1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   When she was born, her older brothers decided to paint her room a soft yellow macaroon colour, that was neither too bright or too dim. On the ceiling, they added those glow-in-the-dark stars. Grayson put them like constellations, the ones his girlfriend-now-wife used to tell him about whenever they went on dates. Meanwhile John put them up randomly, thinking nothing of the way the stars should go. Since Florence had lived with those stars ever since she was born, she had never bothered to take them down. Each night, as she laid in bed, she stared up at them like they were her own personal night sky. 

   When she was old enough, Grayson had told her that the reason he got her the stars as well was because of the stuffed rabbit he got her when she was a few days old. He had gotten an idea from something he had read while in the library, The Rabbit in The Moon. The ceiling was the sky, the stars the stars, and her bed the moon where the stuffed rabbit slept on. It was one of the many reasons why Florence Gilbert was closest to her eldest brother.

   At the sound of ceramic breaking, Florence jumped and held on to her book tighter. Her parents had been fighting for what seemed hours, but was minutes in reality. They were hushed at first, until her mother's voice rose and rose into a yell. Her father followed soon after, his voice bellowing like a tea kettle or a train horn. Even with her bedroom door closed, she could hear them downstairs. 

   At another sound of something smashing—maybe a plate or a glass—onto the floor, Florence stood and went to her closet. She grabbed a bag and began to pack the necessary things. It was something she did whenever her parents' fighting got out of control, pack and leave for a few hours, days, or whenever they were calmed down enough. She went to her bedside table and picked up the phone, immediately dialling her brothers phone number.

   "Hello?" It was Miranda that picked up, a crying in the background.

   "Hey, it's Florence," she said as she looked at her bag on the bed. "Do you mind if I go to your house for a while?" She took a glance at the closed door and sucked in a breath between her teeth. "Mom and Dad are fighting, again."

   "Ooh, that bad?" She heard her coo at her daughter, then sigh. "If you come over, I'm going to need you to help me with Elena. She's been crying nonstop. Are you coming on your bike or do you need me to pick you up?"

   "I'll go on my bike," she answered, grabbing her bag from the bed and putting it over her shoulders. "But, I'll be there soon. Thanks, Miranda."

   "It's nothing," she said. "The door will be open, okay? I'm going to be with Elena."

   "Thank you," the Gilbert girl breathed in deeply, staring down at her bed. "I'll see you soon." She put the phone back on the holder and looked over at the door. White, perfect, slightly scratched because of the clothe hamper her mother pulled in and out of the room. To the other side, her parents were screaming at each other. What surprised her the most was that it was quiet, not a sound in the house. 

   Florence opened the door and glanced down the hallway, hearing her parents speaking in hushed voices. She took an intake of breath and prepared herself to see them, and then for the worse. Her father had a brute force, although he was almost sixty years-old. Gerard Gilbert had a lot of anger issues, and it had started when his son, Johnathan, had been born. John was the outsider of the Gilbert family, even more after him and the girl he had a summer fling with broke up, and he left for college. He rarely called, and was at home once in a blue moon. Which is why she was surprised to see him standing in the kitchen with her parents.

   "John..." She said his name out of surprise, eyes wide and brows slightly furrowed. When he looked at her, she forced a smile on her face. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Florida."

   "Mom called," he said, tapping his hand on top of the other. "She said that I needed to come home as soon as possible. I thought something happened."

   Florence opened her mouth to ask her mother what, but then she noticed the gash on his forehead. She pointed to her own while looking at him. "What happened to you?"

   John's figure got rigid, his lips setting into a straight line and his jaw clenching. "Mom dropped a plate," he said. "I leaned down to pick it up and when I came up, I hit my forehead against the counter."

   "That's a gnarly gash, John," she mumbled, trying to make her voice as believable to possible. In no way did she believe that it was the accurate story. Her eyes moved towards her father, who leaned further away with his arms crossed and his face as red maraschino cherries. "You might need to see Grayson so he can check it out, or are you going for that rugged and scarred look?"

