The Loving Kind: Prologue.

A/N: Wait, what? Didn't I say my new story would be called Expectations? I did. But then this story took life in my brain and so it's being told first. I haven't abandoned my other idea; this one was just more insistent!

The lovely believeitornot has very kindly agreed to look over my chapters before they go live, which is just lovely. I essentially wrote What I Wished For in a vacuum, so it's really special having someone to bounce ideas off. So, thank you, Tamara, truly.

(And if you haven't read her amazing story, The Other Side of Me, you ought to go do it right now. She handles a very distressing subject with such grace and sensitivity.)

Okay, if you've read anything I've written, its no secret Bobby Long is a constant source of inspiration for me. He's an amazing artist, a truly brilliant poet. Recently, he added a Song of the Week on his website called The Loving Kind. It's beautiful, and I just HAD to write a story based upon it.

I disclaim: StephMeyer owns Twilight, and Bobby Long owns The Loving Kind.


Please be advised: this story will contain strong language and sexual content, as well as discussion of depression and suicide. PM me if you need to know more before you read on.


I gave her it all
I'd take it back again
And every single word I spoke
She ruined by running off her mouth

She cursed and swore at me
For bringing her back down to earth
I only wanted her to see
The things I left lying around

Oh Lord, I thought I wasn't the loving kind
And I loved her, oh, I loved her
At least now I know I have a heart
'Cos it's hurting, oh it's hurting now
Oh she's not the loving kind
Oh she's not the loving kind

She kept me far from touch
And she kept me just a little too long
She used to laugh at me
But she laughed, she laughed when she was wrong

Oh Lord, I thought I wasn't the loving kind
And I loved her, oh I loved her
At least now I know I have a heart
'Cos it's hurting, oh it's hurting now
Oh she's not the loving kind; oh no she's not
Oh she's not the loving kind; oh no she's not

Bobby Long, The Loving Kind.


I stare stupidly at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand.

For three days, I've been staring at it.

Trying to imagine how she would speak the words.

Tracing my fingertips over the strokes made by her pen.

Crumpling it up.

Tossing it in the trash.

Retrieving it.

Carefully smoothing out the creases.

There are three lines of an all too familiar scrawl spread across it. Her messy scribble is as familiar to me as my own neat hand. I can see her in my mind's eye; the odd way she holds her pen, her thumb curling up over the top of her third finger; the silly spin she perfected after months and months of frustration and pens flying across our table; the tilt of her head as she watches the words emerge from the nib.

I wonder if she was smiling as she wrote these lines. Or was she crying? Sobbing, as I did when I first caught sight of them? Perhaps her face was set with the look of stubborn determination that she wore so well?

I wonder how many times she set her pen to paper before she finally slid it under my door. Did she spend hours, days, and weeks agonizing over it? Or did she simply determine what she needed to do, and carry it out with the ruthless efficiency with which she left me?

And why now?

Why did these words come now, when I finally thought I could move on and be happy without her? When she finally stopped haunting my dreams. When I'd finally shaken her grip from my every waking hour.

Every single step forward I'd made in her absence was obliterated as soon as I caught sight of the note on my doorstep. As soon as I saw the letters of my name spelled out in her hand, she re-exerted the terrible power she has always had over me. Before I even saw the contents of her letter, she reclaimed my heart and my soul.

It took me an hour to find the courage to flip it open. What could she possibly have to say to me? Would I survive hearing it? Had she written to justify herself? Had she written to apologize? Or to tell me how much better off we were this way?

When I finally flipped the folded piece of paper open, the pain that ripped through me brought me to my knees. Every wound that had slowly healed in our time apart was torn wide open once again. Unable to breathe, I found myself a sobbing, shaking mess on my kitchen floor.

Three lines, each made up of three simple words.

Nine simple words; words I have waited over a year to hear.

I was wrong.
I miss you.
I love you.


My hands shake as I flip the note over once again. My fingers tremble as I dial the number she's scrawled across the back.

I don't breathe as the obnoxious bring-bring sounds through the speaker.

My heart thumps wildly as the call connects.

"This is Bella," her voice is soft, gentle, different.

"Bella?" I choke on her name.

Silence.

Panic.

"Edward." I hear the tremor in her voice.

Relief swells through me, drowning me.

Hope, a feeling I have all but banished from my existence, swells anew in my breast. I beat it down ferociously.

"I got your note," I blurt out, made stupid by fear.

Bella does not answer. I hear her sniffle before her soft sobs begin in earnest.

Three days ago, I would have told myself she deserved to feel the same pain she had inflicted on me. I believed I would have felt a sense of righteous satisfaction in hearing her break down, at hearing her regret made plain.

And yet now, confronted with the desperation and pain in her choking cries, my convictions are proved false.

I cannot bear it. I do not feel even the slightest amount of fulfillment in hearing her pain. I cannot delight in her sadness.

"Sweetheart, don't cry," I beg.

"Edward."

"I'm here."

"Edward."

"Bella, I'm here."

"I'm s-s-so sorry, Edward. I was wrong. I … I was so t-terribly wrong, and I'm so very sorry."

The words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think them through.

"I forgive you."


Phew.

Getting to know new characters is scary.

Please let me know your thoughts!

I'm hoping, at this stage, to update fortnightly. I'm up to my ears in biochemistry at the moment, though the more I study, the more the creative side of my brain rebels and wants to write.

Love, Shell xx

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