Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer
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Where the Lines Overlap
Final Season - We are Broken
(You Are) The Only Exception
Mark's side of the bed still smelled like him.
I had buried my face in his pillow, inhaling deep, as if I could hold onto something—some proof, some remnant of him beyond what lived inside me. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
The suit Rosalie left on the bed was already on me, the tie knotted with shaking hands, the jacket fitted over a body that felt like it wasn't mine. I had done everything I was supposed to. I had showered. I had dressed. I had gotten ready to leave.
But I couldn't move.
My body curled in on itself, my knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight, as if making myself smaller would lessen the ache. It didn't. Nothing could. My chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, my ribs barely able to contain the pressure, the sheer force of it all. My face was wet, but I barely noticed. The tears didn't stop. I didn't stop.
I didn't hear the door open.
I only realized I wasn't alone when the mattress dipped behind me. The shift was small, careful, but it pulled me from the edge just enough to make me aware of my own breathing, how wrecked it sounded in the silence. I still didn't lift my head, didn't turn to see who it was. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
A hand settled on my shoulder, firm and grounding. It gripped, a steady squeeze meant to comfort, to remind me that someone was here, that I wasn't alone. But I didn't feel comforted. I felt like I was coming apart. Like every second that passed pushed me further into a place I didn't know how to escape from.
Pain, raw and unending.
Despair, swallowing everything in its path.
Emptiness, stretching inside me where Mark had been.
Loss, a weight pressing against my ribs, squeezing until I could barely breathe.
Agonizing grief.
I squeezed my eyes shut against it, but there was nowhere to hide.
The mattress shifted again.
Lighter this time, like whoever was there was standing up. A rush of air replaced the warmth that had been beside me, and I curled deeper, folding in on myself until it felt like I could disappear into the space between breaths. My eyes squeezed shut, my arms wound tighter, as if I could hold myself together while the pain gnawed at my insides, eating away at whatever was left.
Then—warmth.
The hand that had been on my shoulder was suddenly at my face, cupping the side of it, the heat of it spreading through the chill that had settled into my skin. It was careful, not forcing me to move, not pushing me into anything, just there. Steady. Solid. A presence in the crushing absence.
And somehow—somehow—it soothed.
Not enough to stop the ache, not enough to lift the grief, but enough to let me breathe through it. To let me pry my eyes open against the weight of it all.
I saw gray first.
Unfocused, blurred through the dampness on my lashes, but familiar in a way that sent something splintering through me. I blinked, and the details sharpened. Specks of blue, catching the dim morning light.
Edward.
His face hovered above me, his expression open, unguarded in a way I hadn't seen in years. His brows drawn, his lips parted just slightly, but it was his eyes—his eyes, soft and searching, tender in a way I didn't deserve.
He was worried.
Sad.
Not just sad. Saddened by me. By this. By my grief, my pain, my loss.
I was still crying. I knew I was, could feel the damp trail of it down my face, could taste the salt on my lips. But for the first time since yesterday—since the second the words 'He's gone' had been spoken—there was something other than darkness pressing in on me. It wasn't much. Just a sliver. Just the faintest shift in the weight crushing my ribs. But it was there.
Edward sighed.
His own eyes shimmered, his lashes heavy with the tears he hadn't yet let fall. Then, finally, one broke free, trailing a slow, glistening path down his cheek.
Before I even realized I was moving, my hand lifted.
My thumb brushed across his skin, catching the tear before it could reach his jaw. A breath wavered out of me, barely audible, but the words slipped through it anyway.
"Don't cry."
Edward's breath caught in his throat, a sharp intake of air that made his chest hitch. It wasn't loud, but it was there—something unspoken pressing down on him.
His lips parted, but no words came. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like the air had suddenly become harder to breathe. Then, silently, the tears started falling.
I watched them, how they slipped down his cheeks, almost undisturbed by his expression, falling in soft tracks as if he was swallowing them before they could break free. His throat moved, every swallow tight, the effort obvious.
And yet, despite everything—his sadness, the quiet ache in the space between us—there was something about it that didn't suffocate me. Something I couldn't name. The grief was still there, raw and relentless, but for the first time since it happened, it wasn't pressing down with the same unbearable weight.
"I hate to see your heart break," Edward's voice cracked through the silence, rough and unsteady. His exhale was heavy, almost a sigh, and then he added, "If I could, I would take your place. I'd feel your pain for you."
The words settled in my chest, an ache beneath my ribs.
