have to face it. Accept it. Feel the loss, let the pain do its worst until it's done with you. There's no other way around it."

And for the first time, I understand.

So I let the grief take me. I let it have me, let it devour me whole.

And I cry, truly cry, for everything I had, everything I could have had, and threw away... for everything I lost.

For losing the love of my life.

.

.

.

Eight years.

That's how long it's been.

Sometimes it feels like another lifetime. Other times, like I could blink and be right back there, standing at the edge of a morning wedding, watching Jasper kiss the love of his life.

But a lot can change in eight years.

Anyone looking at me now—watching the way I move through Jasper and Mark's orbit so easily, slipping into their conversations, sharing inside jokes, rolling my eyes when they get insufferable—would think I finally got over him.

And maybe, in some ways, I have.

It doesn't hurt anymore. It hasn't for a long time.

I don't wake up with that hollow ache in my chest. I don't look at him and feel like I'm drowning in everything I lost. I don't wish for something different, something impossible.

I've moved on.

And yet.

I'm still single.

What does that say about me?

That I just haven't found the right person?

That's what I tell myself. That's what I let other people believe. It's easier that way.

But the truth is—the right person is taken.

Jasper is the love of my life. Always has been. Always will be.

It's not a wound anymore, not something that festers or aches. It just is. A fact of my existence, like the color of my eyes or the way I take my coffee. I know how to live with it now. I know how to be happy despite it.

I date occasionally, but nothing sticks. I haven't figured out if that's because I don't want it to or because it just doesn't.

I'm actually seeing someone now—Nate, one of the ER nurses. It's been almost three weeks. We're taking it slow. It's not serious yet.

Speaking of Nate—

The door to the on-call room swings open with enough force to smack against the wall, and I barely have time to sit up before he's in my face.

"Trauma just came in," he says, a little out of breath. "Bad wreck on the road to Seattle—truck flipped, hit three other cars. We're getting two of them. One's unconscious."

Adrenaline kicks in, sharpening the edges of my thoughts.

"You called Pryia and Lucas?"

"Lucas is on his way. Pryia's in surgery, said she'll be down in twenty."

I'm already moving, pushing past him and into the hallway. The fluorescent lights feel too bright, too sterile, but they ground me.

Nate follows at my heels, rattling off details.

"Male, forty-two. Paramedics couldn't find ID—briefcase was on the crushed side. He was the one who called 911, but he blacked out before they pulled him out."

I nod, focused.

"Vitals? External injuries?"

"Stable. No apparent major trauma except for a deep forehead laceration. Windshield was cracked—"

"Possible TBI," I murmur, considering.

"Probably."

I set my jaw, picking up my pace.

"Dude's huge. EMS had trouble getting him on the stretcher right," Nate adds, like it's just another detail.

My mind blanks. My stomach twists. Something in me locks up.

I have a friend who wouldn't fit a stretcher right. Emmett.

I break into a run.

Trauma One is a blur of motion—nurses moving, equipment everywhere, the steady hum of a monitor. And in the center of it all, on the gurney, unconscious—him.

My heart plummets.

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A/N: TBI - Traumatic Brain Injury; EMS - Emergency Medical Services.