A/N: So this was written for the Exchange Prompt Challenge. I loved being a part of it, and I'll do it again without a second thought. And obviously, I chose to write to that prompt a little drabble about Klaroline. Are you even surprised?

Look at me

This is the story of a day I felt horrible. A day I wanted nothing more than bury myself in the most awful cave possible and rot there for all eternity.

I had been an ass, I realise that now.

My boyfriend had been an ass too, when I think of it. All Tyler needed to do is letting me go with him, and he just went away, alone, and never answered my calls.

My best friend had been an ass. Shutting off her feelings and feeding on poor innocent people. I wasn't proud.

I had been an ass because I had spent the most part of my last high school year pushing away the only man on that bloody planet able to love me no matter what.

I had pushed him away, and he had left.

To leave me be.

To make me happy.

To indulge me.

Uh, I hate myself!

So this is the story of how I took a plane to New Orleans and found myself standing in front of the Mikaelsons mansion's porch.

And how the door opened before I even lifted a hand to knock.

Rebekah and I had never been friends, but she had left me live to please her dear brother, and that made her some kind of an ally, I suppose.

So I smiled up to her.

She rolled her eyes and pulled me inside, up the stairs and into a long corridor, stopping at the farthest door on the left, and leaving me there.

I didn't knock either.

My heart would have been beating so hard now, he'd have heard me miles away.

I opened the door and entered what should have been his studio. I don't really know, I cast my eyes down to make sure I didn't cross his eyes.

If I saw his eyes, I was lost.

I needed a little control on myself for a little while again.

He didn't hear me first.

But when he realised he wasn't alone anymore, I heard a gasp, and hurried footsteps as he stood up from a chair and came to stand in front of me.

A pair of bare feet entered my sight, and I breathed deeply to keep myself from looking up.

Then he said my name.

How I loved how he said it. In a low, rich voice with his bloody sexy accent.

And he asked why I was there.

So I answered. To see him. Because I missed him.

And fingers found their way under my chin, and a hushed voice caressed my ears.

"Look at me, Caroline."

So I looked up and into those two blue eyes I had missed so, those two eyes capable of knocking me senseless, those two eyes that nothing compared to.

This was story of how I let go.

This was the story of the man who caught my eyes.

And how he never let go.