But no one could take this from me. No one could carry the grief except me. It wasn't just pain—it was Mark. It was every piece of him that was suddenly gone, every breath, every smile, every unspoken word that would never come again.
And yet, somehow, my breathing steadied. Just a little. Not enough to ease the sorrow clawing at my insides, but enough to keep me from unraveling completely.
"I can't take any more pain, Edward," I whispered, my voice thin and raw. "Please… don't hurt for me. Seeing you hurt—" My throat tightened. "It just makes it worse."
Edward's throat worked, swallowing back whatever words or tears he couldn't let out. He raised a hand toward his face, hesitant, as though he wasn't sure if he should touch himself, if acknowledging his own grief would make mine worse. But before his fingers could reach his cheek, I brushed them away. My hands found his face instead, my thumbs wiping the tears from his skin with a tenderness I didn't fully understand.
His breath hitched again.
"I should be the one drying your tears," he murmured.
I let out a quiet, shaky breath.
"If you want me to bear it all, you can't be sad, Edward. I can't take any more sadness than my own."
He nodded, slow, reluctant, but understanding. His hand lifted again—this time toward me—but before he could touch my face, I caught his wrist. His fingers trembled in the air, and for a moment, neither of us spoke. Then I lowered my gaze.
"Don't." My voice was barely a whisper. I closed my eyes briefly, forcing myself to breathe, then exhaled, the words slipping out on a sigh. "I need to feel it."
Silence settled between us. Heavy. Final. But I wasn't finished.
"Mark told me once… that the only way to overcome pain is to feel it fully." My voice shook, but I pressed on. "I have to feel it, Edward. All of it."
I swallowed hard, finally meeting his gaze again. His eyes held mine, deep and sorrowful, and for a fleeting second, something in them steadied me. I didn't know what it was. I didn't want to know.
"I'll bear it," I said, my breath unsteady. "Because Mark showed me how. Because he taught me how to be strong."
The grief sat heavy in my chest, suffocating, unrelenting. But I wasn't going to break.
Not yet.
Not when I still had them.
"The love I have for him"—the words caught in my throat—"is enormous. And the pain is just as big. It's never going to go away. Not really. Not completely."
I swallowed, forcing myself to say it.
"But I'll learn to live with it. I'll be okay. Eventually."
The words didn't feel entirely true, but I needed to believe them.
"For the kids," I added, because that, at least, was something I could hold onto.
Edward seemed to accept my reasoning, though something in his expression lingered—an emotion I couldn't name. Our gazes held, unbroken, and for once, I didn't avoid it. I didn't try to decipher it either. It simply was.
His fingers hesitated before closing over mine, a slow, careful touch, as if he was giving me time to pull away. I didn't. We both looked down at our hands, his resting over mine, and I thought, vaguely, that it felt like he was transferring some of his warmth to me. It wasn't enough to take the pain away—nothing ever could—but it steadied something in me. Just enough.
His voice was almost a whisper when he finally spoke.
"Will you let me take care of you?"
I lifted my gaze, meeting his, and he held it. There was nothing pressing in his expression, nothing demanding—just quiet, unwavering sincerity.
I just want to make sure you have the support you need," he said, his voice low but steady. "That's all. No hidden intentions. No lines crossed."
There was something tender in his eyes, something steady and sure. It tightened around my heart in a way I didn't understand. I tried to swallow against it, but the pressure rose too fast, catching in my throat before I could stop it. The sob broke free before I could hold it back.
Edward didn't react to it, didn't try to hush me. He just stayed there, his hand still over mine, his presence unwavering.
"I'm here," he murmured. "You can lean on me."
A deep breath. A soft exhale. Then, even quieter, as if making sure I really heard him—
"Just lean on me," he added.
And I did. Because I was breaking. Because the grief was too much. Because I couldn't fight the need for something to hold onto.
.
.
.
The garden was quiet. Distant voices drifted from the house, muffled by walls and space, but out here, it was just the wind and the rustle of leaves. The air was cool against my skin, not biting, just enough to remind me that I was still here, that time hadn't stopped, no matter how much it felt like it should have.
I hadn't planned to think about the funeral, but the memory surfaced anyway.
The moment Mark's coffin started to descend, the shift in the air, the suffocating finality of it—I had felt it like a blow to the chest. Noah had been wrapped around me, small arms locked tight around my neck, his body curled so closely against mine it was like he was trying to disappear into me. Leighton had been at my side, her little fingers gripping my waist, my arm draped over her small shoulders. They had pressed themselves against me, as if holding on for dear life, and I had nearly broken under the weight of it.
