۶ৎduskwisper ۶ৎ

~ You find a letter from Alice a year after your fight — a letter that revisits the arguments, her absence, and all the things she meant to say.

angst!

English is not my first language so pls ignore any mistakes! ♡

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It had been a year since everything fell apart. A year since Alice left with the Cullens, and a year since the fight that had ripped the two of you apart. You remembered it all too clearly — the sharp words, the accusations, the way her eyes had looked the last time you saw her, and the emptiness that followed when she was gone.

You’d tried to keep busy, tried to convince yourself that life outside Forks would fill the hollow spaces inside. But every quiet moment, every small, mundane thing, reminded you of what had been lost. Her laughter, the way she always knew what you needed before you did, the way her hand rested on yours, cold against your skin, yet it felt like the safest place in the world.

And now, here you were, alone in your room,far from Forks, flipping through a book you hadn’t opened in months, when something pressed against your finger — a small, slightly worn envelope tucked between the pages.

Alice’s handwriting, neat and deliberate, stared back at you.

Your heart caught. You knew instantly whose it was, and your chest tightened with a mixture of anticipation, guilt, and a quiet, aching hope. Months of silence and unresolved pain crowded into the small space of your chest.

You hesitated. The envelope felt impossibly heavy, though it weighed nothing at all. Would opening it bring closure, or would it shatter the fragile balance you’d forced yourself to maintain? Slowly, carefully, you eased the flap open, pulling out the folded letter inside.

And there it was. Her words. Waiting for you.

The memory hit before you were ready.

It was the day the Cullens left — or, rather, the day you watched them leave. You had thought Alice would stay. You had thought that, despite everything, she’d choose you first. But she hadn’t. She had gone for Bella, to protect her, to do what she felt she had to do. And in that moment, it felt like betrayal.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, voice breaking despite yourself. “I don’t understand why it has to be this way. Why it’s always me who’s left behind.”

Alice’s breath hitched — not because she needed it, but because the sound felt human, raw. “I never wanted you to feel alone,” she said softly. “I never wanted to be the reason you felt like this.”

“But you are,” you said, tears slipping free now. “And I’m scared. I’m scared that once you go, I won’t get you back. That I’ll lose you again because of Edward’s mistakes, because of Bella, because of everything that never seems to include me.”

She finally stepped closer then, close enough that you could feel her cold hands hovering near your arms, hesitant, unsure. “You won’t lose me,” Alice said, almost pleading. “Please don’t think that.”

“Then don’t go,” you whispered. The words were quiet, fragile, like they might shatter if spoken too loudly. “Just… don’t leave me like this.”

For a moment, it looked like she might stay. Like she might reach for you and pull you into her arms, choose you the way you needed her to. Her eyes were bright, full of conflict and regret, and you could see how badly she wanted to.

But she didn’t.

“I’m so sorry,” she said instead, the words barely audible. “I promise I’ll come back.”

You nodded, even though it felt like a lie you were telling yourself. You didn’t trust promises anymore — not when they came with distance attached.

She lingered for a second longer, like she was memorizing you, like she was afraid this was the last time she’d see you like this. And then she was gone.

And the silence she left behind felt louder than anything you’d ever known.

You see her, back in Forks, acting as if she never left, like all the months of silence meant nothing at all.

Like it hasn’t been months. Like it hasn’t been silence and empty nights and waiting for footsteps that never come. You’re standing there, barely listening, when it clicks — Alice is in Forks. Back. Close enough to matter.

And she still hasn’t come to you.

The thought settles deep in your chest, heavy and familiar. You don’t go looking for her. You don’t want to see her happy somewhere else, don’t want to confirm what your mind is already screaming. You go home instead, curl up on the edge of your bed, and try not to feel stupid for hoping she might show up anyway.

It’s late when you hear her — a soft knock, hesitant, like she’s afraid you won’t open the window . Your heart stutters traitorously before sinking again. You hesitate, then open it.

Alice stands there, eyes immediately softening when she sees you. Relief flickers across her face, quick and unguarded, like she’s been holding her breath.

“I came as soon as I could,” she says quietly.

You don’t answer right away. You just look at her, really look at her, and all you can think is you were back, and you still didn’t come here first.

“You were in Forks,” you say finally. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s thin. “And I wasn’t the first place you went.”

Alice’s expression shifts — guilt, understanding, something like pain. “I know how it looks,” she says gently. “But I can explain.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “You always have an explanation.”

Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t retreat. “I saw Bella,” Alice says softly. “I saw what would’ve happened if I didn’t go to her. She was going to hurt herself. I couldn’t ignore it.”

The words hit harder than you expect. Your chest tightens, breath catching.

