A/N: Hey there, guys! This is a story I've been carrying around with me for a long time. The original plan was to finish it, rewrite it and then put it out there, but I just couldn't wait any longer to share it, so now I'm just going to start putting chapters up even though it's far from perfect. Please don't kill my baby!

I don't have a beta, so all the mistakes are mine. Stephenie Meyer owns all the characters, obviously, but I'm the one who makes them do all the weird stuff. This is all human, some fluff, a little angst, some citrus and language, which I guess makes this M.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

Chapter 1

You're just like an angel. Your skin makes me cry.

You float like a feather in a beautiful world.

I wish I was special. You're so fucking special.

But I'm a creep. I'm a weirdo.

What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.

I don't belong here.

Radiohead: Creep

EPOV

The sun is coming up in the east. It is unbelievably beautiful with the strands of pink and lavender clouds and colours I don't even know the name of, and the sea a sheet of silver straight to the horizon. My hands and feet are numb and I am shivering so bad I don't know if I can stand up. My body aches, and my eyes are sore and my stomach is so empty it can't rumble – it is like a hole straight through my body. This is my third night on the beach and my second month on the run, and I don't think I will live through next week. But I know I will rather die than go back. I will do anything rather than go back. Anything.

There's a woman in sweats running along the beach. I have seen her before. She lives in one of the beach houses right at the edge of town, with a big deck looking out over the ocean. I have seen her every morning since I came here. She is always alone, doesn't even have a dog with her. I should tell her that it can be dangerous to run alone along the beach at this godforsaken hour, but who am I to talk? I am probably one of those people she should be afraid of.

She has dark hair in a ponytail, but that is almost everything I have seen of her, she is all covered up although she is running and should be getting warm by now, her hood up over her head, and grey, shapeless sweats shielding her from top to toe. I still think that she is beautiful. She moves beautifully, fluently, running without hesitation, without fear, almost with anger.

Now everything hurts so bad that I have to get up. Who knew that sand could be so hard and cold? I contract, I shiver, I stumble and I am on my feet. My head swims and I have to bend over in order to not fall down. What the hell am I going to do for food today? It will be back to the dumpsters again, and hope for better luck than yesterday. I collect the cardboard and newspapers that constitute my bedclothes and hobble up from the beach to stash them for later.

I sit with my back against one of the shacks where people who live nearby keep their stuff for the beach. There are several shacks but they are all locked properly, with expensive-looking padlocks. I know, because I spent a great deal of my first night here desperately trying to break into the shacks to find some better shelter, but I had to give up eventually. Now I just sit with my back to the plank wall and try to soak up some warmth from the May sun, to get the stiffness out of my joints and make a plan for the day.

I feel fuzzy and weak. Maybe this is because I haven't eaten since early yesterday sometime? How long can you last without food? I think I read somewhere that you could live for a week, as long as you had water. I hope I won't have to test that theory. I know I could turn myself in to the police, or go look for a social worker in the park, but that would only be the beginning to another sort of end. My God, I am a young man and my life has already ended.

The other alternative would be to go to the park and not look for a social worker. I have seen boys younger than myself making the rounds and some money from the men who come there for sex. Theoretically I could probably do the same. I am a mess, but I know I used to have the ability to attract members of both sexes. I even used to joke about it, subtly seem to lead some older guy on at a bar, make him try to buy me a drink, and then leave, laughing with my friends. I was a total jerk even then. I probably deserve to be in hell right now. I am in hell right now.

Suddenly, there is something blocking out the warmth of the sunlight. I open my eyes, squinting against a black silhouette standing just a few feet in front of me, with a halo from the sun around its head. Someone is clearing their throat, no, her throat and saying something. I am not paying enough attention, I am caught by surprise. This is the woman who runs on the beach so early in the morning, the woman in grey, baggy sweats, and she is holding out a brown bag and saying something to me in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Would you like some breakfast? I run for breakfast in the morning and I saw you and thought you might like some breakfast too?"

"I, eh, I don't know…I mean, that is very kind of you, but I…"

She squats down on her haunches so that her face is level with my head. Now I can see her face inside the hood. She has dark eyes and dark hair. Correction, she has sad eyes and dark hair. There are tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and her mouth that tells me she is used to smiling, but she does not look as if she is about to smile now. She is pale, here in the state of constant sunshine, but maybe she has some kind of skin disorder and that is why she is hiding in a hood?

