Hello! And welcome back. This story, I promise, will be a bit more lighter and cheerful and, well, hopefully funnier. No unhappy endings or terminal illnesses, I swear. A bit of pain, a bit of drama, and a lot more of Stefan's pov than in the last story, where there was none, even though 70% of it will be written from Elena's pov.

Enjoy your reading!

There's nothing like winter in New York. The whole city morphs itself into something more beautiful, radiant, it turns into a wonderland decorated by a glowing, white cover. Even the snow shines in New York, capturing its absolute beauty. During the winter, it's always dark here, especially with all these trees surrounding us, so they never turn the street lamps off. Among the trees, whose thin, bald branches are covered in snow, they look like giant fireflies. I move through Central Park, heading straight towards my favorite bagel cart, where the dough is extra mushy and extra, extra greasy. Locals call it one-step-closer-to-the-heart-attack cart, but I figure there are worse things that can cause a heart attack than breakfast with few calories more than a breakfast should have.

I've replaced heels with boots, for which I'm grateful for, since I've never been a big fan of heels. No ones feet should bend like that - it's unnatural. But they're considered a proper footwear of every professional woman, so it's not like I have much choice, until weather does its magic and I'm back in my warm, fuzzy Jimmy Choo boots.

There's already a line of people in front of the bagel cart, so I take a sip of my too-hot-to-drink coffee to warm myself up, and I burn the tip of my tongue. Totally worth it, though. I'm a coffee addict, always have been, and for a girl who comes from one Starbucks town, moving in to a city where they offer you coffee on every corner is a dream come true.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be honest at all," my editor says with a squeaky voice over the phone, "All I'm saying is that you should be less honest."

One of winter setbacks - gloves. My damn phone keeps slipping out of my hand.

I cock my eyebrow when her words hit my brain in their full extent. "Meaning?" I ask, but at the same time trying to tell the guy I'll have one bagel. He seems to get it. Maybe he's already remembered me, I'm here every morning for the past two years, but then again, so are many other people.

I can hear her sigh, tired of having this conversation with me time after time after time. "You're not a columnist, Elena," she points out, and I add quietly - yet. If she heard me, she doesn't comment on it. "No one cares about your opinion. No one cares what you think about it. All they care about are facts. That's what they expect when they open the magazine."

I take the bagel and give the guy two bucks, mouthing a low thank you to him, with a smile on my face. He nods. He's probably used to people on their phones, unable to communicate with him normally.

I have some trouble with juggling my phone, coffee cup and a bagel in my hands, so I keep my phone pressed between my shoulder and my ear until I find a more comfortable solution.

"So, what you're saying is that I should do my job like some mindless robot?"

"Exactly!" a wave of surprise erupts from her, pleased that we're finally on the same page. I roll my eyes. I should really work on my sarcasm some more. "When are you going to be at the office?"

"Umm, ten minutes, tops." I hope. If I don't get a strong urge to run into a moving bus on my way over there.

"Excellent! I have to go now, but I'll send you your text back with everything that needs correcting. I expect you to do it by tonight?" that sentence sounds like a question, but she's not really asking.

"Of course." What other choice do I have? It's not like I can tell my boss I won't do it, not unless I want to keep my job.

She says goodbye to me, but hangs up before I get a chance to reply. I exhale, slipping my phone in my bag, munching on my bagel, which is not as half as delicious now that I have all this anger and annoyance hanging over my head. Great, she didn't only ruin my mood, she ruined food for me as well. When does it stop?

The reason why I got into writing is to I express my opinion. I've always had so much, maybe sometimes even too much, to say. But as it turns out, you don't deserve getting heard just by wanting to let your voice out. You have to start from the bottom. I should be thankful, at least I'm not bringing them coffee anymore. At least I get to actually write now, even if it's not what I want to be writing about.

I finish my bagel and my coffee, and I don't run into a moving bus. Instead, I arrive at the office in exactly ten minutes, only to find Bonnie sitting on my desk, reading a magazine, her crossed legs falling out of her beige colored pencil skirt. She is wearing heels, just like she always does. Her bones probably changed their shape and position by now, to match her footwear.

When she sees me approaching, she smirks. "Talked to the she devil?" she closes the magazine and drops it back on my desk.

I frown at the thought of her. She's not at the office a lot, thankfully, so I don't have to look at her all the time. She has a more important job than hours, like brunches, and lunches, and dinners. Also fashion shows and wine tasting.

