To Be Or Not To Be » Stefan Salvatore

Chapter 24 - What Have I Done?

"Do you think the sun ever gets lonely?" she murmured, voice soft as a breath of wind. "He spends eternity reaching out with both arms, but no one can ever touch him. He could smile every day for five billion years, but no one would ever look long enough to fall in love."

She turned her head, cheek resting against his chest, fingers tangled loosely with his. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing grounded her, but still, she spoke.

"We need his light, so we call him important, but come nightfall, we fall in love with the moon. Because who would dare touch something that burns? Who would love something that hurts?"

The boy beside her—eyes as green as untouched woods, deep and unfathomable—let out a thoughtful hum. His fingers tightened around hers.

"I don't think the sun is ever lonely," he said finally. "The stars watch over him, the moon waits for him, and we love him even when we can't see him. Besides," he added, lips ghosting the crown of her head, "I'd rather our love burn than for it to be cold."

She exhaled, a sigh caught somewhere between wistfulness and sorrow.

His grip on her hand firmed. "What's wrong?"

"This isn't real, is it?" The words were a whisper, barely there, but heavy enough to sink between them.

The boy stiffened. She felt it—the way his chest tensed beneath her palm, the way his fingers hesitated before curling more securely around her own. Then, of course, he had to ruin the moment. He sat up, forcing her gaze to his.

"Why would you say that?" There was hurt in his voice, his eyes dark with something she refused to name.

Guilt clawed up her throat, but it wasn't enough to silence the truth.

"Because you're just a dream," she admitted, voice quieter this time. "A hallucination my mind has conjured while there's a dagger in my heart."

His frown deepened, frustration flickering across his face like a gathering storm. "That's not true. If it was, could you feel this?"

His lips brushed her jaw, warmth blooming in the wake of his touch. A shudder ran through her, unwilling and undeniable.

"And this?" His hand slipped to cradle the back of her head, guiding her toward him as his mouth ghosted over the corner of hers, lingering, coaxing.

Her lashes fluttered. Her hands pressed against his chest.

"And this?"

This time, his lips met hers. Soft, slow, achingly gentle. It felt raw, it felt real.

And yet—

When he pulled back, gaze locking with hers, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you still think this isn't real?"

She wanted to tell him that this was the most real thing she had ever known. That he felt like home. That his kiss made her feel alive.

But if she said it, she would be lying.

And he didn't deserve that. Not even after all the lies he had spun for her.

"I know it isn't," she murmured.

Something in his expression cracked. He pulled away, untangling himself from her warmth, retreating like a tide pulling back from the shore. He wouldn't look at her. Wouldn't reach for her.

She had seen a lot of things, but she had never seen someone look so—so utterly destroyed.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Then she ran.

She ran, and ran, and ran.

Her breath caught. Her shoulders trembled. The world blurred past her, trees stretching high above like silent witnesses. The ground beneath her feet bit and stung, pine needles and broken twigs pressing into bare soles.