I had been on the edge, standing at the precipice of something I didn't know how to survive. Then suddenly—his hand.
Edward's hand.
It settled at the back of my neck, warm and steady. His fingers wrapped softly—not gripping, just there. A quiet anchor, as if telling me without words: I see you. I won't let you fall.
I exhaled, my breath shaky as I stood there in the garden, the weight of that moment settling deeper now that I had the space to understand it.
Edward had noticed.
He had been paying such close attention that he had seen it in me before I had fully registered it myself—the way I had been about to break, the way I had needed something, someone, to stop me from unraveling completely.
And then, when it was done—when the coffin was lowered into the ground—he had taken Noah from my arms without hesitation. Noah had gone to him easily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Leighton had simply raised her arms, wordless, and Edward had picked her up without blinking, holding them both as they buried themselves against him. I had watched them for a beat—Edward standing there, holding my children as if he had been doing it forever—and for a brief, fragile moment, I had been able to step back.
To say goodbye.
I had taken a breath. Just one. Just enough.
Then I had bent down, gathered a handful of earth, let it slip from my fingers. The sound had been too much, too final. My chest had tightened, my vision had blurred. But I had reached into the flowers and taken the yellow sunflower I had brought for him. For Mark.
And I had let it fall.
The memory ached. It pressed down on me, deep and unrelenting. I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly, grounding myself in the cold air, the quiet. But it was still there, raw and unshakable, sitting heavy in my chest.
I swallowed hard.
I wasn't ready to go back inside. Not yet.
I heard Rosalie before I saw her.
Her voice cut softly through the quiet.
"Do you need anything?"
I blinked, pulling myself back to the present, and turned to find her walking toward me. Her expression was gentle, steady—familiar in the way only a sibling's could be.
She stopped beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her presence.
"Did you eat at all?"
I shook my head.
"I'm not hungry."
She sighed, but I spoke before she could press further.
"Don't worry. I know I need to. I will. Just… not now."
Rosalie didn't argue. She just studied me for a moment, then—without a word—wrapped her arms around me.
I let out a slow breath and leaned into her, letting her hold me, letting her care for me in the way only she could. There was nothing to say. We had never needed words to understand each other.
For a while, there was only silence.
When she finally pulled back, she kept her hands on my arms, grounding me before she spoke.
"I want to take the kids with me for a bit."
I frowned.
"You don't have to—"
"I'm not asking," she said, her voice firm but kind. "I'm telling you."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she shook her head.
"It'll be good for them. And for you. You need a moment, Jasper. They don't need to see you like this."
I exhaled, my resistance wavering.
"They'll be okay," she assured me, softer now. "Let me do this."
She wasn't wrong.
I ran a hand down my face and finally nodded.
"Alright."
Her grip on my arms tightened for a brief second—silent acknowledgment, silent reassurance.
Then, without another word, she turned and walked back inside.
And I stayed in the quiet.
I only went back inside once it was just the family left.
The house felt heavy, filled with the kind of silence that wasn't really silence. Muted voices carried from downstairs, the clink of dishes, the occasional soft laughter—people trying to find normalcy in the wreckage.
I didn't stop. I didn't acknowledge anyone. I just made my way up the stairs, each step dragging, my body feeling too weighted down, like I was moving through something thick and suffocating.
I just needed to lie down.
Mark's side of the bed. His pillow. His scent still clinging to the fabric. That was all I wanted right now—to sink into something that still felt like him, still felt real, while I could.
But then, just before I reached my room, I heard them.
Noah's door was slightly ajar, a warm glow slipping through the crack, along with the quiet murmur of voices. I slowed, not meaning to eavesdrop, but unable to move past it.
Noah. And Edward.
I leaned against the wall beside the door, just listening.
"Uncle Eddy… why did they put Papa in that box?"
My breath caught.
Edward's voice came steady, quiet.
"The coffin keeps him safe, bud."
"But then why did they put the box in the ground?"
"To keep it safe too."
A pause. Then, softer—
"And the flowers?"
"They're a way for us to show Papa we love him."
Another pause.
"And the dirt?"
Edward exhaled slowly.
"That's how we say goodbye."
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my head back against the wall. The weight of it settled over me—Noah's voice so small, so confused, trying to make sense of something he never should've had to.
Then, his next question, hesitant but certain.
"Where did Papa really go?"
I held my breath.
Edward was quiet for a beat.
