H. The Two Hundred and Seven Days After by monroeslittle
Moment:
"You're right," she goes on, "it doesn't matter. You love her either way." She feels like a masochist, and there's something carnally satisfying about letting those spiteful words seep out of her, even as they lie pressed against one another, completely naked. "Have you kissed her?"
"Bella," he pleads, and she knows that the absence of a denial means that he has.
"You have."
"It just happened!" he defends. "We were talking and she . . . "
"And you love her, and you can't help it, and you shouldn't have to," she tells him. She's not really talking. She's not really lying in bed beside him. This isn't really happening to her. She's watching it happen to someone else. This isn't her life. These aren't her thoughts. "Have you slept with her?"
"No!" he explodes. "I've only ever seen her a handful of times! The only girl I want to be with is you!"
"That's not true."
"Stop it, Bella," he finally says, sitting up. "Stop doing this. Just fucking stop!"
"You can't stop it," she whispers. "I want you to know that . . . you fixed me. You taught me what love really is and - and what the right kind of imperfection is and . . ." She wants to say something beautiful and amazing, something he'll remember and cherish even when he has children and grandchildren, but she's never been an eloquent speaker. "I never would have been strong enough to say goodbye to Edward and move past him and learn to - to like life, if it hadn't been for you."
She knows, lying there, the devastating truth of it. She was able to say goodbye to Edward and go off to college as if she were a normal eighteen-year-old girl because she had known, even if she hadn't acknowledge it, that she would get to be with Jake, that eventually he would come home and he would find her and they would be together, and they were.
It won't be like that this time.
"So," Bella says, not stopping the few tears that leak from the corners of her eyes, "thanks. But you have to . . . you can't fight it, Jake. You can't. Be with her. I'll be okay. I promise. And we'll . . . we'll still be best friends, okay?"
"Don't do this," he says thickly, "don't be a martyr. I don't want to give up. I can fight this, I can!"
She shakes her head. "You don't have to. I'm letting you off the hook," she says. "I'm not going to hate you for this. I get it. I do. It's okay." He doesn't answer. He only lies back down, gathering her into his arms and pressing his face into her neck, and she can feel his hot, sticky tears on her skin, and she clutches him, and it's clear what this is.
Moment:
"You're right," she goes on, "it doesn't matter. You love her either way." She feels like a masochist, and there's something carnally satisfying about letting those spiteful words seep out of her, even as they lie pressed against one another, completely naked. "Have you kissed her?"
"Bella," he pleads, and she knows that the absence of a denial means that he has.
"You have."
"It just happened!" he defends. "We were talking and she . . . "
"And you love her, and you can't help it, and you shouldn't have to," she tells him. She's not really talking. She's not really lying in bed beside him. This isn't really happening to her. She's watching it happen to someone else. This isn't her life. These aren't her thoughts. "Have you slept with her?"
"No!" he explodes. "I've only ever seen her a handful of times! The only girl I want to be with is you!"
"That's not true."
"Stop it, Bella," he finally says, sitting up. "Stop doing this. Just fucking stop!"
"You can't stop it," she whispers. "I want you to know that . . . you fixed me. You taught me what love really is and - and what the right kind of imperfection is and . . ." She wants to say something beautiful and amazing, something he'll remember and cherish even when he has children and grandchildren, but she's never been an eloquent speaker. "I never would have been strong enough to say goodbye to Edward and move past him and learn to - to like life, if it hadn't been for you."
She knows, lying there, the devastating truth of it. She was able to say goodbye to Edward and go off to college as if she were a normal eighteen-year-old girl because she had known, even if she hadn't acknowledge it, that she would get to be with Jake, that eventually he would come home and he would find her and they would be together, and they were.
It won't be like that this time.
"So," Bella says, not stopping the few tears that leak from the corners of her eyes, "thanks. But you have to . . . you can't fight it, Jake. You can't. Be with her. I'll be okay. I promise. And we'll . . . we'll still be best friends, okay?"
"Don't do this," he says thickly, "don't be a martyr. I don't want to give up. I can fight this, I can!"
She shakes her head. "You don't have to. I'm letting you off the hook," she says. "I'm not going to hate you for this. I get it. I do. It's okay." He doesn't answer. He only lies back down, gathering her into his arms and pressing his face into her neck, and she can feel his hot, sticky tears on her skin, and she clutches him, and it's clear what this is.
This is goodbye.
They fall asleep like that.
He's gone when she wakes up the next morning.
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*sniffles just reading it*
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