His voice was the first thing Rosalie heard when the fiery pain relinquished her.
"Why her?" he'd asked with such obvious disdain that Rosalie was truly shocked.
His attitude towards her was not the only thing that bothered her. What bothered her most was the way he pretended not to know how she felt though he could hear her every thought.
It was a rainy Sunday morning when Rosalie reached her breaking point. He was lying on the couch, his bronze hair falling haphazardly against his pale skin, his ocher eyes transfixed on his book. He was reading Peter Pan. Rosalie thought it was fitting; Edward was Peter Pan – the eternal sullen child. He scowled at her, but gave no other acknowledgement of her presence.
"Will I ever be your Wendy?" she asked.
"No," he replied unapologetically.
Rosalie left the room, her eyes glistening with tears that would never fall.