And there she was again. Even after five long years, after hard battles and small victories, after shame and youth and innocence lost, there she was again.

Stefan Salvatore.

Even his name sounded like the merry-go-round she always found herself back on. And around and around and around she went, tirelessly, forever, until he stopped it with harsh words and rash moves. And yet, however far or however long she ran, she always came back to him. Or, rather, her heart did. She had tried to hate him, she had tried to be his friend, but she had never wanted this. She had never wanted to wake up one morning and realize that she was in love.

It had hit her in the chest, cut off her oxygen, opened her eyes. She had never wanted this.

She had had a crush on him when they met – and of course she had, because how could she not ? He was Stefan Salvatore –, but only because she saw him as fresh meat in an otherwise stale environment; and, at that point in her life, she had crushes on almost any boy who looked at her. Who saw her. It had been her way of saying I exist. You look at me, you see me, I exist. I am here. I am alive. But Stefan hadn't been looking at her, not really, she knew that now ; he was looking at her friend Elena. Sweet, gentle Elena who liked books and adventures. Sweet, gentle Elena whose parents died in a car crash. Sweet, gentle Elena who was queen at her prom and captain of her cheer squad. And recipient to his affection. Caroline's heart shattered.

And then came her dark days. Well, darker days.

She had been so scared of what she was becoming, had felt so alone with this new life, and he had took her by the hand and had helped her through the motions. Had helped her find herself when she was lost, had listened when she needed to scream, had made jokes when she needed to laugh. And, as stealthily as he had become her best friend, her compass and her rock, he had become the man she loved. The man she wanted.

Of course, throughout their friendship, she found herself attracted to him more than once. She had little crushes that came and went whenever she saw that he was a good, beautiful person that tried to help whoever needed him. He was generous. And kind. And funny. And steady, and romantic.

She had always known those things about him, and that was what she used to love most. That was her drive when he found himself needing her. That was their dance : he needed her, she put him back up, and he did the same for her when she called. They knew and appreciated each other. He loved her craziness, she loved his heart.

Now, however, now she noticed how he leaned on the walls and crossed his arms. She noticed the tight shirt and the hair, she noticed the eyes, and the stare.

And she noticed the smile. That was what she liked most, now : the Stefan Salvatore bright smile, and the goofy grin, and the sly smirk. She catalogued them as she catalogued the attitude, kept all her observations in her heart and pretended not to care when he overlooked her for other girls. She'd only whisper it to him late at night, whispered that she'd heard of it, heard of the hook-ups and bloodthirsty nights, that she'd seen it, seen him with them, all of them. And he'd only respond with a smile and a kiss, a soft and vague reassurance that he'd always go back to her.

And she stayed. Even when she could have walked away, moved on, got out of this horrible town. Of course she stayed. She did it because she knew that he would come back to her eventually, that he would see she was the one still there, always there, after everything, and she never resented him his flaws or his girls.

She stayed because she saw the looks he gave her when she wore her tight dresses and her blood lipstick. She stayed because of his kind words, his hot stares, his nightly visits to her house, when her mother slept and everything felt silent and dead. She stayed when he left, stayed through the heartbreak and the long search for his brother, stayed as he started a new life without her, without caring a thing about how she felt. But she stayed.

Because she saw everything for what it was now.

She had called it friendship and now knew it to be love, real, pure love that she couldn't hide any more.

It ate her alive and woke her senses. Everything was more colourful, brighter, edgier. More dangerous. She took his crap, hoping he'd come back home. He took her heart, wishing he was somewhere else. And yet she was still there when he called.

She couldn't help herself, no matter how much she tried. He was magnetic, a push and pull she couldn't ignore. Even through all of the pain, he was still the one thing she held on to, the one dream she could see herself realize.

And so she waits. She knows she should do something, knows she should talk to him, to anyone, but she can't. She lacks the courage. Lacks the will. She is too afraid she will lose him, his friendship, or even his presence. Afraid he is going to bail on her like he bailed on some of his girlfriends. Caroline feels trapped inside a dream of the two of them together, of white t-shirts and warm smiles, of red lipstick on a collar and a good girl gone bad.

And the worst part of it all is, she is starting to like it.