A hopeless dream
Damon Salvatore was in the living room drowning his silent sorrows and soundless grief in alcohol, staring at the fire. His moyo broken, his soul wounded kwa 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 upendo Stefan, it will always be Stefan.” Those were the words, the words that wound him zaidi than vervain and kill him zaidi than the stake through the heart. Why could there be another...
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