Fell For You

The Letter

I sigh into the morning air and watch the sunrise from my homemade balcony. From up here I can see everything—the fog lifting off the treeline, the rare sunlight threading itself through leaves like spilled gold. I've been out here for hours, knees pulled up, chin propped on my hand, one leg dangling over the rail like I'm too tired to even hold myself together.

My hair's in a messy bun, a few ringlets escaping to whip my cheeks whenever the breeze nips past. I shiver and hug my calf tighter. I haven't really left my room since Friday—unless you count breakfast and dinner, which Mum insists are sacred. Friday was... a lot. Crying in cold La Push rain is apparently a great way to earn a cough and a headache.

Seth came Saturday morning and didn't push me to talk. We watched dumb movies, read side by side until I drifted off, and he stayed until five, just existing next to me like a space heater with better jokes. Sunday he returned with marshmallows, hot chocolate, pizza, and a cursed childhood home video of us demonstrating "the perfect mud pie." It should've been embarrassing. It was also exactly the right kind of stupid. He's the only light that cuts through this gloom.

Soft padding breaks the quiet. Tiny footsteps. Melissa.

"It's seven. Are you gonna get ready for school?" she asks from the doorway, voice small and careful.

I don't answer. The sunrise is easier to look at than her face.

Do I want to go because I've got a history project meeting? Yes.
Do I want to go and watch Jacob and Embry and—ugh—even Quil stare at Seth like they're waiting for him to switch sides and leave me alone? Absolutely not.

Something lands in my lap. Mr. Fox. Melissa sets him there like a doctor laying down a prescription.

"Mr. Fox is also a healer," she whispers, like it's classified. "Like his ancestors. He'll make you feel better."

I scoff, too sharp, too fast. "No, he won't. Now get your stupid stuffed animal and get out."

She gasps and scampers away. Guilt hits my stomach like a rock. I stare at Mr. Fox's stitched eyes and sigh.

"I should probably apologize, huh?" I tell his dusty little face, because apparently I now confide in plushies.

Inside, I tug on a pink sweater and ripped-knee jeans, scoop up my bathroom stuff, and beat the hallway rush. The shower fogs everything and, when I drag a hand across the mirror, a pale stranger looks back—puffy eyes, red nose, the whole sad-clown starter pack. I twist the doorknob to leave... and freeze.

Voices. Mum and Dad, low and urgent.

"I can't stand it... Henrik," Mum murmurs, the name like a pebble dropped in water.

"You know... I do. She can't be around... it could hurt her," Dad says. The words blur at the edges, but the worry inside them is sharp.

"But I can't just... watch her do this to herself. She's falling apart."

They're talking about me.

"I know... it was supposed to be Embry... and Jacob," Dad says, clearer. My scalp prickles.

They know what's happening to Embry and Jacob.

"Well, what do you... her genes... and what if Seth is... what do you think... through?" Mum's voice drops to a hiss. One word sticks like a burr.

Seth.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears. What does Seth have to do with any of this?

"I'm sure she will turn," Dad says, firm, like a decision.

"And what if... she doesn't... what if both genes... cancel themselves out?" Mum presses.

A doorknob clicks. Melissa's voice: "Mummy? Daddy?"