You're too still in that bed. I never used to be able to get you to sit still - you'd tap your fingers against the table, or the wall, or my shoulder. You used to drive me insane with it - your restlessness, that burning inside of you.

I didn't understand, at first, that that was just who you were. Didn't understand the way you worked, the way your stillness usually meant danger or injury or exhaustion.

Your eyes are closed, hardly even twitching in your sleep, and someone's washed the blood out of your hair. Someone, not me, has helped you, fixed you.

And here I am, not even able to sit uselessly beside your bedside. Scott is there, certainly, Allison and Lydia and the rest of the pack.

And your father, face pale, lines deep - I see him beside you the most.

He still looks at me with a hint of distrust in his eyes - me, the ex-murder suspect.

I wonder what he would do if he knew this was my fault. That you were my fault.

You would say that it wasn't that simple. After all, it wasn't me who bit Scott.

But you aren't here. And I'm not there.

And it's so very lonely in the shadows.