I sighed dejectedly as I packed the last of my vast collection of stationary into a weathered cardboard box. This was the concrete proof that I would not write to Edward until I was living in Washington. I placed the box on top of the other two I had already packed- one contained clothing and books, one contained the entire anthology of every letter I'd ever written to Edward, and the box I'd just set down contained the miscellaneous things I'd wanted to bring.
I blinked back the impending tears and taped up the final box. My room looked bleak and empty- as if I'd died instead of decided to move. My bed was in the garage, ready to be picked up by a pre-arranged buyer. I didn't really have any other furniture, apart from the nearly barren bookshelves along the west wall (I'd already packed up all of my favorite books). My walls were gray, unpainted, and the windows looked dingy and blank without curtains framing it. I suddenly felt as if I was in a prison.
Phil came in then, to carry my boxes to the car. He surveyed my possessions. "Not bringing much, are you, kiddo?" he asked, staring at my microscopic belongings.
"I don't own much," I answered truthfully. He shrugged and selected the last box I'd packed, grunting as he hefted it into his arms, before disappearing into the hallway. He quickly loaded the car, and was finishing the preparations for his and Renee's trip. I curled up as tightly as I could and wedged myself into a corner of my room. This was still my home, one of my homes, but I couldn't imagine the next time I would see it. And, if Phil got a job somewhere, they would sell this house. This might be my last time in this room.
Despite me plans, tears began pooling up beneath my eyes. It was silly to get attached to a building, but this was more than that. I was leaving my home state. My mom. The sun. Exiling myself to the coldest and rainiest corner of America seemed ridiculous, but it wasn't really my decision. I wanted to leave my mother and Phil in peace, and to do that I had to move in with Charlie, who, for some unfathomable reason, liked Forks.
I shuddered and wiped away the tears. At least I would have Edward to help me through it.
I would never have expected myself to go crazy, but, when I was ten, looking for solace after a fight between my mother and father, I'd turned to a blank sheet of notebook paper and composed a letter to an imaginary person. I'd named him "Edward", and proceeded to write to him almost every day after that. It wasn't really insanity, I defended myself, because I was aware that he was not real. My letters to him were more like diary entries.
"Bella!" called Mom. I jumped up. "Time to leave!" Leaving. Goodbye, Phoenix. Goodbye, Arizona. Goodbye cacti and beautiful, glowing deserts. Goodbye, house. As I shut the door, I placed a hand against the wall, breathing in the familiar scent of my home for what was probably the last time.