Note: This is a one-shot ONLY. Based off of a human Bella and Edward with a less-than favorable ending for the couple. This was mainly a piece written to give me peace of mind and a way to vent.
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Twilight.
I missed him…
It wasn't something I could control. It was something beyond my normally firm grasp on intelligence, beyond my regular realm of sensibility. He'd come into my life completely by chance. It hadn't been something I thought could work. The probability of two souls connecting in the way ours had…or I thought we had…was less than twelve percent. I smile now when I think on my horrid rationality and how I'd measured and weighed us as if we were grains of sand on a scale.
I'd agreed to meet with him. Dating sites were bogus. The statistics they threw out to the world of people finding their 'soul-mates' on the electronic chat-rooms and social databases were outweighed by the skyrocketing divorce records. He wouldn't be my 'one'. I had convinced myself of that well before we'd agreed to meet. He could, however, be a relief from my everyday life. He could be a fine distraction and if things went well he could even be considered a friend.
He was never going to be my soul mate, though.
I'd been so nervous…unavoidably so. I wasn't experienced in the ways of men. Nineteen, going on twenty years old, and I had still been without my first kiss. I'd never dated despite the stories I'd told my mother in an attempt to feel more normal. It wasn't right for a girl my age to be interested in men yet unable to do anything about those interests. I was an introvert. That was my logical conclusion. I didn't get out much. I didn't party or hang-out with friends. I sat at home reading most nights. I was a closet-nerd. So, yes, it was reasonable to understand that I was trembling inside at the thought of finally getting the chance to meet with a male peer with more than just casual conversation and work in mind.
I'd been walking up the beach to meet him by the pier. I was recently moved with my mother and her young, new husband to Florida. I'd chatted with him a few times over the dating site, having made an account in a half-assed attempt at finding something, and then a few more times through regular e-mail and chat. He seemed nice…real. He hadn't sounded like a psycho, deranged killer, so I'd agreed to finally meet him.
I'd just made sure my mother knew where I was and who I was talking to so that if I didn't show up the next morning she could call the cops and have the bastard strung up by his toes for killing me.
All the while walking to our meeting place I'd considered turning right back to my new car and hauling ass right back to the safety of my home. I'd always been good at that. Running from my problems and fears, I mean. I could get my underdeveloped legs to run with the swiftness of a primed track sprinter when the occasion called for it. But I didn't run. I'd pulled my composure on like a veil and taken the big-girl route. I'd sucked it up and met him.
Three years later and I still can't forget the thoughts and feelings that had washed through me when I'd seen him for the first time. He was leaning against the base of the pier where it met the sand. He wore only a pair of dark-washed jeans, a black button-up shirt accented with extremely narrow white pinstripes. The sun had been playing off of his pale skin magnificently, even shimmering in his haphazard bronzed hair. He was attractive in the two pictures he'd sent me of him, kind of darkly sensual and hard-looking, but in real life he was like a God.
And his smell!
The closer I got to him the more hooked I became. When he saw me he smirked a little, a lopsided grin that caused my heart to thump an abnormal beat inside my chest. He moved towards me with a steady, sure gait, his long legs eating up the ground between us. His account had said he was six-foot-three, average build. It hadn't been a lie. Not completely anyway. When he stopped in front of me, the scent of Diesel cologne tickling my nose enticingly, I'd been forced to look obscenely high to meet his emerald green eyes. His lean musculature was definitely not average, though. The man was a God.
I hadn't been able to speak even a cordial 'hello' for those crucial handful of seconds when he truly smiled at me.
The stinker had actually struck me dumb.
He'd admitted to me later in his deep, baritone voice that when he'd seen me he had thought; "wow…but in a good way!" I'd found it cute that he'd been nervous of upsetting me. It had made me smile and giggle a bit. An actual, honest-to-goodness girly-giggle.
We'd walked a little bit up and down the beach, talking about nothing in particular. In truth I don't even remember what was said between us. I just remember inhaling his scent as he slowed his pace to match mine, though I was always a speed-walker, and marveling at his handsomeness. It had been beyond me to comprehend how someone such as him could want to even chat cyberly with a girl like me. I was shy and plain, possibly even a little bigger than average. Not fat by any means, but having a too-big butt, chunky thighs, and a very slightly there stomach. No, I'd never win in a beauty pageant, but I wasn't a dog, either.