"How did you know?"

Bonnie shrugs, her shoulders bobbing up, then down, in a slow motion. "You have that look on your face."

"No one wants to know what you think, Elena," I imitate her squeaky, mouse like voice while hanging my coat over my chair and dropping my bag next to my laptop. I turn it on, anticipating to see what in my text really needs correcting.

She chuckles. "One time, she told me that we need our clients more than they need us, so we can't talk shit about them, even if it's true. We're not a tabloid."

I look at Bonnie, trying to catch the look on her face. The thing is, that's true, we're not a tabloid, we're a respected magazine, and we need clients who trust us more than they need us. There are other magazines out there; it's a battlefield.

My problem is not with the words she says, but with a manner in which she says them. She can make you feel so small, so unmotivated, so unable of accomplishing anything.

"Anyway," Bonnie says after our short period of silence, "You up for a girls night out tonight?"

"I can't," I give her a sympathetic, puppy eyes look, "I promised Matt we would go out for a dinner tonight," I furrow my brows when I remember his words, "He says there's something he needs to tell me, and that it's serious."

"Oooooh," Bonnie says with a singing voice, slapping me on the shoulder with the tip of her fingers, "Maybe he wants you to meet his parents."

I laugh. "I've already met his parents," his mom is a housewife obsessed with collecting dog figurines, and his dad is a lawyer, just like Matt. I don't know how those two people found themselves in the same room, let alone stayed married for 28 years.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asks, horrified at the thought I would keep a secret from her.

"I did. You were drunk, so you don't remember," I point out.

"I told you not to tell me important thing when I'm drunk!"

"Well, that's hard since you're drunk, like, always."

"That's true," she shrugs, "Man, I gotta cut down with putting rum in my coffee."

I love Bonnie, I really do, but we're so different, despite the fact that we're best friends. She never got out of her New York party girl phase, while I, well, never got into it. She comes to work straight from a club, while I need at least an hour to prepare myself for just leaving my apartment. I want to build a career in this magazine, while Bonnie thinks that she's just passing by here. Earning her rent, until something better or more entertaining comes along. She's a born New Yorker, I'm not - I'm still trying to adapt. We're polar opposites, but I know that I can always count on her, and she knows that she can always count on me. I guess that's all that matters, how we treat each other, not how well our personalities match or, in our case, don't.

"Anyway, I think he wants to tell me he got a promotion, but doesn't know how because I'm so bummed about my own job," I say, feeling guilty for making him feel like that. Afraid of telling me something important, if even that is the case. I want him to be able to tell me anything. I want him to know that I would never want anything less than success for him, even if that's not in the cards for me right now.

I open my mail. "Oh my God!" I exclaim before Bonnie gets a chance to reply to my previous statement.

"What?" she asks, jumping off of my table and moving next to me.

"Look!" I point at my screen, horrified by the sight in front of me, "The whole text is red! She expects me to rewrite everything!?"

"Oh man," Bonnie shakes her head, "So I guess you're not free for lunch today?"

I move my eyes from the screen to her, giving her a pointed look. "Get out."

When I get home, it's 8:30pm. I'm late. Like, two and half hours late. I'm usually home by 6pm.

Matt is sitting in the living room, all dressed up, staring at the floor. When he hears my footsteps thumping against our freshly polished hardwood floor, he looks at me.

"I'm so, so, soooo sorry," I emphasize the word so, when I should be emphasizing the word sorry. "I was swamped in work, so I lost track of time," I try to excuse myself, even though I know that that doesn't even begin to cover it.

It's not an excuse, though, it's the truth. After my editor sent me my text back, work just kept piling up, and I didn't even realize what time it is, not until Bonnie walked into my office and reminded me I promised Matt dinner tonight.

"You're late," is all he says, as if he didn't even hear the word I said since I walked into the room.

"I know, I know," I move closer to him, putting my palms defensively in front of myself, "Just give me 15 minutes and I'll be ready."

"It doesn't matter, Elena," he raises his voice, clearly angry at me for being late. He has a full right to be, I broke my promise. "Our reservation was at 7:30pm. We lost our table by now. Where were you?" the soft lines of his face adapt a sharp edge and his whole face darkens.

