Rain whispered at the window long before Bella's alarm buzzed her awake. Gray seeped into her childhood room, pressing in with that endless patience only Forks could muster. Beneath the quilt, she lingered half-awake, wishing for five more minutes—or maybe five more years—before she had to be "the new girl."
Downstairs, a sticky note waited on the fridge:
Breakfast in the fridge. Good luck, Bells. Call if you need anything.
Charlie's handwriting was neat but awkward, and strangely comforting.
The old truck coughed to life in the driveway, stubborn as history. Each block, each turn, made her painfully aware of her own outsiderness—her hands tight on the cold steering wheel, Phoenix plates a silent announcement to every passerby. Forks moved at its own slow rhythm: moss-choked fences, clusters of bundled-up kids at bus stops, the whole town still learning to wake up in the drizzle.
At school, she hovered on the edge of the parking lot, clutching her bag too tightly as laughter and shouts ricocheted across puddles. She caught whispers—"That's her"—and a few quick, curious glances-everyone knew her name before she'd said a word. A senior in a tie-dye hoodie pointed her to the office. "Lost already? It happens."
Inside, everything felt too small and too crowded all at once: fake plants, old trophies, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights.
The admin handed her a wrinkled map and her schedule, offering a smile Bella could tell she'd practiced a hundred times before.
"Welcome to Forks High, hon. You'll do fine."
Classes blurred together, broken only by introductions that felt like spotlights. Jessica Stanley found her first in homeroom. "You're Charlie's daughter, right? Bella! Come sit."
Bella tucked herself beside her, grateful for Jessica's chatter even though it barely left her time to breathe.
Murmurs and glances followed her through each class. She learned everyone's favorite weather topic, fielded questions about Arizona ("Is it really that hot?"), and fumbled more than once when asked about her mom. Teachers introduced her—again and again—as "our new student," like she was a temporary exhibit.
Biology was hardest. She slid into the open seat next to a pale, distant boy—Edward. He didn't look at her, didn't even breathe, not that she'd seen. His polite tone was clipped, his jaw tight, and Bella found herself wishing she could shrink into her chair. Rain streaked down the glass in perfect silence between them.
By lunch, Bella's shoulders ached from the effort of pretending she didn't notice every single glance. Jessica led her through chattering hallways and into the bustling cafeteria. Tables divided themselves into social islands. Forks High was small, but the social geography already felt like a foreign language.
"Here we go," Jessica said, flopping into her usual seat. She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "You want to know the real gossip? It's the Cullens."
Bella followed her gaze. At a distant table sat five students who seemed both luminous and untouchable. They rarely spoke, moved too gracefully, and their eyes—well, she couldn't name the color if she tried.
Together, yet apart. Alice grinned at her, small and knowing. Jasper looked haunted, Emmett and Edythe nudged each other, Rosalie glared through the cafeteria, and Edward—her lab partner—seemed to exist in his own weather system.
Jessica nudged Bella, eyes wide. "So, that's the family: Dr. Cullen and his wife adopted them all. They're 'siblings,' but honestly, everyone knows two of them—I think it's Edythe and Emmett—are, like, together-together. No one talks about it, though.
They're all beautiful, smart, and don't bother with anyone else. Half the town thinks they're royalty, the other half thinks they're vampires." Jessica waited, letting that last word hang in the air with exaggerated spookiness.
Jessica grinned, encouraged. "Edward is different—he never dates, never even looks at anyone. Lauren used to say he thinks everyone else is beneath him, but whatever. Ever notice him in class?"
Bella's face warmed. "He barely spoke," she admitted, "and I couldn't read him at all.
But…" She trailed off, surprised at her own sudden rush of curiosity.
Jessica gave an approving smirk. "See? That's what I mean. They're fascinating, but kind of scary. It's best to just watch them from a distance."
Bella shrugged. "They just look… tired of all this."
Jessica giggled. "Or maybe they're just allergic to normal."
Mike dropped into the seat across from them, arms containing the awkward joy of someone trying to look cool in front of a crush. "You survived the morning?"
"Barely," Bella grinned back. Conversations swirled: gossip about teachers, invitations to weekend stuff she doubted she'd attend, local legends whispered with a thrill only small town kids could muster. Forks, she realized, paid attention to its own.
After lunch, classes passed in a blur: Spanish (she forgot all the verb endings), gym (where she almost tripped over her own feet), the smudge of lockers and unfamiliar faces. Every moment, she felt both hyper-visible and invisible—lonely, but not alone.
Finally the bell rang. As she hurried out into the rain, relief washed over her—the sweet freedom of her old truck, the quiet that only home could offer.
Charlie was in the kitchen, radio on, cup of coffee in hand. "How was your first day?"
Bella managed a genuine smile. "Weird. But not all bad."
Charlie nodded, and they let silence fill the space between them—worn in, comfortable, safe.
That night, she wrapped up in a borrowed quilt, replaying the day's awkwardness and small victories. Forks was still strange, still too damp, still brimming with secrets at the edges. But beneath all that, Bella found hope stirring—quiet, persistent, whispering that maybe—just maybe—she could find her footing here.
She drifted to sleep as rain pattered against her window, feeling, for the first time, just a little less like a stranger.