She smiles at you, and you take one look at her and fall in love all over again, and it's impossible not to, and then you catch yourself. And you wonder.
And you're breathing a little too hard, and smiling a little too wide—and you've seen her at work. You've seen the way her eyes narrow just a bit (those eyes, endless ruby, endless beauty) and she bites her lower lip (so full, teeth so white and perfect) and everyone around her does what she wants them to do. Thinks what she wants them to think. Feels what she wants them to feel.
So, when you're not with her, not actually actively with her, you wonder. Is everything you feel just… her? Do you really love her, or is it just her mind telling your's that you do?
You wonder and you worry and you over-think and stress.
But the moment you're back with her it all goes away, and you're falling in love all over again with the way she laughs and the way she thinks and the way she hates fortune tellers and the color orange. The way the light hits her hair, turning brown into rich auburn, the way she tilts her head when she's confused, the way she moves her arms when she's angry.
Every useless, needless breath you take is Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, every moment of every day and every night is Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea.
How could her power, any power, create this? This is magic, this is worship, this is a dead heart learning to beat once more. You would know, somehow, somewhere, if it wasn't real. You'd be able to sense it.
That had to be right...
You love him so much it hurts, and it does hurt—always, always, always. Because he says he loves you too, but you can never be sure, not really sure, because what if it's just your damned power, making him love you? You've used it unconsciously before, not this much, but you've done it. You could be doing it. He doesn't really love you, because why would anyone love you? How could anyone feel anything for you if you hadn't made them do it?Why would anyone ever want you if it wasn't for those wonderful, horrible, disgusting powers?
That's the reason you stay with Aro, because he wants you, because he needs you, not because of what your powers are doing to him, but because you have powers. Because he's the first one who likes you for them, not because of them. Because he makes you feel wanted.
And who wouldn't want Afton, Afton of the laughing eyes and the clever smile and the broad shoulders. Impossibly handsome and clever and sarcastic—so achingly perfect it's obvious he couldn't really love you.
So you tell yourself, if you really loved him you'd end it. Surely, he'd want that, if he were in his right mind.
Or maybe he is, maybe he does love you—and that tiny shred of a moment of hope stops you from ever ending it, ever leaving him. Because he's so perfect he breaks your heart.
Even though it hasn't beat for decades, you can feel it break, just a bit, just a bit more every time he kisses you. Because one day, some day, it will end—your house of cards will come crashing down and it will all be over. So until then you store up every loving glance, every laughing look, every twinkle and smirk and grin, because one day that will be all you have left.
Now you dance around one another, both afraid to say what neither wants to hear, and slowly, impossibly slowly, things start to get strained. There are little fights that begin for no reason and escalate too quickly, there are unnecessary frowns that wrinkle smooth brows. But you love each other, you really, really do—at least you think you do, at least you hope you do—so you keep trying, so you sit down and work things out, so you kiss in hidden corners and snarl at Felix when he sees you and tries to tease. And slowly, impossibly slowly, things mend again.
That is, until the next time you turn around and see that impossibly lovely smile, and you die a little more one more time.