"Noah, look up. What do you see?" He asked gently.
"The stars," Noah answered. "But not the real ones. Just the ones Daddy and Papa put there."
"And where are the real ones?"
"In the sky."
Edward hummed softly.
"That's where Papa is now."
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening.
Edward wasn't making empty promises. He wasn't telling Noah what to believe, wasn't forcing an answer on him. He was giving him something to hold onto—something beautiful.
"Did you know that inside our bodies, we all have a little bit of stardust?" Edward's voice was softer now, thoughtful. "Every single person. And one day, when the sky calls us back, we have to leave our bodies behind so we can return to the stars and become a new one."
Noah was quiet for a moment.
"Is Papa a star now?" he whispered, his voice soft with wonder.
"Yes," Edward said. "A big, bright, shiny one."
Noah hesitated.
"Will I see him again?"
Edward didn't rush his answer. He never did.
"Once it's dark enough outside, we can go look for him together, if you'd like."
A beat, then Noah's quiet, "Yeah. I'd like that."
Edward chuckled softly.
"Good. And you know, you can also see Papa in your dreams. He won't always be able to visit, but when he does, you should enjoy it, okay?"
Something in my chest caved in.
I pressed my fingers against my lips, holding my breath, trying to steady myself.
Edward—
I didn't know what to do with him. With this. With the way he saw the cracks forming before I even felt them. With the way he stepped in, so seamlessly, filling the spaces Mark had left behind.
I stepped closer, drawn toward them just as Noah wrapped his arms around Edward's neck, clinging tightly.
"I love you, Uncle Eddy," he murmured.
Edward's eyes slipped shut, his hold tightening around Noah, his voice soft and sure.
"I love you too, bud."
I swallowed against the lump in my throat, watching them, feeling something I couldn't name press in at the edges of my grief.
Edward's eyes opened.
They met mine, serious and heavy, layered with something deep—understanding, emotion, something that made my chest tighten.
It wasn't pity. It wasn't sorrow. It was something that told me he knew. He saw everything.
And God, it made my heart ache.
Before I could look away, Noah turned and spotted me. His face lit up, and he immediately lifted his arms. I caught him as he launched himself at me, his little hands curling into my shirt.
"Daddy, Papa is a star now," he told me earnestly, his voice still carrying that touch of wonder, the magic of belief. "Uncle Eddy and I are gonna go find him tonight."
I forced a smile, my throat thick.
"Can I come too?"
"Of course, Daddy," Noah said, like it was obvious. "You'll find Papa fast. You know him best."
Something in my chest pulled tight.
I blinked, caught off guard.
"I know Papa best?"
Noah nodded, certainty unwavering.
"Papa told me when I asked."
I looked up, locking eyes with Edward. His gaze softened just slightly, something unreadable in it.
I swallowed, shifting Noah against my hip.
"Where's Leighton?"
Edward answered smoothly, like he'd expected the question.
"She fell asleep a little while ago when we were watching cartoons. She's in her room."
I exhaled, nodding.
"Hey, bolt," I said, focusing back on Noah, "Auntie Rosie wants to take you and Leigh to her house for a couple of days. What do you think?"
Noah tilted his head, considering.
"I wanna play with Tisha," he admitted, then hesitated. "But I don't wanna leave you alone."
Something sharp twisted in my chest, but before I could say anything, Edward spoke.
"You won't be leaving him alone, Noah," he said. "I'll take care of Daddy."
Noah turned to him, blinking.
"Like Papa?"
I stiffened, my heart slamming into my ribs.
Edward's face shifted, and I saw the exact moment he registered the weight of the question, the way he—like me—felt its impact.
"No," Edward said quickly, voice steady but gentle. "Not like Papa. I'll just stay with Daddy so he's not alone. That's all."
I exhaled slowly, my mind catching up to what Edward had just declared—like it was already decided.
It should've surprised me. Maybe, for a moment, it did. But the realization settled quickly. The truth was, this was exactly the kind of decision Edward would make, without hesitation, without needing permission.
And right now, I couldn't bring myself to argue.
Edward reached for Noah, smoothly pulling him from my arms.
"Come on, bud. Daddy's tired—he needs to take a nap. Let's go check on the grandmas, yeah?"
Noah reached back for me, and I leaned in as he pressed a small kiss to my cheek.
"If you see Papa in your dream," he whispered, "tell him to meet me in mine."
I barely managed to swallow around the lump in my throat.
"I will."
