Chapter Text
Forks, Washington, is the kind of place that feels like it exists just outside the edge of the world. The town doesn’t greet you when you arrive—it studies you, like it's waiting to see if you'll stay. As the plane descended into a sea of thick gray clouds and then further into the endless pines below, I realized just how far I’d come from the dry heat of Phoenix. The air itself felt heavier, like it remembered things.
I told everyone I was moving here to give my mom space to be with her new husband, Phil, while he chased minor league baseball dreams. That was technically true. But it wasn’t the whole story. I needed space, too—though I didn’t know from what. I had no dramatic trauma, no big heartbreak. Just an overwhelming sense that something wasn’t right. That something in my life hadn’t started yet, and that maybe I needed to be somewhere quiet enough to hear it when it finally did.
Charlie picked me up from the airport in his police cruiser. He looked exactly the same—mustache, flannel, the same sturdy silence that made most people uncomfortable but never really bothered me. We made small talk on the drive into town, the kind of questions and answers you give when you haven’t seen someone in years but don’t want to admit how much time has passed. He asked about school, about Mom, about the flight. I answered mechanically, watching the trees blur past the window. Forks hadn’t changed at all.
My new room at Charlie’s house had been kept in storage. Not in the literal sense—there was a bed, a desk, a bookshelf—but in the emotional sense. The space felt like a placeholder. There were things in there I vaguely remembered from childhood: a faded pink comforter, a stack of old paperbacks, a lace curtain that filtered what little light Forks allowed in. It didn’t feel like mine. I unpacked slowly that first night, setting things on shelves without much thought, like I was arranging props on a stage for a play I didn’t know the lines to yet.
That night I lay awake for hours, listening to the rain tapping against the roof. The house creaked and sighed in a way that felt both familiar and newly foreign. The stillness made me aware of my own heartbeat, the way my thoughts turned in on themselves. I kept telling myself this was a fresh start. I didn’t believe it.
School began the next day. Forks High was smaller than any school I’d ever been to—just over three hundred students, which felt more like a family reunion than an academic institution. Word spread fast that I was the new girl, Charlie’s daughter. People stared. People whispered. I wasn’t used to attention, and I hated it. I moved through the hallways like a ghost, trying to keep my head down, trying not to attract more eyes.
Jessica was the first to befriend me, though I wasn’t sure if “friend” was the right word. She talked a lot, mostly about other people, and seemed to enjoy narrating the social dynamics around me like a reality show host. Mike Newton, one of the most golden retriever-esque boys I’d ever met, immediately latched onto me as his next crush project. Angela, quiet and sincere, became the only person I felt at ease around. The rest of them blended together into a blur of names and conversations that didn’t feel real.
Then, I saw them.
It was in the cafeteria, during my second week. I was picking at a limp salad and tuning out Jessica’s commentary about last year’s spring formal when the doors opened and in walked five students who didn’t look like they belonged in Forks—or anywhere else on this planet, really.
The Cullens moved through the room like they were on a different plane of existence. They were pale, elegant, intimidatingly beautiful. Rosalie, tall and severe, looked like a model with a built-in scowl. Emmett was broad and laughing, the kind of person who seemed like he’d crush beer cans on his forehead if he wasn’t too refined for it. Jasper looked like he’d stepped out of a gothic romance novel—haunted and pale and somehow out of time. Edward, the last to enter, was striking in a classical sense. Every movement of his was careful, restrained, coiled with something I didn’t understand.
But it was Alice who made the air around me change.
She was small—petite in a way that made her seem weightless—but everything about her commanded attention. Her black, short hair was spiked in every direction, but intentionally so, like it had been sculpted by wind. She wore all black: a long cardigan, dark jeans, and a silver chain that caught the overhead light. She laughed softly at something Jasper said as they passed my table. That sound—that one small sound—lodged itself in my chest like a stone in still water.
Our eyes met.
It wasn’t long. A second, maybe two. But I felt it everywhere. The back of my neck flushed. My stomach dropped like I’d missed a step on a staircase. She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. Then she smiled. Just the corners of her mouth. And then she looked away.
I didn’t hear anything Jessica said for the rest of lunch.
Over the next few days, I tried not to stare at her. I failed. She wasn’t always near. Sometimes she disappeared for entire days. The Cullens were like that—here one day, gone the next. No one seemed to question it. But whenever she was around, I felt it. A pull. Not just physical attraction, though there was that. It was something deeper. A curiosity. A sense that she saw through people and into them, and I wanted to know what she saw when she looked at me.
I didn’t expect her to talk to me. That would have been too easy. But on the Friday of that same week, after school let out, I turned from my locker and nearly ran into her.
She was standing there, close. Closer than anyone usually got without making me anxious. But I didn’t feel anxious. I felt like the world had narrowed to a pinpoint.
“You’re Bella,” she said.
I blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”
Her smile widened. “I’m Alice.”
“I know.” The words came out before I could censor them. My cheeks flamed. “I mean—people talk.”
Her laugh was soft again. “They do that. But I prefer to see for myself.”
I opened my mouth to respond but nothing coherent came out. Her gaze was steady and warm, but underneath that warmth was something harder to define—an edge, a knowing.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, and with that, she turned and walked away.
That night, I dreamed of her.