Afterwards he'd asked me out to a restaurant-type place where he knew the owner. I'd gotten in his car, calling to tell my mother that I would be home later though I neglected to mention that I was getting in the same vehicle with a veritable stranger where who knows what could happen to me, and we'd been off. I'd trusted him explicitly even then. We'd only had a soda each and chatted more before he'd returned me safe and sound to my car later than night.
No first kiss. No hug. Just an "I had fun" and a "let's do this again".
On my way home I'd heard 'Teenage Dream' by Katy Perry for the first time. It became our song for me.
We talked more. We went out a few more times. I'd even seen his home and been in it. I hadn't met his family, though. He had his mother, father, and a brother and sister. They lived nicely, but not vulgarly. We saw each other frequently and chatted almost nightly. After about a month I met his parents. They seemed to like me. Esme, his mother, was quite cheery, while his father Carlisle worked tirelessly but showed me great compassion. His siblings, twins, Jasper and Rosalie were a bit distant, but still remained polite with me. Even their chosen partners, Alice and Emmett, got along with me and I them.
I began to spend more time with him and with his family.
Slowly but surely I fell in love with him.
I told him first when the time came. I'm not sure if I should have done that. Maybe I should have waited for him to make that leap first? Maybe I should have let him make the committing words? But I hadn't. I couldn't lie to him. I'd told him I loved him with tears in my eyes, because I didn't admit to something like that lightly, and he'd held me while I cried. He'd comforted me and made me feel special.
Not two days later he said it back.
I was in love with Edward Cullen and he was in love with me.
We were happy.
We started dating in August. On Halloween night, by no coincidence since it was his favorite holiday, I gave myself to him while his parents were out. He was my first and my only. He'd gotten my first kiss now he'd gotten my virginity. It was wonderful. I'd been left shaking and he'd smirked in that way I loved. He'd kissed me before heading off to the bathroom to clean up. In post-coitus bliss I'd been content in us, proud to have him for my own.
Over time I noticed things about him that I hadn't much cared about before. He was passionate, but could be dense. I thought that was endearing. He asked me things. He wondered on matters and sought me out for advice. He was, however, forgetful. I'd remember his birthday. I'd made myself bleed to be able to get him a Christmas present, though his family did not celebrate it, that I knew he would love. I did not expect anything in return. Simply seeing him smile at me was enough. I got him a job when he was searching for one to make some extra spending money when he went to school. I paid for a speeding ticket he'd gotten with my own hard-earned money. I even did some of his college homework despite not going to school since my move. When he didn't remember me asking for small things after all this I ignored it. He still loved me and that was all that mattered.
His forgetfulness, however, turned into a kind of neglect over time. I would want him to hug me, but he would be too distracted by other things. His friends and games mattered more than I did. He fawned over the dog I'd rescued for him because I knew he enjoyed and wanted one of the breed for his own while I was pushed to the background. When things grew bad at home and food and money became scarce, which he knew, he'd promise to feed me if we went out or take me to have a little bit of fun on his dime when I rarely had the chance because of my need to pay my bills. He didn't keep his promises. He forgot and I went hungry or spent money I did not have to make him happy. I grew sick with hunger, fatigue, and stress, but put on a happy face so that he could be at peace.
I pretended to be fine because I loved him and he loved me.
Then the move had come. It wasn't me this time, though. It was him. He was moving back to Chicago with his family for business. I would be alone with only my distant mother and step-father who would leave me to my own devices. I had to work, but wanted to see him before he left. Each time I visited I had to leave within that same hour because something had 'come up'. I'd changed hours on the day before he was supposed to leave so that I could spend one last night with him. He had called me two hours before the end of my shift to tell me that he was already halfway to Chicago.
I had told him that I'd miss him, still loved him, and hoped we could still be a couple. He'd agreed.
When I'd gone home to my cold bed I'd cried myself to sleep.
We talked, but not as much as before. He'd gotten a new job. He had his old friends back. I was pushed farther back on the back-burner. Over a year we'd been together before he moved and we now acted as if we'd just met. I worried over him if he didn't respond to a call, thinking something might have happened. It turned out that he just got too busy and couldn't call back until several days later. When he called back we'd only talk for several minutes instead of our usual hour-long chats before he had to hang up to attend to other matters. I always forgave him and waited for him to call back…waited for calls that never came.