   A small smile appeared on his lips. "Want to try it out," he smiled, "see how it looks for when I go back to college."

   "I don't think that's the look college girls would go for," she mused, giving him a bigger smile. "Maybe cover it up with a hat, then tell them a tragic backstory about how you got it."

   "Where are you going?" her mother suddenly asked, pointing at her backpack.

   Florence sucked in a breath and looked down at her feet. "I was going to Grayson's," she confessed as she played with her fingers. "I didn't know for how long you two would..." She bit her bottom lip tightly, afraid of finishing her sentence. Never had she been vocal about it to her parents, and sometimes she was terrified to even bring it up.

   "Grayson's coming over," her father said, unfolding his arms and letting them fall besides him. He pointed at his daughter and son, then pointed at the table. "You two, sit. We need to have a family conversation."

   Florence put down her backpack by the chair and took a seat, her hands laying on her lap. "About what?"

   "It's important," her mother said with a sigh. She stood around the kitchen, cutting into a cake she had made the night before. It was an orange cake loaf with an orange-lemon glaze, each slice perfectly soft and slightly wet from the glaze. Constance Gilbert laid a slice of the cake in front of each person, a small smile on her lips. It was a strange smile, forced, as if it wasn't meant to be there. 

   Florence stared at her mother as she moved around the kitchen. There was a calmness in her mother that she had never seen, strange and unfamiliar. The Gilbert girl thought it strange that she was calm after a fight, especially one that hurt John and made a gash in his forehead. She then turned to her father, seeing the red look on his face and the watered eyes that made her feel even more confused about it. 

   "What's going on?" John asked as he looked between their parents.

   "Let's wait for Grayson," their father said, his voice gruff and hard.

   They waited for ten minutes. Grayson walked in with the jacket of his suit over his arm, sporting a confused look just like the rest of his siblings. He looked at them with furrowed brows, then to his parents.

   "What's going on?" he asked as he took a seat by John. They sat in order of birth: Grayson, John, and Florence. The three Gilbert children, the ones that were raised to be members of the community and smile widely whenever they were sad. 

   Constance Gilbert, the matriarch of the Gilbert family, took in a deep breath and glanced at each of her children for several seconds. "The three of you know how much we both love you very much, and this has nothing to do with either of you."

   Gerard Gilbert, the patriarch of the Gilbert family, sucked in a breath and tapped his fingers against the table. "Your mother and I can't live live together anymore."

   "What?" the three Gilbert children said in unison.

   "We can't live together anymore," Constance repeated. "Your father..."

   "I'm sorry," Florence quickly said, glancing from her mother to her father. Her heartbeat quickened and her nose hurt, the back of her throat ached, and the tears fell freely down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

   "What are you sorry for?" her father asked, looking up from the cake in front of him. "Florence, what are you sorry for?"

   "T-this is my fault," she stuttered, shaking my head. "Tell me what I do wrong so I can fix it, so that you two can get back together."

   Her mother quickly took her hand and squeezed it. "Florence, this has nothing to do with you, okay? Our decision has nothing to do with you. It has to do with us."

   "Your mother is right," her father said, nodding. "We can't seem to connect anymore, not like we did before."

   "Can we continue this conversation some other time?" Grayson asked, his fingers tapping against the table. He was the most like their father, in the aspects of the same way they moved and spoke. "This is too much to take after ten minutes of walking in."

   Their mother took in a deep breath and nodded, her hands pressed together in front of her. "We already got the papers," she divulged. "All we need to do is sign them."

   "Hold on!" John raised his hands as a sarcastic laugh escaped his lips. "So, you decide to tell us before finalising it?" There was anger in his voice, anger in the way he closed his fists in front of him. 

   "John..." Grayson said his name like a warning, telling him to calm down in one simple word.

   "This is bullshit!" John yelled, standing up. "The only reason we were called here is for you two to tell us something that was already finalised. Did you two think that this would only affect the two of you?"

   "That's not what we thought, John," their mother said, shaking her head. 

   "Of course not!" John yelled, scoffing. "You thought nothing about it!"