“I didn’t know,” you admit, quieter now. Then, sharper, “But do you know what it felt like? Hearing you were back and realizing I was still waiting?”

Alice steps closer immediately. “I never stopped thinking about you,” she says, voice urgent now. “Not once. I just—”

“You left because of her,” you interrupt, voice shaking, “and now you came back for her, not me. I’ve been here, alone, trying to hold myself together, and you didn’t even think to come to me first.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” Alice says quickly. “I wasn’t choosing her over you. I was choosing to stop someone from dying.”

“And what about me?” you ask, voice breaking despite yourself. “What about the months I spent barely holding myself together because you left?”

Her face crumples. “I didn’t know it was that bad,” she whispers. “If I had—”

“If you had been here, I wouldn’t have spent every night waiting for you, wondering if I’d ever see you again.”

Alice reaches for you then — slow, careful — her cold fingers brushing your wrist. “Please,” she says. “Let me fix this. I’m here now. I want to stay.”

You pull your hand back.

“I don’t know how to let you,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know how to trust that I won’t lose you again.”

She doesn’t step away. If anything, she looks more desperate. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promises. “Just… don’t shut me out. Please.”

You close your eyes, chest aching. You want to fall into her arms, want to believe her, want the hurt to stop.

But wanting her is what broke you the first time.

“I need space,” you say softly. “I can’t do this right now.”

Alice stays where she is, eyes searching your face like she’s memorizing it, like she’s trying to see a future where this doesn’t end badly.

“I’ll be here,” she says quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You don’t answer.

And when you close the window, it isn’t because Alice left — it’s because you couldn’t let her stay.

The house is dark when Alice comes back.

She waits first — longer than she needs to — standing still beneath your window, listening. Your heartbeat is slow, uneven. Asleep, finally. The sound of it eases something sharp in her chest.

She slips inside without a sound.

Your room looks exactly the same as when she left the night before, and that somehow hurts more than if it had changed. She doesn’t come closer to the bed. She doesn’t touch you. She knows better than that now.

Instead, she stands there, looking at you like she used to, memorizing the way your face softens when you aren’t holding everything in.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, though she knows you can’t hear her.

Alice pulls the envelope from her coat, fingers lingering on the edge of it. She had written it multiple times. And tore each one apart. The last one still doesn’t feel like enough.

She places it carefully — tucked inside the book on your nightstand, the one you always meant to finish. Somewhere you won’t find it right away. Somewhere it can wait.

Because she will.

She takes one last look at you, eyes shining, and for just a second, she almost reaches out.

She doesn’t.

When she leaves, it’s just as quietly as she came. No footsteps. No goodbye.

Only the letter, waiting — full of all the things she couldn’t make you hear.

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You don’t find it on purpose.

It happens on an ordinary day, the kind that feels dull and heavy in the way only time can make things feel. You’re cleaning without really thinking, touching things you haven’t touched in months since moving, trying to convince yourself that you’re fine.

The book slips from your hand when you pull it from the shelf.

It lands open, pages fanning out — and something pale slides free.

An envelope.

You freeze.

You know immediately who it’s from. Your name is written on the front in neat, familiar handwriting you’ve tried not to think about. For a moment, you just stare at it, heart pounding, chest tight like the air has been sucked out of the room.

You don’t open it.

Not at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, envelope resting in your hands like it might burn you. Your thumb traces the fold, the paper worn soft from being handled — like she hesitated before leaving it, like she stood there deciding whether or not you deserved to hear these words at all.

She was here, you realize. After everything… she came back.

You think about putting it away. Sliding it back between the pages. Pretending you never found it. Because if you open it, there’s no going back. You’ll have to face everything you tried so hard to bury.

Eventually, you unfold it anyway.

The paper trembles slightly as you read. Alice’s words spill out slowly, careful and aching — love she didn’t take back even when you pushed her away.

My love,

I keep stopping and starting because every sentence feels wrong, and I don’t know how to say any of this without reopening something I already broke.

But silence has done enough damage.

I hurt you. Not once. Not accidentally. I hurt you by leaving space where I should have stayed, and by letting that space grow until it swallowed you. I see that now, and it makes me sick to think about how long it took me to understand it.

I told myself you would be okay. I told myself you knew I loved you, that that would be enough to carry you through my absence. I didn’t realize how cruel that was — to assume love could replace presence, to assume waiting wasn’t its own kind of suffering.

I know you waited. I know you listened for me in the quiet. I know there were days when getting through the hours felt heavier than it should have, and nights where the loneliness was louder than anything else. I wasn’t there for any of it, and I will regret that for as long as regret is something I’m capable of.

When I came back and didn’t come to you first, I did more than hurt you — I confirmed what you were already afraid of. I showed you that even after everything, you could still be the one left standing alone. I don’t think you know how deeply that moment is carved into me.

