Emberwood gravity don't mean too much to me

She'd never expected to see a ghost. No stretch of time or distance or haze of memories passed could have kept her heart from seizing at the glimpse of chestnut and gold, the slender silhouette of the only body she has mapped and memorized more thoroughly than her own. It's a sight she could never forget, a sight she'd never expected to see again. And for a moment, she really sees her, beautiful and alive as she'd always been — but then she remembers. Rosalie is dead.
Her gaze locks to the delicate curve of her throat, not seeing golden-blonde fur or the expanse of scar tissue hidden beneath but seeing instead torn flesh, indistinct red, throat gaping and bubbling blood with each labored breath. She sees dark-soaked dirt, the flash of teeth red with her own blood; images she's tried so hard to forget — but how could she? That night should have been her own death, too. Now her ears are ringing, limbs stiff, breath quickening as the scene replays only for her. She sees her lover's death throes, the desperation in her seafoam gaze, and again she knows she can't save her —
Rosalie? The choked word drags her suddenly above the surface, back to reality, back to the impossible cruelty of this moment. It can't be Rosalie. She'd watched her die. It can't be — but she wants it to be true so desperately that her trembling limbs move unbidden, too quickly, to bring her closer. The sweet scent of flowers and home thickens around her with each dizzy step, almost suffocating, and all at once it becomes real. Rational thought vanishes from her, and she reaches to press haphazardly against her in a clumsy, unplanned embrace. The next words to slip from her are half-sobbed, disbelieving. Lie — you're alive. I — I never would have stopped looking if I'd known.
But she hadn't known — and she's ruined their future. She's ruined everything.