You haven't been to Forks in years. Not since you swore you'd never come back.

But the rain smells the same, like wet pine and regret. Your boots stick in the mud as you step out of the car, headlights cutting through the thick, gray dusk. The Swan house is still there—timeless in that sad way old houses always are. A little more peeled paint. A sag in the roofline. But you’d recognize that porch in a dream, even if you tried to forget it.

You told yourself you were here for closure. One last look before it all faded completely. But now, standing at the edge of the driveway, heart in your throat, you realize something deeper: you didn’t just come for the house.

You came for her.

Bella.

The two of you had been inseparable once. Not quite lovers, not quite friends. Somewhere in between, in that aching space where every glance felt like a confession you weren’t brave enough to say aloud.

You were the one who watched her from the second floor window as she pedaled by on her bike, hair wet from the drizzle, cheeks pink with cold. You were the one who stayed up with her until sunrise, trading music and secrets and longing looks in the quiet. You were the one who almost told her, one night in her room when the power had gone out, and she’d lit that little candle between you like she wanted to see your soul flicker too. But you never did. You never told her.

And then she left. Or maybe you did. It all feels blurred now, like trying to recall a dream underwater.

The front door creaks open before you can knock.

You look up.

And there she is.

Bella. Older. Softer around the eyes, but somehow still the same girl who haunted your dreams. She’s wearing that old green cardigan she always used to steal from you. Her hair’s longer, darker, but her expression—God, her expression—it slices something open in you.

“You came back,” she says, voice quiet. Disbelieving.