Edward turned toward the hallway, Noah still tucked against his side. Just before he stepped out, he glanced back at me.
A silent understanding passed between us.
We'd talk later.
.
.
.
I sat at the kitchen counter, my fork idly pushing food around my plate, dragging a piece of scrambled egg through the untouched toast crumbs before nudging it back.
The plate was full. It had been for a while.
My stomach felt as empty as it had when I sat down.
The silence in the kitchen wasn't exactly heavy, but it wasn't comfortable either. It wasn't the kind of quiet Mark and I used to share when we sat right here, shoulders touching, hands occasionally stealing pieces of each other's food while we talked about nothing and everything at the same time.
We never ate at the table in the early years.
We could've. There was nothing stopping us. But the counter was cozier, closer, and that was all the excuse we needed.
A memory surfaced, unprompted, warm in a way that almost tricked me into feeling its echo in my chest.
Mark, next to me, nudging my arm with his elbow, a piece of pancake already halfway to his mouth.
"You ever think about how eggs are just bird periods?" he had asked, completely casual, like he wasn't about to ruin breakfast.
I had frozen mid-bite. Then, very slowly, set my fork down.
Mark had burst out laughing, nearly choking on his own food, shaking his head with that familiar glint in his eyes—like he had been waiting for my reaction, like it had been worth it.
"Jesus Christ," I had muttered, grimacing, pushing my plate an inch away.
Mark had snorted.
"What? It's true."
"And completely unnecessary."
"Life's about fun facts, Moony."
I had given him a long, unimpressed look, but he had only grinned, chewing happily, utterly pleased with himself.
Somehow, I had still let him kiss me after that.
Now, sitting in the kitchen again, I barely noticed the small chuckle that escaped me, the briefest touch of something lighter pushing through the thick fog in my head.
"Good memory?"
Edward's voice, gentle and almost hesitant, pulled me back. There was a softness in it—something lighter, something that made me glance up.
I blinked, refocusing, finding him across from me. He was watching me, quiet, waiting, his expression open. A faint, fleeting smile curved his lips. Not big, not overdone—just quiet and genuine. Like he was simply… glad to see me laughing, even if it was barely anything at all.
I exhaled, my grip flexing around the fork. The warmth of the memory lingered, still present even through the exhaustion.
"Mark," I said, shaking my head. "He used to say the most absurd things just to get a reaction out of me."
Edward's lips pressed together, his eyes softening slightly, as if he could see it too.
"What always stood out to me was his energy," he said after a moment. "Warm. He had this way of making the room feel lighter, brighter, without even trying."
I looked at him, my stomach tightening at the accuracy of it.
My fingers toyed with the fork as the words left me, quiet, almost thoughtless.
"That's why I called him Sunny," I murmured.
Edward stayed still.
"That's why he was my sun." My thumb grazed my wrist absently, feeling the ink beneath my skin. "That's why I got this."
And just like that, the room shrank around me.
The warmth evaporated.
The memory, once a gentle ache, turned sharp, pressing in, making space for the unbearable truth beneath it.
I would never have that again.
Silence settled between us. Not tense, not strained—just there.
Then Edward moved.
He stood and crossed the small space between us, his steps unhurried, deliberate, before leaning against the counter beside me. Not quite facing me, but close. Close enough that if I shifted just slightly, I'd brush against him.
Something tugged at me, deep and instinctive. Not discomfort, not exactly. But not ease either.
It was enough that my body reacted before I even registered it. A subtle shift, the smallest retreat—a fraction of an inch back, as if carving out a sliver of space between us.
Edward either didn't notice or chose not to acknowledge it.
I had to look up.
He wasn't that much taller than me, but the angle was enough to make me feel it, to bring an odd sense of vulnerability into something that already felt too raw.
And yet—
There was familiarity in it.
It wasn't because I was used to this with Mark. Oddly, this wasn't about Mark at all.
I almost didn't want to admit it—and in reality, I wasn't fully—It was simply because, before Mark—
I had once looked up at Edward like this.
Edward exhaled.
"Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable?" His voice was careful, deliberate, like he was choosing every word. Then, after a beat, quieter—almost hesitant—he added, "Even if it's me not being here right now."
I blinked.
Something in me snagged on that.
The thought hadn't even crossed my mind, not until he said it. But now that he had, it unsettled something, turned my focus inward in a way I wasn't ready for. Had I made him think I didn't want him here? Had I acted like I did?
