The plaza was half-filled with people that were coming out of the church, the other half being pigeons. The church was beautiful, old stone and stained glass. There were two big metal doors in the front with carvings of bible scenes, a beautiful creation. Right in front of the church were two kiosks, one selling hot chocolate, coffee, and little warm sandwiches that were delicious. Don Hilton, the man that made the drinks and food, was a man that chatted with each costumer in a personal level. He took his time, and each cup of coffee or hot chocolate was a work of art. The hot chocolate would have a piece of cheese and a cinnamon stick, home-made whipped cream on top with a few sprinkles of dark chocolate on top. Even though it sounded strange, it was in fact very delicious. 

   The other kiosk sold old candies, those that the older generation remember from their childhood. Don Hilton's son worked it, giving smiles to the children that stopped by to buy a toy or a frozen treat. It was as if he sold for the small children as his father sold for the older the generation; generations mixing into one at the plaza with smiles all around.

   There were a few tables in front of the kiosks, the majority of them covered by old men and old women. The old men sat in one table, dominoes in front of them and Cuban cigars between their teeth. Unlit, the cigars smelled like newly-sown fields; like rain-soaked earth; like rich, loamy soil; like a barn. Lit? Well, it was too complex for words. The scent, the scenery of the men leaning back and smoking the cigars, they reminded me too much of my father. I recalled my father sitting in the parlour, drinking a glass of whiskey while he held a cigar between his teeth, the newspaper in front of him. He would let the ash fall on a glass ash tray, then lay he cigar back between his teeth. There were times where he would let out a chuckle, old the cigar between his fingers, and lean back and tell my mother about what was happening. Sometimes, he would speak about the war and comment on how Abraham Lincoln was an idiot and should let America be how it was, how it didn't need to change. Even though I wanted to speak up, tell him that we should change, I kept my mouth shut and continued with my lessons.

   Puerto Rico was wonderful, filled with wonders that one would only imagine. The beaches were breathtaking, with mangroves and the small silver-coloured fish that swam between the beach-goers. The mountains that were hike-worthy, picture worthy, a breath of fresh air in the centre of chaos, especially the two mountains that resembled breasts so much that they were literally nicknamed The Boobs of Cayey. But, there were so many things in that small island that were just as beautiful as the beach; from the people to the tropical rainforest, to the animals and even the old rackety buildings that were painted colourful.

   "Clara, your phone's ringing," a male voice said, pulling me out of my daydream. I blinked several times and looked at the person who spoke, seeing Oliver Lee smiling at me as he pointed at my phone with a finger. Oliver Lee was a New Zealander that was backpacking around the world with his best friend, Roman Young. I met the pair at baggage claim, when Oliver broke the handle on my suitcase while trying to take a picture of himself jumping.

   I glanced down at my phone, seeing a very familiar name flash at me with their picture right underneath. "Just let it go to voicemail," I said, pushing the button on the side of the phone.

   Oliver grabbed my phone and looked at the caller, a small, playful smile on his lips. "Who's Stefan?" he asked, glancing at me. "Stefan Salvatore? Hmm, what a nice name."

   "Old friend," I said, grabbing my phone back and laying it face down on the table.

   "He's been calling an awful lot," Kunthea Rin said, laying her hands underneath her chin. "You sure he's only an old friend?"

   "He sounds more like an ex-boyfriend," Diego Acosta said, laying his arm around Kunthea's shoulders.

   Kunthea and Diego were married. They met three years ago in Krong Koah Kong, a city in Cambodia, while Diego was on the planing stages of a massive Anti-Sand Dredging Campaign. She added him on Facebook, and he accepted because she didn't look like every other Cambodian girl he had met. Soon after, she sent him a message through the chat, asking him, "I see the words Tam Chet (follow your heart) is that in your arm?"

   "Yes," he replied.

   "In Cambodia hard to follow your heart. We mostly follow our parent's heart."

   Their story was beautiful, the base of Diego's book. She followed her own dreams instead of her parent's; she ended up travelling with him all through Cambodia and allowing Mother Nature to be their guide. The pair were spirited, mostly enjoying nature more than the big city. Which was why when they came to Puerto Rico, they bought a house right by the beach, away from people and city and just one with nature. In the word of the law, they weren't married. In the laws of nature, themselves, and those who went to the ceremony, they were, in fact, very married. 

   "He's not a boyfriend," I told them, forcing a small smile and shaking my head. "Like I said, he was an old friend."

   "An old friend who happens to have a brother and is also calling you?" Oliver said. I turned to him, seeing how he held my phone. He turned the screen in my direction, showing me Damon's name on the screen. There was a picture of him underneath it, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he held a glass of bourbon in hand.

   "Yes." I grabbed my phone and rolled my eyes. "They happen to be brothers, so?"

   "Ooh, brothers fighting for Clara's love," Roman teased. "So exciting!"

   "They're not fighting for my love," I chuckled, rolling my eyes once again. "Trust me."

