The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows.

Em.

dedicated to Elly for being hecka supportive of me writing since day uno!

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Have you heard what they say about first loves?

I lightly squeeze her little hand that is enveloped in a mitten, reminding her to not let go. Another car swooshes past us, the last one before we collectively take a step forward and start carefully crossing the slippery road with ice as ornaments on each side. She skips forward in glee, giggling innocently thus bringing an amused smile to my face. Her mother steps forward, picking her up and propping her onto her side. "Want to go inside with me, Emily?" she asks. Her voice comes off as worn instead of mellow like she intended.

Emily.

Emily.

Emmett.

And there he is is, holding my child. Emmett. My Emmett.

The little girl in his arms nods and Emmett turns to look at me, but I am met with dark circles that accompany somber blue pupils instead of his brown ones that, at a time, were the most ethereal. I stand there, hands tucked into my pockets, blinking vigorously.

"Theodore?"

"Hmm?" my gaze regains its focus and I see Rosalie once again. Blonde hair reaching past her shoulders, freckles by her laugh lines, eyebrows knit together in worry. She was a beauty, don't have me mistaken, but just the kind that was a bore. "Is it bad tonight?" she questions me.

I play with the loose strings inside the pocket of my old coat. I had to give my gloves up, we only had a pair in store and Rosalie was pregnant again. She was only three months but it was essential for me to make her feel comfortable at all times, if possible. The cold was no gentler to anyone.

She reaches out, palm upward, and for a split second I see it - his hand, colourless, the slits on his skin unrecovered, peeking from under his clothing. I almost reach out to hold it, to feel at home but abrupt words stop my train of thoughts.

"I need money for the shopping."

I look up at her expectant expression before observing her palmer creases, the ones that were deepening day by day. They almost reminded me of my mother's. Sometimes I miss the feeling of rough strokes against my cheeks like during her attempts at wiping away tears of pain when I fell off my bike as a little boy. Rosalie's hand no longer looked like the softest to hold, like it did in our younger years. She had always been a stranger on the inside, but now she was beginning to look like one on the outside, too.

"Right," I rummage through my wallet, searching for the 50 dollar bill I'm sure I hid somewhere in there. When I find it, I slap it into her hand, reminding her, "25 is our budget."

"D'you need anything?" she asks lightly, a hint of concern and empathy lingering in her tone.

Him.

"Nothing." I force a tight smile and try to look my best as she takes one last look at me. They walk away and into the store.

I glance around me, distracting myself. There is light music playing and I hum along. Every store on the block has Christmas decorations. Every one was in the holiday spirit and you couldn't blame them. For most of the world, December was a wonderful month full of loved ones, fairy lights and frozen kisses under mistletoes.

I see him everywhere.

I see him in little kids making the most of the season while building snowmen, in mothers that look stressed as they run from one shop to another in an effort to buy last minute presents, in the ugly wool sweaters or red-nosed reindeers. I see him everywhere. An infinite number of things remind me of our infinite number of memories, the ones that should have been buried long ago with him.