When he got another ticket, speeding again, I took his online test to avoid points being added to his record. He was busy and I didn't want him to stress over things. I was suffering from anxiety, my own sicknesses, and struggling to keep food in my belly even with the long hours I worked, but I always made time for him. I would always put him first. Always.
My birthday came around for the last time, only a short time after his, and I'd foregone telling anyone of it for my distaste of it. My mother wished me well, as had my birth-father, but I hadn't cared about their 'happy birthdays'. I kept my phone on all throughout work and waited for Edward's call. It was his words that mattered most to me. When he didn't send even a text, I'd called him. He'd been sick earlier in the month, so I assumed he might still be asleep. He hadn't been. He'd felt ninety percent better. I hadn't given him a clue when he hadn't said anything. I thought maybe he sent a surprise to my home or an e-mail, so after work I checked eagerly. By nightfall when I received not a word in any form I'd called him later when my mother and step-father were asleep, unable to hear the tears I knew I'd have.
"Can I ask you a question?" I remember asking softly. He'd responded with a cheery 'anything, love'. "You forgot my birthday, didn't you?" The silence that followed was deafening. I felt as if I could see his thunderstruck face. He'd been horrified, I'd heard that much. He'd thought my birthday had been a week later than it was…two years of proclaiming that my date of birth was important and that he'd make me see my worth every year…and he'd forgotten it that easily. Crying, something broken in my heart, I'd told him to forget it. I'd told him it wasn't important and to never bring it up again. It was important, but I'd pretended for him.
I loved him.
…And then it was Christmas, my last straw. I was all but destitute, broken in by the harsh life I was living. I was strung-out trying to keep the faith, in trying to keep from spiraling down into a black hole that I could never crawl out of, and in trying to keep that last sliver of hope from burning out that despite all the wrong done to me on his part that Edward still loved me. He'd said he'd send me a gift. He'd said he'd missed me and wanted to see me. He'd sounded so excited that I could do nothing but let my hope burn brighter, believing that things were finally getting better.
When Christmas came all I received was a late text wishing me a Merry Christmas. Nothing else. No 'I love you'. No supposed material gift that he was supposed to have sent in the mail as a proclamation of his love for me. Just a sad little 'Merry Christmas' pinging on my abused cell-phone.
Something inside me died that day.
I tried to rekindle what we had after that. No one could say I didn't try. I defended him until the last. I still defend him even now. I tried calling. I tried talking to him, but things had only gotten worse. He was more distant. Our calls got shorter…farther apart. I was no longer in his eye.
I wondered if I ever had been in his eye in the first place…
…In his heart.
Three years and I admitted it to myself. It was over. It had been over. I hadn't heeded my own warnings. I'd let my heart overrule my head and it had gotten me in trouble. Edward wasn't my 'one'. Dating sites were as much of a joke as I'd always thought they would be. I'd gone into our relationship with my heart on my sleeves, I'd made him my everything, and I'd opened myself up to the pain. I had only myself to blame.
I called it off in February, telling him the absolute truth…that I would always love him, but that I couldn't do this anymore. I couldn't keep giving and giving until I bled when I would get only table scraps in return. He'd said we could still be friends and I'd agreed in order to keep my sanity, though I knew he wouldn't be there for me. That part of what we had was long gone. It had hardly been there in the first place.
It's been months now. It's been months and I still cry for him. I cry for the man I still love. I go out, I try to find someone to fill that place in me that he stole from. I'm beginning to believe that it's useless. He's called, talked to me twice for half-an-hour each time, and it's hurt beyond words that I can no longer hear the endearment 'love' slipping from his lips though I yearn more than anything to tell him that I still love him.
So here I am. I go on living. I smile when I only feel like crying. I hear my phone ring and think 'is it him?' and then crush the thought down brutally. It's senseless to wish for things that will never be. It's pointless to hope for a resolution that I know will never come.
Every day I try. Lord knows I try.
…but God I miss him.
And may heaven help me, I still love him.
, Diary Entry of Isabella Swan