   Diego snapped his fingers, almost as if he had gotten an idea. "A love triangle," he said. "You're right at the top, and these two brothers are the other sides."

   "No," I laughed, shaking my head. "It's not a love triangle; more like a love trapezoid."

   "Tell us the story," Kunthea said, leaning against her husband's side. "Who do you love?"

   "Both," I answered, leaning back on my chair.

   Oliver made a face, sucking in a breath between his teeth. "Ooh, that's bad."

   "Let me explain." I crossed my legs and tapped my fingers against my thigh, looking at the black screen of my phone with a small smile. "I used to be engaged to Damon," I began, glancing at each person quickly. "Things happened, and we sort of broke up. And then, like some idiot, I fell for his brother. I know, so stupid of me."

   "You can't control the matters of the heart," Diego said after a few seconds of silence. "It's one of the few things you can't control."

   "Is he always like this?" Roman asked, facing Kunthea with a half annoyed, half amused look. 

   "I'm a writer," Diego defended, grinning. "I should always be like this!"

   "He said he was going to use all of us for his book," Oliver said. "Remember? I'm the handsome lead, Clara's the love interest, you the boring best friend that ends up marrying the love interest's best friend."

   "Ha, ha," Roman sarcastically laughed, giving his best friend a look. "I forgot that you were so funny, Oli."

   "No, I'm the handsome lead," Diego said, smiling with amusement. "Kunthea's the love interest, and you all will be side characters."

   "We'll be killed off immediately," Oliver sighed, nodded. "See, this is why I shouldn't have told you stories about our adventures in Albania."

   "How about if I make you the wise old man that gives me wisdom about life?" Diego asked. "Clara will be the lost girl I met, the girl that was a ruin and was slowly starting to be restored."

   I raised a brow and looked at him with a curious gaze. "What?"

   "A ruin," he said. "Clara, you're a ruin."

   "Again, what?"

   He chuckled, shook his head, then lean against the table and looked straight at me. "Allow me to explain," he began. "Sorry if I get this completely wrong, but it's the vibe I got from you the night I met you. Clara, you got hurt by Damon, so now you're afraid of potential relationships, which is where this Stefan guy comes in. You're a ruin, hundreds of fragments from a wonderful collide, and you're trying to find a way to reconstruct yourself. The problem is that you don't know how, and that's why you came here, to Puerto Rico. And now, you're ignoring every other call from the people that care about you because you're afraid. You're afraid of going back, of pain, but, here's the thing, Clara: it's a good thing to have your heart broken, it means you tried for something."

   I stared at the Puerto Rican boy in surprise, in wonder. This boy knew things about myself that I didn't even know, but maybe that was why he was a writer. Writers were observant, with eyes that were like those of a hawk. They watched, and learned a lot with just their eyes. Maybe this boy learned a lot about me through the weeks we've all lived together, by watching everything I did. And maybe, just maybe, he was right.

   I looked down at my hands and let out a chuckle. Well, more like forced it out of me. I looked up at Diego and nodded, pursing my lips lightly. "Well, it seems that you just seriously want to use me in your book."

   Drums suddenly echoed around us, followed by other instruments and people laughing. By the church, there was a stage. Most of the time, there were children run from end to end. There was the occasional time where college students began to play music just to have a good time. This time, there were older men joining in. In the centre, there was an old couple slowly dancing. The woman had a laugh on her lips, just like the man had a toothless grin.

   Diego grinned, took Kunthea's hand, and pulled her to the group. As soon as they reached the centre of the group, he took her hand and began to dance. His feet moved with expertise, and it was obvious that he had danced so many times before. Kunthea, on the other hand, had a bit of trouble dancing, but she kept the laugh right at the tip of her tongue and continued to dance. I took notice that it was salsa music that echoed around us, the joyous rhythm that ran through everyone's smile and feet. It took me seconds to notice how I also enjoyed the music, how I tapped my feet and moved my shoulders a bit to the rhythm.

   "Hey, Clara!" I turned my head to the person that called my name, seeing Oliver smiling at me with his hand pulled out. "Let's dance, yeah?"

   "Uh, no," I laughed, shaking my head. "I don't dance."

   "Come on!" He took my hand and pulled me up.

   It was just like the dancing scene from a movie. As soon as we reached the circle, he put a hand on my waist and held my other hand. He began to move his hips, just like I began to mine. I dance cautiously, as if I were afraid of dancing, of moving my feet awkwardly to the rhythm. Shortly, not even seconds, I began to dance just like everyone else, with a bit of confidence but with a grin on my lips. I realised that I didn't need to dance perfectly. In fact, I just needed to try and enjoy how horribly I did. I felt jealous of the women that danced as if they were in Dancing with the Stars, as if they were professionals and had years of practice.

   I leaned my head back and laughed as Oliver pulled away and spun me around. It wasn't once, but several times that he decided to spin me. He was following the dancers around him, wanting to be perfect but at the same time wanting to have fun. He pulled me back and pressed me close to his chest, a smile on his lips. I pulled back from him and smiled, beginning to feel the rhythm all around me. The people that made the circle clapped, cheered, but I knew that it wasn't for me. They cheered because of the music, because of the enjoyment, and that was completely fine with me.

