Paper Heart by Hezpixie.pdf

Fanfiction based on Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight Series

Rated M for Mature

Paper Heart

By Hezpixie

Summary: Bella and Edward fall in and out of love over the course of 5 years. We begin at the

end, we end at the beginning, and somewhere in the middle, we realize just how easy it is to lose

each other along the way.

This story is based off of the plot in the musical "The Last Five Years" by Jason Robert Brown.

This musical uses song to tell the story of a couple who, despite their best intentions, find

themselves on different paths.

The outline of each chapter is based on the songs in the musical, but the back story is all original

content. Bella's story is told from the end of their relationship to the beginning, and Edward's

story starts and the beginning and ends at the end.

~*~

Chapter 1

We begin at the end.

Anger comes first. Flashing, blinding, consuming. It starts off slow, lapping at your lungs and your

fingers and your gut, building relentlessly, compelling you to run, to scream, to destroy. Your brain is

a jumble of senseless firing synapses and your entire body trembles with the nervous energy of it all,

from your scalp to your lips to your toes. You can't sit still, can't eat, can't sleep, can't focus on

anything but the wave of rage that drives you to the edge of insanity before it swells and finally,

blessedly breaks.

But after that brief moment of reprieve, when you're crashing headfirst into the next mindfuck of

emotion, you find yourself longing for those ebbing, electric tides of anger and rage. Because after the

anger and the rage comes the pain.

Oh God, the pain.

Ripping you wide open to the white-hot sun, dissecting you piece by piece, and even after you're left

eradicated and empty, it continues to demand more, and more, and more.

It's been three days since Edward left me, and I have nothing left to give.

They say that hindsight is 20/20, but I disagree. It's skewed and distorted, like you're caught

underwater looking up. To reflect on the past five years and figure out how we got here is the

equivalent of trying to find a needle in a haystack. The answer is there, somewhere, but the chances

of finding it amidst the microscopic fissures and cracks in our relationship that turned overnight into

gaping canyons and bottomless chasms are formidable at best.

"We're broken, Bella, and we can't fix it anymore," he'd said.

The receiver of the phone had been cool and metallic in my hand as he delivered the blow and I'd

clung to it in desperation thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I held on tight enough, he would have to

stay.

"It's better, for both of us, baby. I'm so sorry," he'd said, reaching across the miles, through the line,

and ripping out my heart.

I wanted to beg him to come home, to love melike he'd promised- for better and for worse, in

sickness and in health, until death do us part- but the reality of the situation sent ice through my

veins and I couldn't move, couldn't speak. He whispered goodbye, and I stood listening as the dial

tone turn into a busy signal, thinking, why do you get to decide?

Now I sit on the cold, hard floor in the middle of the bedroom we shared, surrounded by pieces of us.

To my right, a tattered grey Amherst sweatshirt that still smells like scotch and peppermint and him.

To my left, the napkin covered in my hurried handwriting that I'd pressed into his palm the first night

we met. In front of me, a black and white photo; my arms slung around his neck, squinting over his

shoulder into the sun, his face turned towards mine, lips brushing my cheek. And in my hands, the

note he left me this morning.

Bella-

I called Elise to help me pack my bags, and I went downtown and closed the bank account.

It's not about another shrink. It's not about another compromise.

I'm not the only one who's hurting here. I don't know what the hell is left to do. You never saw how

far the crack had opened- you never knew I had run out of rope. I could never rescue you, no matter

how I tried. All I could do was love you hard, and let you go.

All I could do was love you, Bella. God, I loved you so.

Edward

I want to cry, but tears seem too small, too inconsequential for the massive void ahead of me that is

life without him. I want to forget, but the essence of him is ingrained in every fiber of my being, and I

could no more forget that than I could myself.

Instead, I struggle to my feet and make my way across our apartment, shoving five years of

memories into cardboard boxes and trying to ignore the fact that, every time another box is taped

shut, a little piece of my soul stays trapped inside. I move methodically, removing anything and

everything that reminds me of him until there's nothing left.

If I could take down the plaster, the wooden planks, the nails and insulation and wiring that hold this

very place together and pack them away, I would. I would pack the Vietnamese restaurant down the

street, every museum we visited, every place we've kissed. I would pack away the sun and the moon,

the clouds and the stars until there was nothing left but darkness and even then, it would remind me

of the shadow of his smile.

We loved, once; oh God, Edward, didn't we love? Carefree and innocent, unscathed by the raw and

ravaged landscape that heartbreak so often leaves in its wake. We learned together what it was like to

move in synchronicity, two halves of a whole. We sang and wrote and breathed and fought and

loathed and laughed and lived . I can no longer remember who I was before him, but I do know this: I

will love him unrequited for the rest of my life.

Everyone has their cross to bear. This is mine.

When the last of the boxes are piled by the door and the first vestiges of sunrise appear outside my

window, I crawl into our bed and pray for the numb oblivion of sleep.

Edward is gone, but I am still here, learning how to breathe without him and covered with scars I did

nothing to earn.

I am still hurting.

Chapter 2

Edward- January 2002

I stared down at the amber colored liquid in my glass, swirling it gently before taking a sip. As the

scotch seared down the back of my throat, I was grateful for the warmth that immediately spread

through my body. Jane, my girlfriend, and I were having dinner at some nameless restaurant where

you pay more for the decor and ambience than for the actual food. While I was trying to recognize

something, anything , edible on the menu, she was prattling on about some client at work who was

making her life a living hell. Said client was the reason for this painful excursion; they had asked Jane

to check out the location before booking it for their next event.

