𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒂𝒆, stefan salvatore

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞

𝐔𝐍𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Veronica woke with a fright and it was not because of a sound, but because of the ache. A heavy, unrelenting, soul-deep ache that pulsed behind her sternum like a bruise spreading outward. Her eyes felt swollen and raw, the skin beneath them tight and stinging from dried tears. At some point during the night, exhaustion had finally dragged her under, leaving her curled like a child on the hardwood floor beside her bedroom door, cheek pressed into the cold wood, arms wrapped around herself as if she'd been trying to protect something fragile inside her.

Morning light seeped weakly through her curtains, thin and gray, the kind of pale light that made the world look washed-out and distant. Her room was silent, except for the faint hum of the heating system and the occasional creak of the house settling. It felt foreign, as though she were waking up in someone else's life.

Her back throbbed from sleeping against the door, her legs stiff and trembling as she slowly pushed herself upright. For a moment, she just sat there on her knees, palms pressed against the wooden floor, trying to steady her breathing as everything from last night came crashing back with suffocating clarity. Her heart squeezed painfully, and she pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes as if shutting out the world might slow the spiral in her mind. But it didn't.

After several long, trembling breaths, Veronica pushed herself to her feet. Her limbs felt heavy, as though gravity had doubled overnight. She blinked slowly, wiping a stray tear that had dried on her cheek, then reached for the lock. The click seemed unnaturally loud like almost accusatory.

When she opened the door, the hallway was empty — but Veronica could see a folded blanket crumpled on the floor next to the wall, and a pillow that had clearly been used. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared. Her mother had slept there, outside her door all night. A part of Veronica felt a crack open in her chest and it was not forgiveness, not yet, but a raw, aching tenderness that made everything more complicated. She moved slowly down the hall, her feet dragging against the hardwood, the house unusually still. She descended the staircase quietly, fingers gliding along the railing for balance she suddenly wasn't sure she had.

In the kitchen, she found Lori sitting at the table, still wearing yesterday's clothes. Her hair was slightly disheveled, eyes red and hollow with lack of sleep. She looked up the second she heard footsteps, and the look that crossed her face was both relief and fear intertwined so tightly they were indistinguishable. "Ronnie . . . " Lori breathed, standing so quickly her chair scraped sharply against the floor.

Veronica paused in the doorway. She wasn't crying now, but her throat felt thick, her voice trapped somewhere deep and wounded. She crossed her arms over her chest tightly, not in defiance, but in self-protection. She spoke in a very quiet and uneven tone. "Why didn't you tell me?"