   "Clara!" someone called. In the middle of dancing, I opened my eyes to see Roman signalling me to come over with his hand. He disappeared through the people when he noticed that I saw him. I furrowed my brows, shrugged, and decided to follow after him. He stood a few feet away, both hands close to his ear. 

   "Roman, hey, what's up?" I asked as I walked closer. 

   "Yeah," he said. "She's right here. I'll pass her to you." He turned to me, smiled, and pushed a phone in my direction. "It's important." I looked down at the phone in confusion, noticing that it was mine. I must have had left it on the table when Oliver pulled me to dance. I looked up at Roman, and noticed that he had a glazed over look in his eyes, which only meant one thing—he was compelled. 

   I groaned, grabbed the phone, and turned to answer it. "Damon, I swear to god, why do you have to compel everyone?"

   "Well, I'm honoured that the first word I hear from you after weeks of calling is my name," he said, half amused and half angry. 

   I swallowed back and straightened my back, unsure on how to answer him. He was right. I had ignored him and everyone for weeks, how could I expect them to be completely happy when I finally answered? I ran a hand through my hair and decided to take a seat at the table, which was no empty since Roman began to dance with a girl with long curly hair.

   "Damon..." I sighed, looking down. "I'm... I'm so–"

   "Sorry?" he finished for me. "Yeah, I know. How have you been, Clara? Obviously happy, right? I mean, you are in Puerto Rico."

   "Is this why you called?" I asked, swallowing hard. "To make me feel like crap for not answering your phone calls?"

   "Oh, no, you did that all by yourself, honey," he said, almost spitting. "We all called you, and you never picked up. We were worried about you, Clara, scared that maybe you have died. You made yourself feel like crap all by yourself, honey, I only called, which by the way is costing me a lot."

   I rolled my eyes. "Is that why you called?" I asked, crossing my arms. "Listen, I understand; please, be as angry as you want with me, Damon. I deserve it for being such a... Such a..."

   "Such a bitch?" he finished for me, once again. "No, yeah, we all know. You missed so much, Clara. The day you left Elena died. Then a hunter came by, which she ended up killing. Oh, and she's sired to me. But, a lot of other fun things were included while you were gone. One of them in which you'll be very, very interested in."

   My eyes widened, my heart stopping in the process. I ignored every other thing that he said, except for that Elena died. "W-wait. She's... She's dead?"

   "No." I could hear him smiling, almost teasingly, but angry. "The day Jeremy took her to the hospital, Dr. Fell gave her my blood, so guess what happened."

   "She's a vampire," I sighed, nodding. "Oh my god, is she okay? Is she... How's she holding up? She never wanted to become this, Damon."

   "None of us ever wanted to become this," he said, softer this time. "She just happened to be one of the unfortunate victims, just like the rest of us."

   "Is she okay, though?" I continued to ask, biting my nails. "Is she holding up? God, Damon, she must be a wreck."

   "She was," he sighed, "but she quickly got over it when she realised that there was a forever in there."

   "A forever with the person she loves the most," I muttered, smiling to myself. It wasn't a genuine smile, where I was a happy for her. It was a bitter smile, one that resented her becoming a vampire. Her forever meant that she got to be with the man I had come to... I had come to... What did I exactly feel for Stefan? Was it a mere endearment? Fondness? A deep affection? Was it because he was an attachment to my past and everything I loved dearly?

   "Jealous?" he asked, the amusement etched in his tone.

   I chuckled softly and smiled. "Yeah," I admitted, shaking my head. "I'm jealous."

   "This is the first time you admitted it," he chuckled. "Congratulations, Clara."

   "Shut up," I muttered, passing a hand through my face. "Is that why you called, Damon? To tell me that Elena, turned."

   "Oh, I have plenty more to tell you," he mused. "But, I rather leave that for when you get back."

   "When I get back?" I asked, scoffing. "I'm not going back, Damon."

   "You'll want to come back," he said, his tone filled with amusement. "Trust me, Clara."

   "I left weeks ago, why would I be coming back so soon?"

   Damon took a deep breath. He sounded annoyed, as if he wanted nothing more but for me to understand what he was saying, as if he wanted me to return. But, according to the numerous phone calls and the full voicemail I had, he wasn't the only one. Most of the voicemails were from Stefan, and I've yet to listen to them. There were a few from Caroline, from Elena, from Rebekah, from Damon, but most of all from Stefan. I had been tempted to listen to them, but then I would turn off my phone and ignore it for as long as I could. It was a cycle that repeated daily, and I would ignore it daily.

   "Reason number one for that you would like to come is because of Stefan," Damon said, a smile in his tone. "Reason number two is because we found a cure."

   "A cure?" I scoffed and crossed my arms. "I'm not sick, Damon."

   "I forgot how funny you were," he sarcastically laughed. "A cure, Clara, a cure for vampirism. We found it."