Her bottom lip is full, and she is biting it now. Her cheeks are faintly pink and there are delicate shadows under her cheekbones, giving her face a chiseled look, as if someone put some thought into molding it. My head feels empty. She is clearly waiting for me to speak and I am disappointing her, so I say the first thing that comes to my mind.

"You are beautiful."

Her reaction is instant and it's not good. She frowns, blushes, and gets up abruptly. She straightens her back, looks down at me and then carefully bows to drop the bag on the sand right next to me.

"Enjoy."

That's all she says, and then she is walking away with long, even strides, away from the beach, away from me. I sit there, stunned, feeling helpless and stupid. I pick up the bag and look inside. There is a turkey and cheese sandwich and a cup of something hot. I peel off the lid with clumsy fingers and smell it – black tea, not too strong. Good. I couldn't stomach coffee right now. There is some sugar in the bag and I pour it in before I sip it. The hot, sweet liquid burns pleasantly inside me, and I try eating my sandwich in small bites, to make it last longer and to let my empty stomach get used to the feeling of food.

Breakfast over, I stand up after carefully picking up all the crumbs from my sweater and putting them in my mouth. The sun is warm now, there are seagulls crying and more people are walking or running on the beach. I go looking for a public lavatory to relieve myself and clean up. Looking at myself in the foggy mirror over the cracked washstand I think I look like hell. Shadows under my red-rimmed eyes, my hair wilder than ever, but matted, since I have only been able to wash it with cheap soap, a desperate, haggard look to my face.

I used to be a pretty boy, at least that was what people would have me believe. I have never felt pretty. And now I know for a fact that I am a soulless son of a bitch, no matter what I look like. Maybe, finally, my looks are beginning to match my insides? I rub my tired eyes after splashing myself with cold water and try to think. Where to go, what to do?

I can't stop thinking about the woman who brought me breakfast. So mysterious,so selfless. Why would she do such a thing? And I hurt her feelings somehow. I should apologize to her. I know where she lives. Will she freak out even more if I turn up on her doorstep? Maybe if I just make it clear that I want to apologize, that I am thankful, that I respect what she did, maybe then she won't call the cops on me? Who am I kidding, I just want to see her again, to get a look into those deep, sad eyes, to find out her name, to…oh stop. Just Stop. Right. Now. I sigh, pick up the bag with all the stuff I have in the world and head out, to find her beach house.

BPOV

I love the beach in the morning, the crisp, cold air, the colours of the sunrise on the horizon in the east, the way the water has no colour, then turns silver with the rising light, the smoothness of the sand. Most of all, I love being alone. Very few people are yet about, and I can run without thinking, with nothing but my heartbeat and breath as company, run until my body is completely taken over by the running, the rhythm, the thumping of every step from the soles of my feet up to my head. I punish myself, I punish my body, but I am also elated, feeling that I can do this, that my body obeys me. The aching, the soreness in my muscles, the burning in my lungs, it all feels good. The pain feels good. I believe I deserve the pain.

I see the boy again. This is the third time I have seen him huddled up on the beach. He must have been sleeping here, maybe longer, but it's only now in the past few days that I have noticed him. He seems young and I wonder if nobody has ever warned him about sleeping on the beach. Maybe he has nowhere else to go? Maybe his folks have thrown him out? Maybe he came to California on a bus looking for something and ended up here, out of luck? Maybe he is a criminal on the run? I smile. Maybe he is just a homeless young man and in need of a friendly turn.

I decide to get him some breakfast and drop it off on the way back. When I reach my favourite café I lean against the concrete wall and bend over to get my breath back for a few minutes. My body is on fire, complaining that this is too much, but I let it complain. At least now I know that I am alive. I wipe the sweat from my brow and walk in. There are a few customers, mostly taxi drivers or truck drivers or men and women on their way to work, getting their morning coffee.

I don't look at anyone so I don't know if anyone is looking at me. I go straight to the back, to the toilet, and lock myself in, pee, wash up, drink water and take a couple of deep breaths before going out there again. I am safe within my hood. No one is looking my way. I am just an ugly, sweaty, invisible middle aged woman getting breakfast. I walk up to the counter and Charlotte looks up at me, smiles and says: "Hey there. The usual?"

I nod, and take the dollar bills out of my hood pocket while she turns around to get the tea mug ready. I have almost opened my mouth to order a double breakfast when I close my mouth again and decide that I am going to give my breakfast away today. I don't really need this breakfast, it's just an indulgence, something I use to get myself out of bed and out running in the morning. My body can do without this and wait a little longer until I get home. There is stuff I can eat at home. I can hear my stomach rumble in protest but I knit my eyebrows together and think sternly about the yogurt and apples I can have later. Suddenly I think of something else.

