Twilight is the property of Stephenie Meyer.

Epilogue

I'm in love.

I don't care if that sounds profound or not, I really don't. Because it's true, and I've tried more than the standard of a million times to express how I feel other than a three word statement, only to find out that it's not something that can be done by pressing a few keys or even saying the words out loud.

Which is really too bad, when you think about it. Because most love stories in movies or books involve a profession of these feeling at some point, right?

Wrong. That's bullshit.

Because there is no way in hell I could ever tell you exactly how I feel. Nor could I write it, or act it, or sing it (though I'm tempted to embarrass you by doing the latter).

Love isn't about big, epic confessions or grand gestures.

It's boring, really. At least, it would seem that way from the outside.

It's all about the little moments of perfection.

That time we were sitting on our couch in the apartment, looking around ourselves at the empty shelves and the boxes scattered around the floor.

I sighed heavily with stress and wiped my hand across my forehead. It was so hot in there, in the beginning of our first Chicago August.

You got up and flipped the switch on the wall for the fan. Nothing happened.

Obviously trying not to panic me, you just kept flipping that switch and looking around like it was just a nervous habit.

I raised an eyebrow at you and you just smiled curiously, as if to ask what was wrong, like it wasn't our first day at our new place and things weren't already broken.

I could feel a headache coming on between the stress and the heat, so I whipped off my t-shirt, threw it on the ground, and threw my head to the back of the couch with my eyes closed.

After a minute, I felt the cushions dip with your weight, and you straddled my lap.

I kept my eyes closed and put my hands on your hips, humming.

Then, I felt a light breeze travel across my neck. I shivered and sighed. I heard you inhale and I felt the breeze again, on my chest this time.

You just sat there and blew all over my upper-body until you were breathless, effectively cooling me off.

When you were tired, you lay your head on my lap and passed out as I played with your hair.

And just like that, you got rid of my shitty mood, my stress, and my headache.

I love you.

Another time we were sitting in class, side by side.

It was some kind of humanities course. You signed up for it because it was on my schedule, and took the last spot available.

You were paying attention and taking diligent notes. I was staring at your profile.

It was so amusing to me, to watch your expressions change as you took things in and then wrote them down. Well, the parts you found interesting, at least.

A glance at your notes showed me that from "the man's seductive pose indicates that he is supposed to be a kind of male siren," all you got was "penis=man whore."

And then you'd go back to tapping your pen against the side of your notebook, or your other hand, or your ear, to some rhythm the rest of us couldn't hear.

As you found something the professor was lecturing about particularly interesting, the tapping would become more incessant; quickening and getting louder.

Finally, when he started talking about male genetalia in a different painting, you tapped it so hard against the desk that it flew out of your hand and hit some kid in the head in the front row.

Your eyes went wider than I'd ever seen them and you turned bright red, even though you don't blush. Ever.

The kid started turning around in his seat to look for his attacker, so you scrambled in your chair and hid yourself underneath the counter by my knees.

When he didn't find anyone suspicious looking, he eventually turned around again and I tried gesturing with my head to get you to come out, but you shook yours hard in fear and stayed down there for the rest of the class.

I love you.

Another time, we were kissing heavily in our room on a Friday night.

I had been sitting at the table with my head bent over Frankenstein, even though you make fun of me when I do my homework before Sunday night at eight.

You came bursting through the door because it sticks in the winter and you have to throw your whole body into it.

Now normally, I'm really good about not laughing when you do this, but this time your backpack threw you off balance and you landed on the floor, barely missing the corner of the end table.

I couldn't hold in my burst of laughter at this point.

I was still kind of spluttering as I helped you up, but you just shrugged me off and stomped to the bedroom in a huff.

I heard you talking on the phone a few minutes later, but you were quiet and I couldn't hear much.

After awhile, you came out in these tiny shorts and a tank top, having shed your backpack, winter coat, and clothes.

I set my book down and turned around to see you, but you were already in front of me, grabbing me by my shirt and pulling me up and out of the chair.

With your mouth already on mine, you pulled me to the bedroom, and I forgot that I wanted to finish the damn book already. Or maybe I didn't care.

You got rid of most of my clothes really quickly and pushed me down on the bed, climbing on top of me.

Your lips were all over me, but when I tried to take off your clothes, you pinned my arms above my head.

And then you did that thing to my bicep with your mouth that you know I'm obsessed with, and I didn't care any more.

I started making loud noises, but thankfully you remembered to shush me, because we didn't want to be those neighbors, silencing me with your mouth over mine.

Then, your hips started doing things that I couldn't ignore, and I broke free of your hands and moved mine to your waist, helping you.

We kept moving and you were making breathy sounds that drove me crazy.

You shifted a little in my lap. I accidentally let a loud noise out and I was right there.

That's when I heard the knock on the door.

You just jumped up smiling and yelled, "Chinese food's here!"

