When I told you I didn't want you it was the blackest kind of blasphemy
I almost took the door off the car
You. Are. Not. Leaving. Me.
The part that kills me is that you already know. I already told you everything!
The sun was hot on my skin, too bright as it bounced off the white concrete and blinded me. I felt dangerously exposed. More fiercely than I would have dreamed I was capable of, I wished for the green, protective forest of Forks . . . of home.
I thought you were supposed to be pretending I donโt exist, not irritating me to death.