You never asked to be chosen above everyone else. You just wanted to be chosen without hesitation. And instead, I made you feel like something that could wait. Like something that could be put aside.

That is the part I can’t forgive myself for.

I don’t want to explain myself. I don’t want to tell you why I made the choices I did, because I know now that reasons don’t change the way it landed. All that matters is that it hurt you, and I didn’t stop it.

I love you. I don’t know how to write that without it sounding small compared to what I failed to do for you, but it’s still true. It was true when I left. It was true when you shut me out. It is true even now, knowing I may never be allowed back into your life.

If you decide this is where our story ends, I will carry that with me. I won’t argue with it. I won’t try to make myself the exception to the damage I caused.

I just need you to know this — not to fix anything, not to ask for forgiveness, but because you deserve the truth:

You were never asking for too much.

You were never unreasonable.

You were never hard to love.

I was the one who didn’t stay.

Always,

Alice

Your vision blurs.

By the time you reach the end, your hands are shaking.

The room feels different now. Quieter. Heavier. Like something unfinished has finally made itself known.

For the first time in months, the pain isn’t something you can push away.

It hurts because it still matters.

Because fixing this would mean opening yourself up again.

Because wanting her back means risking everything breaking all over again.

And still —

you don’t let go of the letter.

~ A sleepless night, a quiet text, and Alice Cullen holding you close until morning.

a/n: this is my first fic in a while, and honestly, i’m not sure what to write next. if you have any requests or ideas, i’d love to hear them! 🤍

English is not my first language so pls ignore any mistakes! ♡

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Sleep refuses to come, no matter how long you lie still. You turn onto your side, then your back, then your side again, staring up at the ceiling as the minutes drag by. The room is quiet in that way that makes everything louder—the ticking clock, the distant hush of the night outside your window.

You reach for your phone, the screen lighting up the dark, and type a quick message.

Can you come over?

You press send, then push yourself up and open the window, letting the cool night air drift in. Stepping back, you return to the bed and sink onto the mattress, curling in on yourself as you wait.

A few minutes pass—two, maybe three—and then you hear faint movement outside. Before you can even look toward the window, Alice is there, stepping lightly into your room. Her presence is effortless, calm, and immediately grounding.

She smiles softly at you, eyes bright, hair falling in a perfect disarray that somehow makes her even more herself. Without a word, she crosses the small distance to the bed and settles beside you with the ease of someone who has been here a thousand times before.

For a moment, she leans back on her hands, just looking at you.

“Everything okay?” she murmurs, voice low, as if speaking too loudly might break the quiet.

You shrug softly.

Her lips curve just slightly, not quite a smile this time. Then she shifts closer and wraps you in a gentle hug. You melt into her, chest pressing against hers, and she holds you with that steady presence that always makes the world feel a little smaller, a little safer.

Your head tilts instinctively toward her shoulder, and she rests her chin lightly above your hair. Her cold hand moves on its own, brushing slow, lazy patterns along your back, fingers tracing idle shapes without any purpose other than being there.

“Better?” she murmurs, just above your hair.

You nuzzle closer against her chest, and her arm tightens a fraction in response.

Alice watches you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like she’s taking you in. Then she reaches out and takes your hand, her grip light but sure.

“Lie down with me,” she says softly.

She moves first, easing back onto the bed and settling against the pillows, one arm already opening for you. You follow, shifting closer until you’re half-draped over her, your head finding its place against her chest. Her other arm comes around you easily, hand resting at the middle of your back, holding you there like it’s instinct—the steady presence beneath you unchanging and solid in a way that feels reassuring rather than strange.

Her fingers begin to move, slow and unhurried, tracing the same gentle path along your back. It isn’t meant to distract or soothe in any deliberate way; it’s simply constant. When you shift, pressing a little closer, she adjusts without thinking, chin tipping down so it rests lightly against the top of your head.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” she says quietly, the words low and certain, like a promise she never thought to doubt.

The tension you’d been carrying finally eases, your body relaxing fully into hers. The blanket is pulled higher around you at some point—you barely notice when—but soon you’re tucked fully against her, settled and still.

Alice keeps her arm around you as your weight softens completely into her. When your grip loosens and your body finally goes slack, she knows you’ve fallen asleep.

She doesn’t move after that.

The night passes quietly outside the window—hours slipping by unnoticed—but Alice stays exactly where she is, one arm secure around you, the other holding you close. She doesn’t shift, doesn’t adjust, doesn’t pull away when your head settles more heavily against her chest.

When morning finally comes, you’re still there, curled against her just as you were when you fell asleep.

And Alice is still awake.

Still holding you.

Just as she promised.