Stephenie Meyer
American author.
"You. Are. Not. Leaving. Me." His eyes blazed — burning brighter than I had ever seen them, blue flames.
"I told you—," I started to say.
"Did you know that 'I told you so' has a brother, Jacob?" she asked, cutting me off. "His name is 'Shut the hell up.'"
"I love you," I whispered.
"You are my life now," he answered simply.
"That's just great," someone said under his breath. "We've got a bloody queen mother alien living with us. She could blow into a million new buggers at any moment."
When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.
Tonight the sky was utterly black. Perhaps there was no moon tonight — a lunar eclipse, a new moon.
A new moon. I shivered, though I wasn't cold.
And it wasn't just ripping, but twisting and pulling in different directions. Because Melanie's heart broke, too, and it was a separate sensation, as if we'd grown another organ to compensate for our twin awarenesses. A double heart for a double mind. Twice the pain.
"Have you heard this one, Psycho? How do a blonde's brain cells die? [... A] blonde's brain cells die alone."
And then [Edward and I] continued blissfully into this small but perfect piece of our forever.
Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.
"If I could dream at all, it would be about you. And I'm not ashamed of it."
"Do you want me to sing to you? I'll sing all night if it will keep the bad dreams away."
"You try very hard to make up for something that was never your fault. [...] You didn't choose this kind of life, and yet you have to work so hard to be good."
"I don't know that I'm making up for anything," he disagreed lightly. "Like everything in life, I just had to decide what to do with what I was given."
I wondered if I was a monster. Not the kind that [Edward] thought he was, but the real kind. The kind that hurt people. The kind that had no limits when it came to what they wanted.
About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire. Second, there was part of him — and I didn't know how potent that part might be — that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.
"Don't be afraid," I muttered. "We belong together."
I was abruptly overwhelmed by the truth of my own words. This moment was so perfect, so right, there was no way to doubt it.
"And so the lion fell in love with the lamb..." he murmured. I looked away, hiding my eyes as I thrilled to the word.
"What a stupid lamb," I sighed.
"What a sick, masochistic lion."
"If there were any way for me to become human for you — no matter what the price was, I would pay it."
Our relationship couldn’t continue to balance, as it did, on the point of a knife. We would fall off one edge or the other, depending entirely on his decision, or his instincts. My decision was made, made before I’d ever consciously chosen, and I was committed to seeing it through. Because there was nothing more terrifying to me, more excruciating, than the thought of turning away from him. It was an impossibility.
"I am female," I complained. "That 'it' business is really getting on my nerves." [...]
"By whose definition?"
"How about by yours? In my species, I am the one that bears young. Is that not female enough for you?"