   "What John's trying to say is that this affects us too," Grayson joined. "You should have told us as soon as you two began to talk about this."

   Florence stared at the piece of cake in front of her, eyes wide. She could hear her heartbeat at her ears, as if it would burst from her chest and land on the table. Silent tears fell down her cheeks, the words continuing to ring in her head: Your mother and I can't live together anymore. It was a constant ache, hearing her father's words about how they were separating. She couldn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. 

   The Gilbert girl stood from the table, grabbed her bag, and marched out of the house. She could hear her brothers calling her name, her parents telling her to come back. Not once did turn her head to look at them, to tell them that she felt numb at their words. Instead, she got on her bike and rode as fast as possible. Her first thought was to go to Miranda's house, but she knew that her sister-in-law would eventually know what happened due to her husband. They would sit her down and tell her to go back home, something along the lines that her parents were worried about her.  

   Her second thought was Cher's house, but the blonde girl would tell her what she didn't want to hear. She would be sat down on the bed, a meat lovers pizza and a tall glass of soda in front of them, and the blonde girl would tell her that it was bound to happen. Her parents fought a lot, and when they didn't fight, they didn't speak. Cher would tell her the truth, but that was what she didn't want to hear.

   Florence rode her bike fast, avoiding those that were walking their dogs or the kids that were playing in the street. She rode down curved roads with springing trees, their branches appearing like curtains that covered her from the few rays of sun that shone between the clouds. There was a breeze that moved carefully around her, pushing against her as she rode her bike. As dangerous as it was, she closed her eyes as a few sobs escaped her mouth. She felt cold as a few droplets of rain fell on her, even colder as the conversation ran through her head.

   The Salvatore Boarding House came into view as she peddled faster, until the building towered her and she sat on its shadow. She climbed off from the bike, went to the front door, and rang the doorbell once. Another time accidentally. Her tears had dried, but her eyes appeared like road maps and her skin was flushed. It was as if she had been in a swimming competition, keeping her head in the water instead of coming up for breath.

   The front door opened to reveal Gail, whose eyes widened when she saw the girl standing there as rain began to fall harder. "Oh my god!" she gasped, taking a step back. "Florence, come in!" She waved her hand and stepped to the side, pulling the girl in so the rain wouldn't get her. "Did you ride your bike here while in the rain?"

   Florence turned to her, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to find the words to say. "I-I'm sorry," she stuttered, shaking her head. "I, uh..." The words felt empty on her tongue; she couldn't find the correct ones.

   "Are you alright?"Gail asked, wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulders. "Have you been crying?"

   "I, uh, fell," she mumbled, pointing back to the door with her thumb. "It hurt."

   Gail took a step in front of her and stared, her eyes squinted as if she were trying to get a better look. She pressed her lips together and breathed out through her nose. "I know you're lying," Gail softly said, "and I know you don't want to tell me—that's fine. We're having dinner at the moment, so why don't you join us."

   The Gilbert girl took a step back and shook her head, her hands pressing together in front of her. "I'm sorry," she uttered as she looked down at the floor. "I shouldn't have come."

   Gail shook her head. "It's nothing!" she smiled. "Join us, okay? I won't take no for an answer, so I'm just going to pull you along and make you sit down by your boyfriend." She sang that word, her smile spreading into a giant grin and a small laugh following afterwards. The woman didn't wait for an answer and pulled her towards the grand dining room, where Zach Salvatore sat to one side and Stefan sat in front of him. 

   "Florence!" Zach stood as he pressed a napkin to his mouth. "I, uh, didn't know you'd be coming around." He glanced towards his nephew, who shook his head in surprise. 

   "Florence is staying for dinner," Gail announced, pushing her to the empty seat by Stefan. "I'm going to bring you a plate."

   Zach let out a soft laugh as he sat back down. "Gail, you could at least let the girl take off her backpack."

