I did not resurface.

It was empty.

The album Renee had given me sat on the floor beside the bed, just where I'd put it last. I lifted the cover
with a shaking hand.

I didn't have to flip any farther than the first page. The little metal corners no longer held a picture in
place. The page was blank except for my own handwriting scrawled across the bottom: Edward Cullen,
Charlie's kitchen, Sept. 13th.

I stopped there. I was sure that he would have been very thorough.

It will be as if I'd never existed, he'd promised me.

I felt the smooth wooden floor beneath my knees, and then the palms of my hands, and then it was
pressed against the skin of my cheek. I hoped that I was fainting, but, to my disappointment, I didn't lose
consciousness. The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed
over my head, pulling me under.

I did not resurface.

OCTOBER


4. WAKING UP




TIME PASSES. EVEN WHEN IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE. EVEN when each tick of the second hand
aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but
pass it does. Even for me.




CHARLIE'S FIST CAME DOWN ON THE TABLE. "THAT'S IT, Bella! I'm sending you home."

I looked up from my cereal, which I was pondering rather than eating, and stared at Charlie in shock. I
hadn't been following the conversation—actually, I hadn't been aware that we were having a
conversation—and I wasn't sure what he meant.

"I am home," I mumbled, confused.