1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   If he wanted to kill her, Stefan would have already done so. Florence decided to believe his words, decided to continue her friendship—maybe, those growing emotions, too—and continue with Mr. Marlowe's rendition of Romeo and Juliet. The man, who had an ever-growing love of the arts, decided to give the play a makeover, but just with the costumes. Instead of it being during the late 1500's, there was no timeline. His excuse was that he wanted the audience to look at them, not at the clothes. So, for opening night, 

   Florence stood by the side of the stage, chewing on the nail of her thumb while her eyes were focused on the stage. Stefan was an elegant Romeo, dressed in what could have been considered a suit. Charles stood next to him, dressed almost as elegant but with more opened buttons on his shirt. Romeo and Benvolio, Stefan and Charles—she wondered if they would ever become as good as friends as they acted. She admired how they said their lines perfectly, how their voices seemed to be perfect for Shakespearean. 

   "So, how are you planning on crying?" Cher quietly asked as she took a stand besides Florence. "I'm thinking that you should pinch yourself really hard."

   Florence rolled her eyes until they landed on her best friend. "Shut up, Nurse." She pulled her further from the stage, then she shrugged her shoulders. "Why are you asking me this?"

   "Because, so far, you've had every other emotion down except for crying," Cher said as she crossed her arms. "That's why I'm asking. I want to know how you're going to cry?"

   The young Gilbert girl shrugged her shoulders. "Think of something sad?"

   Cher nodded. "That can be good. Or, you can just pinch yourself really hard!"

   "You just want me to pinch myself, don't you?"

   "Can you blame me? You disappeared after I dropped you off at your house, so I thought that you got in trouble. When I went to your house, your mom said you were sick."

   Florence scratched her arm and glanced around, discomfort growing inside of her. She didn't want to tell her best friend that she got sick because of a boy, because that was stupid, but in a way she was lying, too. Deep inside, she knew that it wasn't because of a boy, but because of what that boy was. She got sick because she was scared, because everything she had come to know was slowly changing. But, instead of saying all of that, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Rachelle died. It was weird."

   "You didn't talk to her," Cher tried to reason. 

   "But I did have classes with her," the young Gilbert said. "I didn't talk to her, but I knew who she was and saw her every day since we were kids. Knowing that she died at a party we were at made me sick to my stomach." A shiver ran through her spine, and it wasn't because of the dead girl. The shiver was because of the man—creature—that killed her. 

   Cher sighed and nodded, looking down at her feet. "I understand that, Flo, I do." She looked at her best friend. "But, I needed you."

   "What happened?" Florence stepped closer to her and furrowed her brows. "Cher, what's up?"

   The blonde girl glanced around before leaning in. "You remember Stefan's brother, right?" she said in a low voice. "Well, I think... You're going to think I'm going nuts, but I—"

   "Florence! Cher!" Mr. Marlowe hissed besides them. "It's the ball scene! I need the two of you out there, now!"

   Before another word could be exchanged, they were ushered to the side of the stage. Masks covered their faces, and then they were pushed towards the rest. Florence's hands began to sweat as she felt the eyes of the audience on her. Close to the front, she could see her parents. To another side of the stage, she could see her brother and her sister-in-law. 

   Just like she had practised, Florence began to wonder around the large stage. She passed by many of the people she knew, all of them laughing because of the nerves instead of because it was what they needed to do. When she stopped at the other side of the stage, her eyes landed on Stefan, who stood at the opposite side. Her heart began to beat wilder, louder, and she wondered if he could hear it. She swallowed hard and tried to look away, but her eyes would fall back on him.

   Cher appeared at that moment, immediately getting into a rough accent and claiming that her mother was calling for her. The young Gilbert had to remember that she was acting, not that her real mother was actually calling for her. Florence took one last look at Stefan and grinned before Cher pulled her away. Out of nowhere, Mason Lockwood as Count Paris, stood in front of her and began to dance. As he spun he around, she tried to look at where the boy with summer in his eyes was. 

   But, he was soon in front of her. As soon as his hand touched hers, Florence knew it was him. She stared at him with wide eyes, heart wild and a smile forming around her lips. 

   "If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." His voice carried Shakespearean perfectly, as if he were made to be Romeo Montague. 

   Florence glanced down as a grin formed on her mouth. "Good pilgrim," she breathed, "you do wrong your hands too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this: for saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm in holy palmers' kiss."

   Stefan moved closer to her, staring into her eyes. "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?"

   She took a step back and turned, noticing that the stage had somehow shifted into just the pair of them with dim lights. "Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer." She looked back at him, a smile playing at her lips again. There was a strange feeling inside of her, that strange happy feeling that made her stomach flip.

   He came closer to her and grabbed her hands as they circled each other, almost as if they were dancing to the soft music that was playing. "Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant though, lest faith turn to despair."

