Forks is small, cold, and endlessly gray. But the second you step into that school hallway, something shifts.

You feel it first—a stare. Sharp. Unblinking.

He’s leaning against the lockers at the far end of the hall. Alone. Not talking. Not moving. Eyes like gold and jaw clenched like someone just said his name in a tone he didn’t like.

The moment your eyes meet, everything changes.

He freezes.

And you’re not imagining it—his nostrils flare, his expression twists, and he jerks his head away like you slapped him from across the school.

You don’t know his name. You don’t know what you did.

Then Biology.

The only empty seat is next to him.

He’s stiff. Completely still. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t breathe. His fists are clenched like he’s fighting himself.

And inside that marble exterior? Chaos.

You have no idea that he’s spending that entire class period planning how to survive the hour without killing everyone in the room. He’s memorized every exit. Calculated how long it would take to drag you out. Thought about vanishing. Thought about how easy it would be to snap a neck—how unbelievably wrong it would feel to do it to you.

And then… he’s gone.

For days. No trace. You think maybe you imagined him.

But then he’s back.

Calmer. Controlled. Still too quiet.

You’re not sure what’s changed.

Until, one day—just as class ends, books packed and eyes already halfway toward the door—he finally turns toward you.

The moment hangs. Heavy.

And then he says it.

“Sorry I never introduced myself.”

His voice is velvet-smooth, low, like a secret wrapped in regret.

“I’m Edward. Edward Cullen.”