Mylittlepanda98
The autumn air in Mystic Falls always brought a bitter chill, but tonight, standing on the porch of the Salvatore boarding house, Margaret Gilbert felt it straight in her chest.
She pulled her oversized knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders, her pale golden-blonde hair catching the faint amber glow of the lantern light. Downstairs, the steady, rhythmic pulse of glass clinking and floorboards creaking meant Damon was awake, likely pouring his third bourbon of the night.
She loved Damon. She truly did. He was an intoxicating storm, thrilling, unpredictable, and fiercely passionate. Being with him made her feel alive in a way that burned. But lately, as the quiet hours of the night dragged on, Margaret found herself drowning in a cold, lingering realization: passion didn't always mean peace.
With Damon, everything was a battle or a high-stakes rescue. It was intense, but it was exhausting. She missed the quiet.
Her green eyes drifted down to the worn leather journal resting on her lap. She flipped it open, her fingers tracing the delicate cursive script on a page dated two years.
Stefan.