   "Saints do not move," she said as she shook her head, "though grant for prayer's sake."

   Stefan leaned in, his hand gently holding hers. "Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take." He kissed her. 

   Florence Gilbert could feel her heart at her throat, her mind racing with every thought. He was kissing her, actually kissing her. It wasn't a peck, like the one that happened in the car when he was dropping her home. No, the kiss was strong, two set of mouths moulding together in perfect unison. She was too focused on the kiss to hear the hoots coming from both the audience and those backstage. 

   She slowly pulled away, eyes opening to see Stefan looking down at her with his mouth slightly open. His hand brushed against her cheek as he smiled. "Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged."

    He opened and closed her mouth, stunned at the kiss. It took her several seconds to realise that it was her turn to speak. "T-then have my lips the sin that they have took?"

   "Sin from thy lips? Oh, trespass sweetly urged!" He leaned closer to her. "Give me my sin again."

   It was another kiss, not as rough or deep as the other one, but still a kiss. Florence smiled into the kiss, her heart accelerating more and her mouth craving for more. When she pulled away, she kept herself close to him. "You kiss by the book," she said, her lips brushing against his. 

   Florence Gilbert knew when the kisses were coming, they had planned it and she had read it on the script. But, every time they did kiss, she was taken by surprise. Her lips tingled, her hands sweated, and her heart beat wildly. By the smile Stefan tried to keep hidden, she knew he could hear how fast her heart was going. So, she glared. Well, she tried to glare. She knew there was a loopy grin on her lips after each kiss, and her eyes would stare back at his, but deep inside she hoped he could see the glare she tried to give him.

   Scene after scene, words jumbling together in her head and mouth. The nerves soon faded into a few butterflies fluttering around in her stomach, her hands no longer sweated, and she just needed to prepare herself and cry. She paced back and forth backstage, fingers tapping against her thigh as her mind raced with many possibilities. One of them was thinking back at her grandmother's funeral, but it had been long ago that it only made her heart ache. 

   "Cher, how can I make myself cry?" she asked her best friend. 

   The blonde shrugged her shoulders. "Pinch yourself really hard."

   "I'm serious."

   "Fine, I read about how actors make themselves cry," Cher said as she leaned against the table and crossed her arms. "One technique is to focus on the saddest memory you have. Do you know what that one is for you?"

   Florence shrugged her shoulders. "I-I'm not sure!"

   "Okay..." Cher tapped her fingers against her arm, biting her lip as she leaned there in deep thought. After a few seconds, she snapped her fingers. "How about thinking about your mom dying?" She crossed her arms again and nodded.

   Florence's mouth fell open. "That's... That's so freaking morbid!"

   Cher shrugged her shoulders. "Well, you said to help you cry! That's all I have at the moment."

   "Where's Juliet?" Florence heard Mr. Marlowe hiss. "Where's Florence?! I need her to act dead on stage, now!"

   "Start thinking of something really sad," Cher said as she pushed the young Gilbert to the stage. "And cry."

   Florence Gilbert laid still on an uncomfortable table that was made into her tomb. She held fake flowers in her hands, fingers tangled between the plastic stems. At that moment, she began to think of her parents. They were right in the audience, staring at her as she moved across the stage. Her father would have a frown on his face, arms crossed as he stared on. Her mother, on the other hand, would have a smile and hold the recorder tight in her hands as she whispered to her father that their daughter was doing a good job. And then, they disappeared from her mind. They were no longer in their seats, leaving behind empty ones. 

   Florence swallowed hard.

   Nothing. There was nothing. No tears, no sadness, no overwhelming hurt on the tip of her nose. She became frustrated and held the fake flowers tighter, hearing Stefan say the line before he drank the poison. At that moment, her mind no longer on the song, but on the boy. When she thought of him, she would go back to the night of the party. The night of the party at Charles' house, the night when Rachelle died. 

   Her chest began to ache, her nose began to sting, and she could feel the tears. Not because of Rachelle's death—she barely knew the girl—but because of the boy. Because he would be forever seventeen, and she would grow. She would be eighteen, twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four, and so on. She would grow old and be allowed to live, while the boy she liked would stay at the age he was and never be allowed to truly be with her.

   Florence opened her eyes and sat, saying her lines to the old man that wanted to play Friar Laurence. He was a gentle man that had eight grandchildren, all of them that had gone or are going to school with her. She knew him as Mr. Whilkes, the father of Rachelle's mother. It took her several moments to see the saddened tone on his words as he said his lines, the pained look in his eyes, the way he moved slowly as if his own bones ached. There were times where she wanted to stand and tell him to take a seat, but she couldn't, because that was not part of the play. 

