Every now and then, I dream about having my own meadow. It's only infatuation, a stupid consequence of being a Twihard. But this tiny infatuation turned into a huge obsession. And I wrote it.
I was turning mad. That was the only possible explanation. I didn't understand why the only thing I wanted was that my house would be in anywhere mountainous and rainy, where I wouldn't have to worry about what clothes should I wear, because surely I would choose something comfortable and warm. A place where people wouldn't meddle and a place where the only thing to see would be mountains, meadows and rainy beaches. A place where I wouldn't have concerns about future, because it would be eternal. No eating, no sleeping, no cell, no computer, no makeup, no college. Only rain and clouds. And maybe a car. An old one. Even though I would spend my time walking, running.
I knew that all the books dealt with characters without a defined future, without expectations or any future plans. Was I, then, a novel character? From a romantic novel, maybe, a magical one.
Days went by. It started raining, and it wouldn't stop. That made me happy and I knew why.
Jeans, sweatshirts and mountain boots made me smile, and that wasn't a good sign. I knew I was turning into Bella Swan, although I'd always been sort of an Alice Cullen.