The next day, the fluorescent lights of Forks High hummed like a bad joke.
Aiden walked through the front doors just as the first bell rang, the din of sleepy chatter and slamming lockers washing over him like cold water. Same halls. Same faces. But everything felt different—like he'd stepped out of a war zone and into a sitcom.
His hoodie was zipped up to the neck, hiding the bruises that hadn't fully faded. A pair of sunglasses clung to his face despite the overcast weather. No one said anything at first.
Then someone did.
"Yo—where the hell've you been?"
Tyler, grinning from behind his locker door, looked him up and down like he expected some crazy story.
Aiden gave a faint, tight-lipped smirk. "Camping."
"Camping?" Jessica echoed, stepping up beside them, her voice laced with doubt and something else—suspicion? Jealousy?
He shrugged. "Took off for a few days. Solo hike in the woods. No cell. No signal. Just needed to clear my head."
Angela blinked. "That sounds kind of... intense."
"It was," Aiden said simply, brushing past them and heading toward his locker.
Behind him, they started whispering.
"He's lying," Jessica muttered. "He has to be."
"No one just disappears for four days," Mike added. "And what's with the shades?"
Rosalie was watching from down the hall. Silent. Still. Like a statue carved from guilt and steel. Their eyes met for half a second, and then he turned away.
Not yet.
Not here.
Inside the classroom, the noise died down as he slid into his seat. Connie's empty desk across the room stayed untouched. And every time the wind rattled the windows, it sounded a little too much like her laugh.
He stared straight ahead.
Whatever peace he was pretending to wear, it was paper-thin. But for now, it held.
Just camping, he told himself.
No one needs to know about the blood. The fire. The way she died in my arms.
Just camping.
The library was nearly empty.
Late afternoon light filtered through the rain-streaked windows, casting faint gold across the rows of worn books. Aiden sat alone in the back, the scent of old paper and floor wax mixing with the sharp edge of his thoughts. He was supposed to be reading something for class, but the words kept sliding off the page.
He heard her before he saw her—heels soft on the tile, breath steady, purposeful. He didn't have to look up to know it was her.
Rosalie.
She stopped beside his table and stood there for a moment like she was waiting for him to acknowledge her. When he didn't, she sat down across from him without asking.
"You always hide back here?" she asked, her voice low but unafraid.
Aiden's eyes flicked to her. She looked the same—flawless, composed, like the chaos of the world bounced right off her. But her eyes were different. There was something real behind them. Raw.
"I'm not hiding," he said. "I'm just tired of pretending."
Rosalie tilted her head, folding her hands in front of her. "Pretending what?"
"That any of this is normal," he said flatly. "That I can walk back into this school and pretend I didn't go to hell and back."
She studied him for a long moment.
"You're not the only one who's tired, Aiden," she said. "I've seen too much too. Felt too much. You're not as alone as you think."
A beat passed.
He closed the book slowly. "Why are you here, Rosalie?"
She looked down, then back up at him, eyes softer now. "Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
Silence. It stretched long between them.
"I don't know what this is," she went on, voice quieter now. "But I know what it isn't. It isn't nothing."
Aiden stood, half-turning to leave—but she reached out, grabbing his wrist.
"Don't run from this," she said.
He froze. Her fingers on his skin felt like lightning. Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, but he didn't. Not this time.