   When Mr. Whilkes left, Florence looked down at Stefan besides her. His eyes were closed, as if he were dead. She reached for the small vial that rested in his hands. "What's this?" she asked aloud. "A cup, closed in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. Oh, churl, drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips; haply some poison yet doth hang on them, to make die with a restorative." She leaned down and quickly pecked his lips, stomach tightening. When she pulled away, she saw that he tried to hide his smile. So, she pinched him in his arm and continued. "Thy lips are warm."

   "Lead boy, which way?"

   Florence glanced to the side of the stage as if there was something there. "Noise? Then I'll be brief. Oh, happy dagger!" She reached for the plastic dagger on his belt. "This is thy sheath." She pushed it towards her stomach, the plastic actually hurting. "There rust, and let me die." She made herself fall on his body, her face looking do the other side as she tried to hide her laugh. Every time they practised that scene, they ended up laughing. She was thankful that her hair covered her face and no one could see that she was trying to hide her laughter.

   It was a standing ovation, with everyone loudly clapping and cheering. Florence had felt the thrill of the attention during swimming meet and the games in which she would cheer. The thrill of the attention from a play was different, strange but exciting and making her grin widely as she bowed to the audience. Her breath caught in her throat when she noticed there was another figure sitting besides her parents—Damon Salvatore. He was clapping, a quirked smile on his lips with blue eyes full of mischief. 

   After the performance, there was an after party at The Mystic Grill. Her parents gave her a big bouquet of sunflowers they had purchased at the local florist; her mother sported a big grin while her father let out a huff every time she was congratulated for her performance. 

   "Oh, you did great, sweetheart!" Mrs. Gilbert gushed as she kissed her daughter on the forehead again. "Didn't she do good, Gerard?"

   "Humph!" he simply answered.

   "Gerard!" her mother hissed, smacking him in the arm. "Can you be happy that your daughter got the lead in a play and did an amazing performance?"

   "She needs to focus on swimming, not the liberal arts, Constance," her father said, giving a quick glance down at her before looking away. "How else will she be able to get scholarships, then?"

   Florence's smile faded and her eyes cast down to the flowers in her hands. The plastic crinkled beneath her hands, the sound colliding with the soft music and the conversation around her. Her mother began to protest, but she looked up and grinned. "No, no, Mom, he's right," she said with a forced smile. "This was just a one time thing, nothing more. I should be focusing on swimming instead. How else will I be getting scholarships, right?"

   "That's right," her father nodded. "Swimming is more important, Florence."

   Constance frowned as she stared at her daughter. "Florence..."

   "I'm going to go congratulate Cher," she interrupted, forcing a big grin. "Thanks for the flowers!" She moved away from her parents as fast as she could, her smile fading. It had always been like that. Her father focused on the future and her mother on the present; she wondered how could they still love each other after so many fights. She figured that their love was epic, groundbreaking, the reason why she was born late in their life. 

   "That was something," she heard a voice slither. She stopped in her tracks and turned, seeing Damon standing behind her with a smirk. "A father that wants to control everything you do; we're more alike than you think, Flo."

   "Florence," she corrected him. "My name is Florence."

   "Florence, Flo, Flor—same thing," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Same person. How did it feel to kiss my brother? Did you feel like fainting or exploding?"

    The young Gilbert girl opened and closed her mouth, unsure on what to say. For one, she wasn't going to answer him. Secondly, she was unsure on what could she say. She wanted to say some snarky remark, wanting to make some hating comment about him and what he was. Instead, she glared and took a step forward. "Stop," she said, swallowing hard. "You're not fooling anyone, Damon. Why the are you here?"

   "I want to see my baby brother play Romeo," he said, glancing around as he laid his hand on his waist. "See the life he has tried to restart."

   "No, why are you back in Mystic Falls?" she repeated. "It's obvious that you aren't here just because you want to see Stefan in a play, even less continue to be family when you have done so many horrible things and continue to be a terrible person." She tried to cross her arms, but instead held the bouquet of flowers closer to her.

   Damon licked the inside of his lips and stared at her, slightly tilting his head back. "So, you think you know everything?" He took a step towards her, squinting just a bit. "You couldn't be any more wrong, Florence Gilbert."

   She took a step closer to him and stared right into his eyes. "Leave Stefan alone," she hissed. 

   "Now he has his little girlfriend defending him?" Damon let out a laugh and looked besides Florence. "Stefan, you should keep your girlfriend in check."

   Florence's fist enclosed on the plastic of the flowers, eyes glaring daggers into Damon's heart. "This little girl will not hesitate to kick your ass, Damon."

   "You should leave, Damon," Stefan, who had been standing besides her, said.

   "Leave?" Damon took a step forward and laid his hand on his brother's shoulder. "But, the party's just starting, Brother." A wicked grin appeared on his lips as his hand fell. He wiggled his brows once, then looked at Florence with a smirk before walking away. At that moment, Florence knew that she should have kept her mouth shut when he spoke to her. This man was a snake, and she had just threatened it.