"I told you, I was at work.." I sound like a broken record. How many times have I used that sentence as an excuse this year already? And to think that the year has only started..

He exhales loudly, tiredly. At one point, I expect him to say that he can't do this anymore, but he doesn't. "Elena, when I told you to work hard to push yourself to the very top, I didn't mean this. You don't have to work overtime. What you have to do is be patient." I hate it when he talks to me like this, like I'm a child. As if he knows any better. He can't even begin to understand how hard it is for me. For someone who came into this city with nothing but a bag full of clothes and few hundred dollars in her purse. His father is a big shot lawyer, his name is everywhere. No one dares to say no to him, they just keep opening doors for him, and he has the luxury of choosing.

I, on the other hand, am very easy to say no to.

But I don't fight him. I rarely do. "I know.." I look away, wondering when did I lose my ability to fight for myself and for what I believe in. Life in this city gave me so much, but it also took so much away from me. "Let's just.. let's stay in, order Thai and you can tell me whatever you wanted to tell me," I say nervously.

He looks at me, his heavenly blue eyes piercing through mine, and I can see him weighing his options - he can either stay mad at me, or just let it go and enjoy what's left of our evening. When his face softens, I know that he chose the later.

He slides away, freeing up some space for me to sit on the sofa next to him. "Come," he taps the black leather of the sofa.

I've always hated that sofa. I hate almost everything in this apartment, because it's not ours, it's his. When he proposed we live together, it seemed logical for me to move in with him, since his apartment was way bigger than mine. But that meant leaving all of my stuff behind, as little of them as I had. I came here so I can finally have something of my own, something I've achieved by myself, but somehow I've ended up living someone else's life.

I do as he says, though, and sit next to him.

"Elena.." he sucks some air through his teeth, "We've been dating for quite some time. Two years, to be exact," there are beads of sweat on his forehead. He's not looking me in the eyes, he's looking at my hands. His lips are trembling a little, and he keeps pulling at his sleeves. He's clearly nervous.

Oh my God. Is he going to break up with me?

That thought frightens me and calms me down at the same time, and I don't know what to make of such contradicting emotions. I don't want to lose him. I love him. We started something here, something good, even though there are times when I feel like this is.. wrong. Like he's holding me down, like he doesn't understand me, like we're not on the same page.

But a relationship is made of both good and bad things, and you have to learn how to handle the bad in order to experience the good.

"And in those two years you've made me so happy. You made my life better in every possible way," he reaches for my hand and takes it in his. His palm is slippery with sweat. "Living with you is a pleasure I never even dreamed about, and sharing my life with you, well, it's something I really don't want to ever end."

My eyes go wide with surprise. You don't say something like that to someone with whom you're about to break up with, right?

I look at him, like, really look at him. He's wearing a suit with my favorite button down shirt of his, the baby blue one that brings out his eyes. There's a shy look on his face, the same look he gets whenever he's about to ask me something that might change both of our lives. He had the same look when he asked me to move in together, the look of a boy who's asking for more candy even though he knows he's had more than enough. There's a nervous look in his eyes, but he's also excited. Happy.

He reaches for his pocket with his free hand.

Oh my God. He's not breaking up with me.

A small, black box appears on his palm. He falls on his knees, still holding my hand, squeezing his fingers around my fist.

He's proposing.

"You gave me so much, and now I'm going to be so selfish to ask for one more thing," he opens the box with the tip of his thumb. He does it so easily, like he's been practicing for this moment. "For you to become my wife."

I should be happy. No, I should be jumping from joy, grabbing the ring, sliding that giant rock down my finger and pulling him in for a hug. I should shower him with kisses and take him to our bedroom to show him exactly how glad I am to have him in my life. I should be ecstatic. But I'm not, because I've stopped listening to him halfway. I can't hear why my heart nor my mind want me to tell him because some other name is going through my head.

Stefan.

Stefan. Stefan.

Stefan. Stefan. Stefan.

He's falls quiet. He's looking at me, expecting me to answer. He's afraid I'll turn him down, and with every second that I stay quiet, his fear grows, so I kill that nagging voice inside of my head and smile at him, widely.

I've drowned my past a long time ago, and with a good reason.

"Yes," I say, trying to sound as excited as possible, "Of course I'll marry you!"

When I get to the office the next day, I immediately find Bonnie and pull her to the side, away from all prying eyes. And ears.

