The worst part about Friday was that, even though I knew he wasn’t going to be there, I still hoped.

Edward Cullen was standing four cars down from me, staring at me in horror. His face stood out from a sea of faces, all frozen in the same mask of shock.

I was afraid… because, for, well, obvious reasons, I can’t stay with you. And I’m afraid that I’d like to stay with you, much more than I should.

I wasn’t interesting. And he was. Interesting… and brilliant… and mysterious… and perfect… and beautiful… and possibly able to lift full-sized vans with one hand.

I turned and he was leaning toward me, his pale, glorious face just inches from mine. My heart stopped beating.

I was wishing that I could believe that you were real. And I was wishing that I wasn’t afraid.

I’m not surprised you heard something you didn’t like. You know what they say about eavesdroppers.

He unleashed the full, devastating power of his eyes on me, as if trying to communicate something crucial.

I tried to flirt — it worked better than I thought it would.

I was aware of the time slipping away so quickly, like the black road beneath us, and I was hideously afraid that I would never have another chance to be with him like this again — openly, the walls between us gone for once. His words hinted at an end, and I recoiled from the idea. I couldn’t waste one minute I had with him.