I tried to retrace, to gauge my own reactions, but my mind was a mess, blurred at the edges, too drained to hold onto any single thought for long. Maybe I had been quieter than I realized. Maybe the space I'd put between us had felt bigger to him than it did to me.
But then the question shifted—became something else entirely.
Did I want him here?
The answer came faster than I expected.
Yes.
That was easy enough to recognize, but it left me staring at something else, something harder to define.
Why?
Before I could get anywhere close to an answer, Edward spoke again, even softer.
"If I'm making you uncomfortable, just say the word. I don't want to—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "I don't want to make this harder for you."
Something about the way he said it—the weight behind it—hit somewhere deeper than I wanted it to.
I just stared at him.
Too long, probably. Longer than was necessary for an answer. But the answer didn't come right away, and I wasn't sure why.
I should have known. Should have been able to say it without hesitation. But something about the question—about what it implied—had caught me off guard, made me hesitate in a way I couldn't quite place.
Edward held my gaze for a beat before he nodded, quiet, resigned. His throat bobbed, his lips parting slightly like there was something else he wanted to say but wasn't sure if he should. Then, with a sigh, he pushed away from the counter.
"Okay. I'll leave you alone. But if you need anything—" he murmured.
I moved before I thought about it. Before he could pull away completely.
My fingers closed around his wrist, light but certain. His skin was warm, the pulse beneath it steady.
"Stay."
His eyes flicked to mine, searching.
I swallowed.
"I want you to stay."
Edward stared at me, the same held-back emotion in his eyes that I still couldn't quite decipher.
I tried to hold his gaze, but I couldn't. My eyes dropped to my plate, the food I hadn't touched, the fork I had only used to push things around.
Edward's voice was soft.
"I can make you something else, if you want."
I shook my head.
"I can't eat."
"You haven't had anything all day."
"I can't." My voice was gentle but firm, cutting him off before he could insist. But even as I said it, something in me was already giving way.
The words kept coming, slipping out too fast, too unfiltered, like a dam cracking under pressure.
"My throat is closed. It's sore. I can hardly breathe, let alone eat."
Edward's brow furrowed, his eyes scanning my face. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me but wasn't sure if he should.
"Jasper—" His voice was quiet, careful, meant to ground me, but it only made my chest constrict further.
I shook my head, a sharp, jerky movement. I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to breathe, to calm down. But I couldn't.
He shifted, leaning in slightly, his concern palpable.
"Hey," he tried again, softer this time. "You don't have to force yourself, okay? Just—"
I swallowed, but it didn't help. The tightness in my chest only worsened, pressing in, suffocating. My hands clenched against my lap.
"I just—" I hesitated, my voice fraying. The words tangled with the thoughts spinning in my head, thoughts I couldn't stop, thoughts I couldn't escape.
I didn't want to talk about this. I didn't want to feel this.
But it was too late.
"I can't," I blurted, the words breaking free before I could hold them back. "I can't do this. It's too hard. It hurts too much. I can't—" My breath hitched. "I can't do it without him."
The confession cracked something open inside me, and suddenly I couldn't stop.
"I don't want to. I can't. I can't do it without him. It's hurting. It's—" A sob caught in my throat, raw and shattering. "I can't bear it."
The thoughts spiraled tighter, pulling, dragging, until suddenly, I wasn't sure I could breathe at all.
And then—
Arms around me. Solid. Warm. Holding.
I jolted, my breath stalling in my chest.
I hadn't seen him move. I hadn't even realized I was standing. But somehow, I was—somehow, I was in his arms before I could even register what was happening, pulled against him, one of his hands cradling the back of my head.
I froze—not in discomfort, not even in surprise, really, but in something else. A quiet, breathless shock at how fast it had happened, how I hadn't seen it coming, at how instinctive it was, how… easy.
A shudder wracked through me, and then the sob broke free. And I didn't fight it.
I exhaled, sinking into it.
I just let myself cry.
And again… I let him hold me together.
.
.
.
I didn't know how long I cried that night. I didn't know when—or if—I slept. Time slipped through my fingers, blurred and meaningless, swallowed whole by the hollow ache inside me.
I couldn't remember the following days. Not really.
Flashes of them came back in fragments, scattered pieces that didn't quite fit together.
Edward guiding me to the bathroom, his hands firm but careful as he put me under the shower. The water was cold at first, shocking against my skin, my clothes sticking to me, heavy. But I didn't move. Neither did he.
Edward pressing a towel to my hair, his touch gentle, but I couldn't hold myself up. I folded in on myself, sobbing, my whole body shaking under the pressure of it.