"My life is completely inconsequential to them. It's infuriating, you know?" She sighed, pausing to take

a sip of her cabernet and raising her eyebrows at me in an invitation to respond.

Fuck.

I quickly attempted to arrange my expression to that of 'concerned, loving boyfriend', nodding in what

I hoped was a commiserating manner, and praying that this was the correct response. It must have

been, because after a moment she was off and running again. Breathing an inaudible sigh of relief, I

loosened my tie, and my mind resumed its wandering.

This was the first night that we'd spent together outside of our apartment in weeks, and yet I was

anxious to escape back to the sanctuary of my small office at home. I hadn't even made it through the

appetizer before her words started swimming around in my head and I found myself staring at my

place setting, wondering if that many forks were really necessary.

After discerning that the Pancetta was the only thing on the menu without tentacles or raw fish eggs, I

set it to the side and tried once again to focus on the conversation at hand. This time, instead of the

silverware, my attention was drawn to Jane's lips.

God, I used to love her lips.

She tasted of honey and sunshine, the first time we kissed, and I was hit with an explosion of

emotions that, at the time, I wasn't aware I was capable of feeling. As I rolled the bittersweet memory

around on my tongue, the edge of my mouth curled into a half smile.

She had been my muse, then.

I've loved to write ever since I was a child. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew

up, I told them F. Scott Fitzgerald. I was such a pretentious little shit back then. Words had always

come easily to me; all through high school and college my teachers and professors told me I was a

prodigy; the voice of my generation. My parents, Carlisle and Esme, were arguably my biggest

advocates. They worked hard so that I could attend the best schools and tune my craft into something

paramount.

Truly, I was one of the lucky ones. So many people supported and believed in me that, eventually, I

began to believe in myself. By the time I left my home in Forks, Washington, to attend Amherst, one

of the top liberal arts colleges in the nation, I was convinced that I was destined for greatness. I was

Edward Cullen, author extraordinaire, and my words were going to change the world.

Jane and I met during our junior year. I literally ran into her one night while I was out with my

friends, causing her to spill the beer she was holding down the front of her shirt. I'd stammered an

apology, completely mortified, but she'd just grinned, whipped off her shirt, and said, "If you wanted

to get me out of my clothes, all you had to do was ask." I'd just stood there like a complete asshole,

staring, not quite sure what to make of this impulsive, beautiful woman. After a moment, she took

pity on me, grabbing my hand and leading me over to the bar.

"Come on, you can buy me a drink." She'd said, winking.

It was then that I finally found my tongue. Raising an eyebrow at her, I grinned and replied, "But I've

already got you out of your clothes. So really, what's the point?"

She laughed, one of those full-out belly laughs with her head thrown back, and I thought, I wonder if

I'll ever be that comfortable in my own skin.

Then she leaned over, so close that I could feel the heat radiating off her skin, and whispered, "My

pants are still on, sir. And if you plan on ever getting into them, you'd better buy me a drink."

How could I say no?

As it was, she'd been interested in me ever since a creative writing class we'd shared; it wasn't until

she pointed this out that I finally recognized her. Contrary to her outgoing personality, she had always

been quiet and subdued in lecture; tucked into the corner, chewing on her pen and lost in thought.

She'd seemed so extraordinarily ordinary then, but after that night, I didn't know how I'd ever existed

without her. I loved that she was solid, and the way her nose crinkled up when she laughed; she loved

my unruly bronze hair and the way I never took 'No' for an answer.

That was then.

Not long after graduation we moved together to New York City, naïve and ready to conquer the world.

And after a few months of freelance work and ramen noodles, Jane gave up her dream of becoming a

writer in favor of a steady paycheck. She took a job at a local PR agency, and though she may not

have loved it, she was damn good at what she did. A recent promotion kept her working most hours of

the day and running out of town conventions on the weekends.

I couldn't fault her for it, but it was something that I could never bring myself to do.

After that, it didn't take long for the cracks to appear. All that stereotypical bullshit about man's deep-

seated need to provide for his family never resonated with me until I was in the middle of living it.

While Jane supported us financially, instead of being thankful, I grew to resent her. I felt worthless

and ashamed for not fulfilling my gender role, and I'll be the first one to admit that I took these

feelings out on her. What had always been calm, communicative dialogue between two rational adults

now constantly escalated into screaming matches, often ending with Jane crying quietly in the

bedroom while I holed myself up in my office, pretending not to hear.

In my defense, I genuinely thought she gave up on her writing career because she simply didn't want

to do it anymore. Eventually, the truth came out; she'd done it because she knew we wouldn't survive

with both of us on an unsteady income.

"Since you weren't stepping up to the plate, I didn't have many other options," she'd said, disdain

dripping from her words. My fury and hurt at her lack of belief in me overshadowed the truth of her

words, and I spent three nights at Jasper's after that, pacing and muttering and wondering where the

fuck we had gone wrong. On the fourth night I returned home, flowers in hand, apologizing and

promising her that I would find a way to fix things, somehow.

I didn't know it then, but it was the beginning of the end.

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