Easier Said
List of friends, you may or may not have to forgive me for posting this here, but I am again writing fanfiction. And yeah, in this case, it is totally Twilight fanfiction.
Feel free to skip far, far away. That said.
Title: Easier Said
Author: amorvincitnos
Rating: T (I guess? for one instance of language)
Summary: Jacob tries to let go of Bella and finds that "try" is an operative word. In second-person because I'm like that. One-sided drabble circa New Moon.
Author's Note: I haven't written fanfiction in years and what is this.
It’s easier said. Goodbye is easy. Goodbye is everyday routine and we say it, over and again. Maybe not that, exactly. But see you later and until then and take care.
Goodnight. Love you.
You try to say goodbye to her on a Sunday. It’s not different than any other although days with her can be better or worse. Today she is measuring her responses to you like she measures while cooking: cups and spoons and oven timers and you realize that she’s taking more care with you than you are. That she knows all the things you really mean. And sometimes you want to tease her, ask if she really thinks she’s going to screw it up (there are things you’re good at, Bella) because she’s done it a thousand times and shouldn’t she just know by now? Shouldn’t you know by now?
And sometimes you say the exact right thing at the right time (a grain of salt) and she laughs and it could mean anything.
(Everything she cooks comes out perfect but the problem, your mother would’ve said, is that there’s no love in it.)
When you say goodbye to her that day, that’s all you mean, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She smiles as she walks away.
…...
You stay home sick on Monday. You try to mean goodbye in every corner of your room. (You eat her leftover spaghetti in the fridge. Just to get rid of it.)
It’s about time. You’re getting taller and older and the car is almost done. It’s time to be finished with all the repairs. And girls at school are starting to look at you like there’s something you have that they want and you don’t know what she wants from you (shouldn’t she know by now?). Soon you’ll be able to drive.
You wonder what he was really like.
Everyone says they were rich. Maybe that’s it. She might not think that’s something you have to offer and she’s right: you don’t. But it’s not like you don’t have Plans. You were going to get out of this stupid state and move to somewhere that never fucking rains and you were going to maybe go to school, like to learn to design cars maybe or she might laugh but actually you really would like to be a pit stop mechanic and NASCAR is really big where it’s sunny. Only you were going to take Billy because he needs you, because you know what it’s like to be left behind, because the council doesn’t do anything but make him spew crazy anyway, and because you’re not like them. You take care of the people you love.
And she could come. She’s smart. She could go to school anywhere and you’d pick a place near the best English program because pretty much all she can still look at are her books. (You know how much she misses Phoenix. You were going to invite her with a brand new cactus.)
But that’s not part of the Plan anymore because of goodbye and so you can choose wherever. Except Arizona. And Florida.
So he’s good-looking, okay. If you like someone that pale in the face. Grimacing, you realize it’s pretty stupid to criticize tastes that run the same as yours. All right. But that hair. It’s like a neon sign if Vegas lights wore too much gel. You look at yourself. Long black silk flat down your back. Maybe it’s too long. Maybe it’s girl hair. (Embry says so.) Maybe she thinks that even when she says she likes it. Sort of beautiful. Maybe that’s not what you should be, to her.
You wonder if she’s even thought about what she’s going to do when he doesn’t come back. She’s spending her college fund on this. You’re too afraid to ask about it because if you guilt her then she’ll stop coming around and she needs this. (Needs you.)
(The way she wraps her arms around herself and her eyes go blank when she remembers - you think of that and it’s hard to remember what anything means.)
You’re getting tall. Too tall. Taller than him, and she’s short. Maybe she doesn’t like that. Wouldn’t be able to reach you. (But you’re always right here and he’s -) Maybe she would like you better if you cut and bleached your hair and stopped growing and got weird gold contacts and always stayed out of the sunshine and maybe you should sell the car and buy something stupid and bland and new and then you could drive really far away and maybe, maybe then she might like you better. Miss you.