Leaving me panting in the dark, you ran to the door. Point taken. Revenge is yours.

It's funnier now than it was back then.

But even though you played dirty and won, I love you.

We had this little dry erase board in the apartment.

You picked it up at Target in the dollar section because it matched the bins you got for our shelves.

They had polka dots. Don't say I never did anything for you.

We'd often write little notes to each other on it like, "class 'til 12:30" or "getting groceries". It was always just where we were or what we were doing.

You had an 8 AM class on Tuesdays. I never took classes that started before 9:30.

I vaguely remember you getting out of bed one Tuesday morning, but I was still groggy with sleep. You kissed me softly and then went to take a shower.

Right before you leave every day, you always come in to the bedroom to say goodbye.

I usually just mumble something, flip over, and go back to sleep. But for some reason, I was feeling particularly attached this morning, so I grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into bed with me before you could make your escape.

I started kissing all over you, but you were all, "I have to go, I'm gonna miss the L."

With a heavy sigh, I released you and you shuffled quickly to the end of the bed before I could snatch you again.

I fell asleep pretty quickly after that and only barely heard the front door shut closed as you left.

When I woke up awhile later, I sauntered out into the front room, not expecting to see anything out of the ordinary.

But a flash of red caught my eye and I looked over.

You had kissed the dry erase board right in the center before you left. A perfect oval-shaped, red version of your lips marked the boring white of it.

You wear lipstick sometimes. It's weird. I like it.

My heart dropped at the sight. I'm easy to please, but you left this for me.

I felt like I was flying as I took a shower and the feeling lasted for hours.

I could do this every day, I thought. For the rest of my life.

Because I love you.

We were standing on the rooftop deck of that guy's apartment building. You know, the one with all the tattoos?

It was New Years Eve.

He had dragged everyone up there, like he does at every party, so we could wait for the countdown and watch the fireworks.

You were freezing.

I could barely see your face in the dim city light, but I heard your teeth chattering.

I pulled you with me by the hand and sat down in one the long chairs, which were scattered about the deck.

Turning you around, I had you sit down with your back to my chest, and zipped you up with me in my jacket.

You sighed and leaned back against me while we watched all the party-goers mull around and talk and laugh.

Our friends found us eventually and we talked with them awkwardly because you refused to leave my lap.

I didn't mind, though.

When the countdown started, they dispersed. We were left to ourselves as everyone crowded around the perimeter of the roof, screaming into the night.

Our own countdown included a lot more kissing and a lot less counting.

But then we heard the loud pop of fireworks and you jumped at the sound.

"Unleash me!"

You were fighting with the zipper of the jacket and laughing at the same time.

When I freed you, you ran to the least populated edge of the roof to watch them.

But I stood back and watched you instead, choosing to walk to your side slowly.

When I reached you and snatched your hand in mine, you turned to me and, I swear to God, the smile on your face gave the city a jumpstart and all of the lights went three times brighter when you flashed it at me.

And when I thought about how ridiculous that would sound if I said it out loud, that's about when I realized it.

I wanted to marry you.

We were arguing one night after dinner as we did the dishes.

It was stupid. Duh. We don't fight.

Something about calling the electric company to fix the oven. The fuse hadn't been lighting for a few days.

I was trying to assure you that the superintendent of our complex could take care of it.

You were convinced that we were supposed to call the electric company about all faulty appliances.

Bringing up the fact that the oven was gas didn't really faze you, because you were already at that point: adamant, and raising your voice, and getting frantic.

You do that when you're nervous.

I would attribute it to your inability to cook with the oven for almost a week.

And then you started breaking down.

I pulled you to me before I could even see the tears glisten in your eyes because then I might have started crying too.

I held you for a few minutes just to get you to calm down. It worked. You were just sniffling as I rubbed your back up and down.

That's when I told you.

You stilled instantly, and I was a little shocked because surely you already knew that.

I was right. You did know.

And then you spoke again.

You wanted to marry me too.

So, raise your hand if you're crying.

This beautiful epilogue and perfect ending to the story was written by Grant (Edward). Everyone give him a big round of applause. He worked hard on it and I assure you that it would not have turned out this beautifully if I had written it myself. I told him he couldn't use our names, so he compromised and used no names at all. I think it's more effective this way.

We'd like to thank you all for taking such an interest in our story and following along with us as we re-lived it in a way.

For closure's sake, we're both doing well, still living in the city. Still very much in love ;).

I do hope to continue writing within this fandom since it has been such a fantastic experience. And so much fun. So, if you enjoyed this story, put me on author alert, and you may see something new coming your way!

Finally, thank you to all of you: the readers, the reviewers, the tweeters. You're such a smart, funny, witty, passionate group of people and it's been an honor getting to know you. Thank you, again, for even giving this story the time of day.

-ItIsRaining