I do not own Twilight


The end of term drew near and the prefects in charge began to plan for the Winter Ball, as was tradition every year. The whole school was invited, and it was the only topic of conversation for the whole school. What people were wearing, who were they going with, whether this time the 6th former on decks would be any good, how long they'd have to do ceilidh dancing before the actual disco.

Prefects gathered and scattered, gathered and scattered again and again to plan the d├ęcor, the food, the drinks, making sure girls don't get pregnant and alcohol aren't circulated.

Therefore, Bella and Edward did not see that much of each other over the next few weeks. They'd pass each other in the halls, sometimes, if they crossed close, hands would brush in tiny electric moments, eyes would meet only briefly, lips would twitch.

Late at night, when in their respective beds, they would be clinging to their phones, sending texts all through the night, smothered giggles and hushed sighs their only soundtrack.

That's the thing about love. The kind shown on TV is usually loud and bright. Burning across your screen like a firework as you sit numbly in your chair. But this love was quiet, alive, almost unseeable if you didn't know what you were looking for.

That, in my opinion, is the best kind of love.