There are days when Caroline feels so powerful. Her body hums with it, the strength coursing through her borrowed blood, and when she smiles there is just the barest hint of pointed fangs.
On these days, she saunters into the Grill in her most wickedly high pair of heels, feeling the gazes on her like a caress. (All those years spent perfecting the art of walking in heels, and in one reeling day her natural vampire balance renders her self-imposed training superfluous. She could run a marathon in stilettos now, but sometimes she still inserts a bit of a wobble to her step on purpose, just to show that she's still just a girl in a pair of pretty but impractical shoes.)
She sees Matt, busing a table in the corner, stealing what he thinks are surreptitious glances at her. She feels Tyler, radiating heat and longing, eyes fixed on her as she crosses the room. If there is a little extra sway to her hips, if she tosses her hair once or twice for no real reason, who could blame her? She sits down, smiles to herself, and thinks, Look, Elena - I have a love triangle of my very own (and only one of them has already dated you).
And then there are days when Caroline notices how Matt and Tyler place themselves as far as they possibly can from each other. How Tyler will never sit in Matt's section, and Matt will take wandering routes to avoid passing Tyler's table. How they accidentally make eye contact while staring at her. And both immediately look away.
She thinks about how she tore them apart, these two boys who need each other, raised each other, love each other. She thinks how she never meant to get between them, never thought either of them would have a second thought for her, and then remembers that lately things happen around her, in spite of her, without her consent. She is a player, but someone else is playing her. On these days, she thinks of Elena, and considers that maybe she never wanted a love triangle of her very own. Maybe she was never supposed to be like Elena. Maybe what she was – what she had been – was what she wanted to be.
Those are the days she feels the power in her limbs, hears the rustling of the world, senses everything around her – and wishes more than anything that she could feel weak.
Every die she dies a little more. (Every day she dies a little less).
But every day she still dies.
And every night she lies in bed and wonders what sort of day she wants to wake up to.