   The Gilbert girl realised that the backpack was still on, so she took it off and laid it by her chair. She kept her hands on her lap, her mouth slightly open since she couldn't breathe through her nose. Her eyes moved from Zach to Stefan's plate as they spoke, afraid to look into his eyes. She had been an intruder in their dinner, and her mother had taught her that it was rude and that one should leave immediately. How could she leave when Gail laid a plate full of food in front of her, grinned widely, then took a seat on the empty chair by Zach? Instead, she pushed herself deeper into the chair and thanked her for the food. She took careful bites, her throat half-closed from the feelings that moved all through her.

   Florence Gilbert wanted to scream. She wanted to go into a dark room and cry until there was nothing left to cry about. The thunderstorm was a mirror of her, then. The rain, the lightning, the thunder, the wind—it was Florence. 

   After the dinner, Stefan grabbed her hand and her bag, and pulled her upstairs to his bedroom. The Gilbert girl had never seen his bedroom, but was surprised to see how it was spacious and the complete opposite of hers. The walls weren't painted, but covered in exquisite wood and a strange blue wallpaper that made her smile. There was a desk right in the centre of the room, journals and papers strewn about. Dirty clothes laid about on the floor, which Stefan quickly began to pick up and apologise for. Even though he was forever seventeen, chronologically 146, his room still appeared like that of a teenager. For a moment, she felt at ease.

   "What's wrong?" Stefan walked up to her. "Flo, what happened?"

   She looked up to his face, every emotion surging through her. She sniffed and covered her nose with the back of her hand, turning away from him. "It's, uh..." She moved to the sofa he had against the wall, and took a seat. Her hands were in front of her, fingers playing with each other and sometimes pressing against her palm. "My parents, they..."

   Stefan took a seat besides her. "Did they fight again?"

   "Yeah," she nodded, the tears pushing free from her eyes, "but that's not the only thing they did." She inhaled, trying to stop herself from crying. "They're separating. And they decided to tell us after they talked about it for months."

   Stefan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his chest, wrapping his other arm around her tightly. There was a comfortable silence around them, the only sound of it being Florence's crying and the thunderstorm outside. As the storm hardened, so did her cries. She sobbed against his chest, gripping on to him as if she would fall.

   If she were to be honest to herself, the reason why she was so broken about her parents announcement was because of all the lies they had told her. They told her that happily ever afters existed, that they were meant to be even if they dated for several months and then decided to get married. To the Gilbert girl, her parents were a fairy-tale, where her mother was the princess and her father was the prince, and they fell irrevocably in love. They moved to a castle and had three children, two of them later than their first. Florence thought of herself silly for thinking that fairy-tales and happily ever after's existed, but her parents had proved her that. Now, she had been proven that they weren't true. Fairy tales were just tales, happily ever after's weren't for everyone, and the love story of her parents had ended a long time ago.

   Florence pulled away from Stefan and sighed, shaking her head. "I'm sorry," she said with a sniff.

   "For what?" he asked, giving her a smile. "Flo, you should stop apologising so much."

   "I'm sorry," she repeated. "Okay, I'm sorry for that, too."

   "Stop apologising."

   "Sorry."

   "Flo."

   "Sorry!"

   "Seriously, stop apologising because you have nothing to apologise for." Stefan wrapped his arm around her again and pulled her to him as he leaned back on the sofa. He pulled her to lay her head on his shoulder, his lips slightly pressed to her forehead. "It's not your fault. From what you told me they have been fighting a lot. Maybe they thought that separating would be good and healthy for them."

   Florence sighed and looked up at the ceiling, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall once again. She had always been an emotional girl. "Why didn't they tell me months ago?"

   "Because you'd blame yourself," he said, softly, "like you're doing now. Florence Gilbert, it's not your fault that your parents are separating." A soft breath escaped his mouth. "What's in the bag, anyway?"

   "What?"

   "Your backpack." He pointed at it with his other hand. "Did you pack before coming here? Flo, did you want to spend the night with me?"

   Her cheeks reddened and her heart quickened. She slapped him on his chest and bit her bottom lip tightly, shaking her head. "N-no, I wasn't!" she stuttered.

   Stefan laughed and kissed her forehead. "I would have let you," he said. "Maybe we could share a bed, too."