Edward forcing a glass of water into my hands, his voice low but insistent. "Drink." The rim pressed against my lips, cool and solid, something tangible in the haze. He wouldn't let me refuse. Wouldn't let me drift too far.
The middle of the night. The middle of the dark. Edward sitting at the foot of the bed, unmoving, silent. His presence there, the only thing I was aware of as my heavy eyes drifted shut again.
Waking up to the sound of my own sobs, my chest heaving before I could even open my eyes. And Edward—always Edward—already reaching for me, already pulling me close, as if he had been waiting for it. As if he knew.
Waking up screaming. Mark's name ripping from my throat, raw, desperate, like I was reliving it all over again. My body jerking upright, my hands clawing at the sheets—until Edward caught me. His arms around me before I could break apart completely.
And the pain.
God, the pain.
Crushing. Endless.
There were moments—dark, quiet moments—where I wished it would just end. Where I thought I couldn't do it anymore.
But I never said it. Never let the words form.
Because of the kids.
Because I had to come back to them.
And because…
Because of Edward.
Because of the hurt buried deep in his eyes, held back, restrained, but there. I saw it. I felt it.
And I felt guilty.
So, so guilty.
For hurting him. For making him watch me like this. For being something he had to hold together.
But at the same time, it was one more reason to endure.
One more reason to keep going.
I couldn't bring myself to hurt him more than I already had.
Then, one day—though I wasn't sure when—I opened my eyes.
I blinked.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I was aware. Not fully. Not completely. But enough.
It was dawn. The soft gray light seeped through the curtains, painting the room in muted shades of blue and silver. My bed—Mark's side. I was on Mark's side. I wasn't sure when I had moved there.
I was clean. My regular pajamas clung to my skin, familiar and soft. My chest ached, sore from crying, my throat dry, my face damp. I swallowed, but it didn't do much.
I took a deep breath.
The pain was there. Still sharp, still unrelenting. But it wasn't swallowing me whole. It lingered, heavy but distant, pushed just a little to the background.
My whole body was sore, a dull, throbbing ache weighing me down. My head pounded subtly, like an aftershock of something far worse. But I was present again. Aware of myself.
Slowly, with some effort, I propped myself up on my elbows, my muscles protesting the movement. My gaze swept across the room, searching, grounding.
And then—
Edward.
My eyes landed on him.
Different clothes. A grown stubble shadowing his jaw.
Bare feet.
For some reason, that was what caught my attention first. The way his bare feet rested against the hardwood, one slightly angled, relaxed. Like he had stopped thinking about holding himself together for just long enough to let exhaustion take him.
He was sleeping.
His head tilted slightly to the side, his mouth barely parted, his shoulders slumped in a way that made it clear he hadn't meant to fall asleep there. He was sitting in the armchair near the balcony doors, too close to the edge of the seat, like he had been watching me before sleep finally claimed him.
He looked drained. Completely, utterly drained.
Something cracked deep in my chest.
I sighed, took another deep breath, and sat up.
Something gnawed at me—not panic, not urgency, just a quiet, persistent need. I needed to know what day it was. How long it had been. How much time I had lost.
I turned toward the bedside table, searching for my phone. It wasn't there.
I frowned, glancing around, but my eyes didn't catch any sign of it.
Slowly, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood. My muscles ached in protest, my joints stiff from disuse, but I moved anyway, almost instinctively, my feet carrying me toward Edward.
A soft buzz broke the silence.
I stilled.
The sound had come from the floor. I glanced down. A phone—certainly Edward's—rested just beside the armchair, as if it had slipped from his hand.
I bent down, picking it up with the sole intention of placing it back on his side. But then—
The name on the screen caught my attention.
Nate.
Something in my chest tightened.
I hadn't meant to look. But it was impossible not to see the pop-up of the message.
"Just forget it. We're done."
A slow, deliberate pulse thudded against my ribs.
I wasn't just curious—I was truly, deeply intrigued. And something else, something I didn't want to name, stirred inside me.
Before I could think better of it, my fingers moved, swiping at the screen.
A password.
Of course.
I hesitated only for a second before my hands moved on their own, my fingers tapping out a familiar sequence—his birthday.
It didn't work.
A strange feeling curled in my stomach.
I tried another.
A date that had once been significant. One that had been everything.
The screen unlocked.
For a moment, I couldn't move.
I just stared at it, breath catching in my throat, my pulse ringing in my ears.
Edward's phone password was our anniversary.