"Woah!" she exclaims as I drag her into my office, "Slow down. I'm hangover. Or still drunk. Not sure."

I bring my hand in the air and start waving it in front of her face. Her eyes go wide when she sees the blinding rock on my ring finger.

"I have to ask, are you aware that there's a Grand Canyon on your freaking finger?" she steadies my hand with her fingers in order to get a better look.

"Matt proposed," I say.

She shifts her attention from my finger to my face. "No shit!" she makes a duh face, "I take it you said yes."

"Well, yeah," I look at the ring on my finger.

"Okay, that's not a response of the future blushing bride," Bonnie narrows her eyes, scolding me with her look, "If you don't want to marry him, why did you say yes then?"

I furrow my brows, bringing them closer together until there's just a small patch of skin between them. "What makes you think I don't want to marry him?"

"Because, if you really wanted to marry him, you would already have ten different kinds of bridal magazines in your hands and we would have ditched this place, like, an hour ago, to go celebrate your sudden engagement with champagne and strawberries."

I pull my hand away, irritated by this situation I've found myself in. I never told Bonnie anything about my past, or the person I was before I came here. As far as I'm concerned that girl is dead, and the place where she came from magically disappeared from the face of the Earth.

"Of course I want to marry Matt. I love him. He's caring and thoughtful and driven," I say with ease, "Plus, he's super hot, which doesn't hurt."

"So why are you hiding your ring finger instead of rubbing it in everyone's faces?"

I bite my lower lip, trying to decide what I should do. I can tell her the truth, finally, or I can think of an excuse, which would be futile. Bonnie knows me well enough to see beyond my lies.

"Okay.." I say, inhaling deeply, trying to find the right words to explain to her why the idea of marrying Matt doesn't excite me as it should. "I can't marry Matt, because I'm already married," I blurt out in one breath.

I'm met with dead silence from her part. She just keeps staring at me with a serious look on her face.

And then, she breaks into laughter. "I'm sorry," she says between two strikes of laughter, "I thought you just said that you're already married, which is funny, because if my best friend got married, I would have known."

I don't say anything to that, I just keep looking at her, waiting for her initial surprise to pass, so she can take this situation seriously.

She continues laughing for another thirty seconds, more or less, and then her laughter turns into a nervous chuckle. "Oh my God!" she finally exclaims, "You're serious! Why don't I know about this? And don't tell me I was drunk," she points her finger at me, "Because I would have remembered this no matter how drunk I was!"

"You know I don't like talking about my past.."

"I know, which is why I never asked, but I have to ask now.." she says, almost apologetically, "How? When? Why?"

I sigh. I don't like thinking about my past, or talking about it, because then I'll have to deal with it, and that requires strength that I don't have. I like my past how it is - locked in a box I lost a key to.

"It's something I did when I was young. It was rash and I didn't really think it through." It's the half truth. I don't tell her I was madly in love. I don't tell her that he was my best friend and my lover and the only person I ever wanted to share my life with. I don't tell her the truth I'm desperately trying to forget.

"So that's the only thing standing between you and eternal happiness? A failed teenage marriage?" she cocks her eyebrow at me.

I nod, swallowing hard, my throat burning as if I'm trying to push burning coal through it.

"Well, what are you going to do about it then?"

"Crawl into a hole with a year supply of chocolate and cry?" I propose jokingly. Or not.

"No, you're gonna drag your ass down there and demand divorce, that's what you're gonna do!" she stabs my shoulder with the tip of her finger, driving it into my flesh, "Even if I have to drag you down there myself!"

Me? To go home? What a joke..

But what other choice do I have? I guess I could just get a lawyer to send him the divorce papers, but.. what if he doesn't sign them? What if he never sends them back? What if Matt finds out?

I'm finally where I always wanted to be. Away from a crappy town, away from small minded people, in a city that I adore, with a job that I like, aiming for a job that I've always dreamed of, engaged to a guy who's as close to perfect as they get. Am I really going to let my past get in the way of being happy?

I haven't seen Stefan in years. I'm not in love with him anymore, and he's not in love with me anymore, that's for sure. He wasn't in love with me when I left, either. All I have to do is show up there, serve him the divorce papers and be done with it. All I need from him is his signature on a piece of paper.

"Well then, I guess I'm going home."

So, how do you like the first chapter? Are you interested enough for me to keep writing this story?