Chapter 12

Edward's POV

It was a kind of darkness I couldn't reason with—watching someone you love unravel in your arms, thrashing, gasping, begging for it to stop, and knowing you couldn't take any of it away. All I could do was hold her. All I could do was bear witness as something inside her clawed to the surface, something I couldn't see but could feel—feral and cold and relentless.

It dragged her under.

And just when I thought it would swallow her completely, it stopped. Abrupt. Cruel in its timing. It had only been a few hours this time. That was supposed to mean something. That was supposed to make it better. Shorter duration. Less suffering.

But none of it felt like mercy.

A minute of that agony was too long. Too much.

And I couldn't breathe until she did.

I knelt beside the bed, my knees pressed to the floorboards like I was praying to something I didn't believe in. She was curled onto her side, facing me. Her eyes locked with mine—and yet, they didn't see me at all. They looked through me. Past me. Still caught somewhere else.

I knew where. I didn't need her to say it.

Her mother's voice echoed in her head. Every word, every cruel insinuation, still spinning like a storm. A whirlwind of grief and humiliation that her mother had handed down without knowing what she was doing—or maybe worse—without caring.

It would've been so easy to speak. To tell her not to listen. Not to believe any of it. Especially not when the person those words were meant to undermine was right here. Still here.

But I didn't say it. I couldn't.

Who was I to tell her how to feel?

This world had taught her otherwise—had carved those lessons deep. Over and over. And I knew that ache. The ache of being told every day, in ways both loud and silent, that you don't belong. That you're too much or not enough, and never exactly right. And knowing, somehow, that no matter what you do, you never will be.

She was tired. God, she was tired.

It was in her eyes. In the way her limbs hung limp into the mattress. Not just her body—but something deeper. Something inside her that had worn out long ago and just hadn't stopped running. Her soul didn't rest, even now.

But her mind was still racing. I could feel it. Spinning through every awful thing she'd heard, wondering if any of it might be true.

Was I playing doctor? Savior? Had I picked her because she was broken and easy to keep?

No.

No, I knew better.

I wasn't here because of Anna. I wasn't here because it was the noble thing to do. I'm not that selfless. I'm not that good.

I was here because I couldn't not be.

I brushed her hair back, slow, careful, the way you do when someone's body has been through too much. My palm found her temple—hot under my skin—and I held it there longer than I needed to. The touch was meant to ground her. To bring her eyes back to mine. To bring her back to me.

"Can I tell you something?" I asked, gently—my voice low, almost uncertain.

Something shifted. I saw it flash behind her eyes—the fear. Like she thought I was about to say the one thing she'd been afraid of all along. That I would confirm her worst thoughts. That I would undo everything with a few careless words.

That wasn't what I was here to do.

I shook my head and exhaled slowly.

"When I first met Anna… there was something. I don't know how to explain it, but it was in my bones. I felt like I had to do something—help her, protect her. There was this pull I couldn't ignore. It felt important. Fated, even."

I looked at her then, really looked at her, and waited until I knew she was listening.

"But the day I saw you in Forks, everything shifted. That pull—it wasn't hers. It was never hers. It was you. It was always you. I just didn't know it yet."

Her eyes didn't look away this time.

"Renee believes that I'm doing this for selfish reasons. And maybe I am," I said, quieter now, but with more edge in my voice. "Because the truth is—I can't live without you. I've never felt anything like this, and I never want to live without it again."

I swallowed hard, breath catching.

"Because before you, there was nothing. And without you… there would be nothing."

I moved my thumb over her cheek, voice softening.

"I'm not going to tell you what to think, or how to feel. I'm not going to tell you to forget your mother, or to pretend her words don't live inside you. You have to decide what to do with all of that. But I am going to tell you what I know."

A beat. My voice barely held steady.

"Bella, from the moment I saw you, I knew you'd be the closest I'd ever get to being close. And I didn't know what to do with that feeling."

I paused. I had to. There was something sharp in my chest, something terrifying and freeing at once.

"I love you," I said—soft but firm, like it was the most certain thing I'd ever known.

She blinked, and her breath stuttered, catching in her throat like the air had turned too heavy to breathe.

"I need you to understand that," I added, my voice rough with emotion. "So let me be clear."

I leaned in—close enough to feel the heat of her skin, the tremble just beneath it.

"I've never loved anyone before. Not like this. Not at all. You are the first. The only."

And then I saw it.

The shimmer in her eyes, like something fractured was trying to hold together. It wasn't from pain this time—not the kind that twisted her up and pulled her under. No, this was different.

This was quiet.

Maybe this was what surrender looked like. Not defeat, but release. Maybe something inside her had finally stopped clawing, stopped fighting to survive.

Maybe I hadn't shattered her—I'd steadied her.

And God, if that was all I ever gave her, it would be enough.

A few tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, trailing down her temples. And then her face crumbled.

We were so close—barely inches between us—and I could see it happen. I could see whatever it was that had been locked inside her begin to fall out. Not all at once. But in pieces. Carried in each trembling breath that broke through her throat.

Her voice cracked—barely audible, raw.

"I just don't want to lose you too," she whispered.

And that was the problem.

She'd lost everything.

Her father. Her sister. Her friend. Her body, her mind, her freedom, her safety. Even her mother—who was still technically alive—was gone in every way that mattered.

She had been stripped bare, piece by piece, until all that remained was the quiet, desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—this one thing wouldn't leave too.

So why would she believe me?

Why would she believe that I'd stay?

What could I possibly say that would make her think this was different? That I was different? That I wouldn't vanish the second she shattered again? That I wouldn't get tired of the breaking, the rebuilding, the weight of it all?

But I wanted her to believe it.

I needed her to.

That this—us—wasn't some fragile thing that could fall apart. That it was already rooted. That it had already grown into the floor beneath us, into the walls that held us, into the breath between our lips. That it had become something unshakable. Something permanent.

It was solid. It was strong.

And it wouldn't fall apart.

It couldn't.

It simply couldn't.

I stood up slowly, careful not to disturb her. Then I climbed onto the bed, moving around her body with quiet reverence. She didn't move. Couldn't. She was too worn down—too much had been pulled from her.

So I laid beside her, pressing my chest gently to her back, my arm curling around her like a shield.

"You never will," I whispered, my tone low but certain. "I promise."

That's all I could give her.

Just words.

I knew that.

But someday, she'd see. She'd see that those words weren't hollow. They weren't soft nothings whispered into the dark just to make her sleep.

No. They were everything.

They were the only truth I had.

What I felt for her—it wasn't just real. It was the most important thing I had ever held. It was the only thing that mattered.

And she'd see that. Eventually, she'd believe it. She'd realize that every dream she ever had about us—every quiet word exchanged in the dark, every whispered promise—none of it was pretend.

It was all real.

Every single piece of it.

And there was nothing—not her mother's voice, not the monster inside her—that could take it from us.

This wasn't temporary. It wasn't fragile.

This was always.

This was forever.

AN: Sorry. I rambled a bit.