A hopeless dream
Damon Salvatore was in the living room drowning his silent sorrows and soundless grief in alcohol, staring at the fire. His cœur, coeur broken, his soul wounded par the words that escaped the two women’s lips, women who he forever loved and forever will love, their words proclaimed and claimed Stefan, Saint Stefan, as their own. “I never loved you. It was always Stefan.” “I care about you. But I l’amour Stefan, it will always be Stefan.” Those were the words, the words that wound him plus than vervain and kill him plus than the stake through the heart. Why could there be another...
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