Damon Salvatore was in the living room drowning his silent sorrows and soundless grief in alcohol, staring at the fire. His হৃদয় broken, his soul wounded দ্বারা 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 প্রণয় Stefan, it will always be Stefan.” Those were the words, the words that wound him আরো than vervain and kill him আরো than the stake through the heart. Why could there be another person who...
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