You could not be less like him.
She calls to ask you to a movie with her friends. You swallow hard and say yes.
Feel free to skip far, far away. That said.
Title: Easier Said
Author: amorvincitnos
Rating: T (I guess? for one instance of language)
Summary: Jacob tries to let go of Bella and finds that "try" is an operative word. In second-person because I'm like that. One-sided drabble circa New Moon.
Author's Note: I haven't written fanfiction in years and what is this.
It’s easier said. Goodbye is easy. Goodbye is everyday routine and we say it, over and again. Maybe not that, exactly. But see you later and until then and take care.
Goodnight. Love you.
You try to say goodbye to her on a Sunday. It’s not different than any other although days with her can be better or worse. Today she is measuring her responses to you like she measures while cooking: cups and spoons and oven timers and you realize that she’s taking more care with you than you are. That she knows all the things you really mean. And sometimes you want to tease her, ask if she really thinks she’s going to screw it up (there are things you’re good at, Bella) because she’s done it a thousand times and shouldn’t she just know by now? Shouldn’t you know by now?
And sometimes you say the exact right thing at the right time (a grain of salt) and she laughs and it could mean anything.
(Everything she cooks comes out perfect but the problem, your mother would’ve said, is that there’s no love in it.)
When you say goodbye to her that day, that’s all you mean, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She smiles as she walks away.
…...
You stay home sick on Monday. You try to mean goodbye in every corner of your room. (You eat her leftover spaghetti in the fridge. Just to get rid of it.)
It’s about time. You’re getting taller and older and the car is almost done. It’s time to be finished with all the repairs. And girls at school are starting to look at you like there’s something you have that they want and you don’t know what she wants from you (shouldn’t she know by now?). Soon you’ll be able to drive.
You wonder what he was really like.
Everyone says they were rich. Maybe that’s it. She might not think that’s something you have to offer and she’s right: you don’t. But it’s not like you don’t have Plans. You were going to get out of this stupid state and move to somewhere that never fucking rains and you were going to maybe go to school, like to learn to design cars maybe or she might laugh but actually you really would like to be a pit stop mechanic and NASCAR is really big where it’s sunny. Only you were going to take Billy because he needs you, because you know what it’s like to be left behind, because the council doesn’t do anything but make him spew crazy anyway, and because you’re not like them. You take care of the people you love.
And she could come. She’s smart. She could go to school anywhere and you’d pick a place near the best English program because pretty much all she can still look at are her books. (You know how much she misses Phoenix. You were going to invite her with a brand new cactus.)
But that’s not part of the Plan anymore because of goodbye and so you can choose wherever. Except Arizona. And Florida.
So he’s good-looking, okay. If you like someone that pale in the face. Grimacing, you realize it’s pretty stupid to criticize tastes that run the same as yours. All right. But that hair. It’s like a neon sign if Vegas lights wore too much gel. You look at yourself. Long black silk flat down your back. Maybe it’s too long. Maybe it’s girl hair. (Embry says so.) Maybe she thinks that even when she says she likes it. Sort of beautiful. Maybe that’s not what you should be, to her.
You wonder if she’s even thought about what she’s going to do when he doesn’t come back. She’s spending her college fund on this. You’re too afraid to ask about it because if you guilt her then she’ll stop coming around and she needs this. (Needs you.)
(The way she wraps her arms around herself and her eyes go blank when she remembers - you think of that and it’s hard to remember what anything means.)
You’re getting tall. Too tall. Taller than him, and she’s short. Maybe she doesn’t like that. Wouldn’t be able to reach you. (But you’re always right here and he’s -) Maybe she would like you better if you cut and bleached your hair and stopped growing and got weird gold contacts and always stayed out of the sunshine and maybe you should sell the car and buy something stupid and bland and new and then you could drive really far away and maybe, maybe then she might like you better. Miss you.
You could not be less like him.
She calls to ask you to a movie with her friends. You swallow hard and say yes.