A/N: Edward's Journal's are not always a match to the saga. They take into account when he was alone, when the need to purge himself would overtake him, and when he would have the time to write.

Thursday, September 12th

Were I human, I would rise and look into her eyes. Were I human, her days would be no mystery to me, and her nights no separate dream state. Were I human, I would never leave her side nor she mine until the last breath escaped our lips…

Little things plague me in the most seductive way. She works, a mindless job that rewards in pittance, yet she disallows the smallest of gifts from me. She saves and budgets for a college future that, giving her current stockpile, is dubious at best. She loves, with the generous abandon of one who clings desperately to life, but relentlessly requests to end her life.

Bella, you are such a mystery. You are a story of triumph over pain, of love everlasting, of hope in the desert that has been my life. I stand in awe as the story of your life unfolds.

I believe I've overcome her limitations on the gift I can give. I will give her whatever remnant of my soul is left: my music. Her lullaby, of course, it belongs to her; Esme's favorite; the thread of Jasper's love for Alice… Endless decades have prepared my repertoire for this occasion. Will she scorn this gift?

I detest the time spent outside her company, although it affords me this moment of reflection. Since my love has found its air, my writing time has dwindled to naught; it is a small price, a least of cares…

I must find a way to better accept her panic over being noticed. I believe that is what moves her to such desperation at times, the notice of others. She is not vain, nor does she shun the spotlight to draw attention in that perverse way some humans do. No, it terrifies her, and I don't completely understand it. I must listen to her words more carefully, with a better ear to discern these roots. Oh, that I could simply hear her thoughts! How improved would both our lives be!

Wait. Would they be improved? I wonder.

I can hear the ruckus on the stairs. I can hear Alice, whose head is humming the details into a ballroom dance instead of the quiet ballet she promised for Bella's party. I can't be cross with my sister; I, too, share a mercurial joy at the thought of Bella's birthday. Celebrate the birth of my love, the genesis of my joy!