"Charlotte, make that a turkey sandwich instead of egg salad, will you? Nice with a change."

I smile to myself. It's hardly likely that a young guy would share my passion for vegetarian food, right? Better get some more of those proteins inside you, like my father would have said. My smile fades. Good thing he isn't around to see me now. I miss him, but it's better this way. He would have seen right through me, and been hurt at what he saw.

Charlotte comes around with the bag with my breakfast, and takes my money. I tell her to keep the change, then walk out quickly before she can say anything else. I like her easy smile, but I don't like the concern I sometimes see in her eyes, as if she thinks she can read me too. Better steer clear of prolonged human contact, however brief and superficial it may be.

As I walk outside I turn my face to the sun and decide to walk back the same way I came, to look for the boy with the mop of red-brown hair. I'm in no hurry and I look around, taking in the beach, the birds and the sounds of the sea, smelling the saltwater and maybe sage brush in the wind. Finally I spot him, sitting with his back to the huts up at the end of the beach, just below the wall to the sidewalk. He looks pretty beat, as if he didn't get much sleep last night. I shudder to think of how cold it must get here after dark, with the dampness in the sand seeping up from below and the cool mist rising from the ocean to envelop him.

I quicken my steps, then slow down as I approach him. What should I say? Maybe he will be angry with me, mistaking my gesture for pity. But it is pity, isn't it? He would be right to be angry. I am close enough now that I can get a good look at him. He is pale, but I guess that goes with the bronze, almost reddish hair. No freckles, though, and the perfect kind of almost translucent skin that any woman would kill for. Perfect lashes too, thick and black, resting on his cheeks as his eyes are closed. High cheekbones and a beautiful jawline. Full lips, a bit chapped, but still red in his pale face.

I feel my fingers twitch with an impulse to trace that jaw, those cheekbones, but I reflexively curl my hands into fists. Oh, no you don't. No harassing this poor young man, just be nice to him and get out quickly before he can throw something at you. I look around nervously. There are people on the sidewalk who would probably call the police if they witnessed him attacking me, so I should be all right. I step up to him to get his attention.

He looks up, confused. He must not have heard me approaching over the sound of the waves and the sea gulls.

"Would you like some breakfast?" I ask.

He doesn't seem to understand me so I repeat my offer, then squat down so that we can make eye contact. Is he on drugs? I think not, although he looks bleary-eyed and tired out as if he had been up all night, partying. But sleeping on the beach can be no party, I remind myself, and feel a sting of pity again. Maybe I should offer him the chance to come and take a hot shower at my house? But that would be downright stupid, seeing as how I don't know him from Adam. He could be a dangerous rapist for all I know. But he looks so young, no more than twenty, and he has beautiful, green eyes, no matter how weary and grimy he is. Suddenly he's got my attention and my head whips up.

"You're beautiful", he says.

I immediately recoil. No, I want to shout, you're wrong, I am ugly, ugly I tell you! But I can't do that, I can't start behaving irrationally among strangers again, I have to get a grip, to push that voice down or I will never get my life back on track again. So I simply do the thing I had been planning to do all along, I leave him my breakfast, no, his breakfast, and I retreat back into my safe haven, my lonely lookout, the house I have borrowed for as long as it takes for me to get my shit together again, as Rosalie so sensitively put it. I walk away without looking behind me, breathing deeply and hoping that he won't have the nerve to follow me. He doesn't, and I am safe again. Alone.

When I get back to the beach house I lock the door carefully behind me, check my voice mail (no messages) and force myself to do a double set of crunch ups and arm exercises before I let myself go into the bathroom, drop my sweats and take a hot shower. I deliberately ignore the big mirror, which gets misted over after the shower anyway, rub myself down with a soft towel and slip into the huge bathrobe that I suppose must have belonged to one of Rosalie's previous conquests. She likes her men big, and I love clothes I can disappear into.

I go into the kitchen to make myself a pot of tea, take out the natural non-fat yogurt from the fridge, slice some fruit into a bowl, and pour myself a big glass of water. I eat slowly, then take the pot of tea and a glass of orange juice over to the living room, with the big windows facing the ocean, and quickly scan the newspaper curled up on the couch, my mind already half on the work I plan to do today, and then I go back to the bedroom and put some clothes on. That's when I hear it. Someone is at the front door. I hear my heart starting to pound in my ears, and a nauseous feeling rises like bile in the back of my throat. Who can it be? It can't possibly be…?