And what unsettled me even more was the realization that I still remembered it. Instantly. Without hesitation. As if it had never left me.
I swallowed, pushing past the strange weight pressing against my ribs, and clicked on the chat.
I didn't read everything. I couldn't.
I only focused on the most recent messages.
Edward: "I can't. He needs me."
Nate: "So what, he means more than anything else to you?"
Edward: "Yes."
Edward: "I'm sorry."
Nate: "Just forget it. We're done."
A sharp jolt ran through me.
Something thick lodged in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
I left the chat, locked the phone, and placed it back on the armrest. Then, sighing, I ran a hand down my face, trying to catch my breath.
I didn't know what to make of it.
Of those messages. Of myself. Of whatever had risen inside me the moment I read them.
I felt strange. Unmoored. Like something had shifted under my feet, but I couldn't see what it was.
Without knowing what else to do, I went back to the bed and sat down, my hands resting on my thighs as I tried to make sense of it all.
I barely had the chance to sort through the thoughts tangling in my mind when I felt it—before I saw it.
A shift in the air.
Soft movement from across the room.
Edward stirred in the armchair, his body adjusting slightly, his head tilting before his eyes fluttered open.
I didn't mean to focus on him, but I did.
He blinked slowly, his gaze unfocused for a moment before awareness settled in. He sighed, running a hand over his face, then through his hair, before resting his elbows on his knees, looking down.
He sat like that for a second, silent, still. Then, without hesitation, he stood and walked toward me.
I didn't move.
Edward sat beside me on the bed, close but not touching, and looked at me as if he were waiting for something.
There was something about his expression—something unreadable yet so open, so raw in the way exhaustion clung to his features—that made my chest tighten.
He looked so tired.
So drained.
It cracked something inside me, seeing him like this.
He had been here. For all of it.
He had been here, and I had put him through it.
I swallowed, my voice soft when I spoke.
"How long has it been?"
Edward's eyes flickered with something—surprise, fleeting but unmistakable, as if he hadn't expected me to be present. But he masked it quickly, smoothing over the reaction as he let out a slow breath.
"Three days," he said.
Just three days.
It felt like a lifetime.
I exhaled, dragging a hand over my face, trying to ground myself in the present. My mind was still sluggish, still trying to catch up, but there was one thing I needed to know before anything else.
"The kids," I murmured, glancing at Edward. "Are they okay?"
His face softened.
"They're okay," he assured me. "They're with Emmelle today."
A small, relieved breath left me before I even realized I had been holding it.
I almost asked the next question, but Edward beat me to it, his voice quiet, steady.
"No one else saw you through this," he said. "Just me."
Something in me settled.
I hadn't even thought about it until now—who might have seen me like that, who might have been aware of how completely I had shattered. But the fact that Edward knew me well enough to anticipate that worry, to answer before I could even ask…
It made my throat tighten.
He went on, his tone just as gentle.
"Your leave is up in two days. Your family's well-informed. I've been keeping them updated through texts and calls."
I nodded slowly, taking that in. My voice was quiet when I said, "Thank you."
Edward just held my gaze, unreadable for a second. Then I sighed, looking down at my hands.
"I wish you didn't have to experience all that," I admitted.
Edward shook his head immediately.
"Jasper," he said, as if I had said something ridiculous. "I'm just glad you're yourself again."
He hesitated, then exhaled, his voice dropping slightly.
"I was scared for a moment," he admitted. "That I'd never get you back."
He meant it plainly, without hesitation, without any hidden meaning.
But the words landed oddly in me.
I could've taken them another way.
The realization unsettled me.
I didn't respond to that. I wasn't sure how.
Instead, Edward spoke again, shifting slightly as he glanced at me.
"How much do you remember?"
I shook my head.
"Not much," I admitted.
Edward nodded once, as if he had expected that. But before he could say anything, I went on.
"There's one thing, though," I murmured. "One thing that stood out. That's crystal clear in my mind."
Edward hesitated. I saw it in the subtle flicker in his gaze, the slight way his shoulders tensed.
Then, carefully, he asked.
"What is it?"
I met his eyes.
"You."
I caught the way his breath subtly caught—so brief, so slight, but unmistakable.
And I realized something then.
I felt comfort in it.
In knowing I had taken him aback.
In knowing that for a second—just a second—that simple admission shook him.
Neither of us said anything.
The silence stretched, charged, something unspoken hanging in the air between us.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I wasn't sure I wanted to.
So I let it be.