1993 — Mystic Falls, Virginia

   Florence Gilbert was loved, she knew that much. Her mother loved her dearly, she knew much about that. From the small and insignificant conversations, to the fights that came out of nowhere. It meant that Florence was growing, and that her mother wasn't fond of her youngest child becoming an adult like her brothers. It meant that Florence would leave the house, move to college in another town—another state, like she had wanted in the first place—and only be seen during the holidays. Like John. Florence knew that her mother meant well when she spoke of having her near home. She knew more about that after the crash.

   Her father loved her with pressure, like a man that wants the best in the world for his children. He wanted her to make money, to live a good life and give good things to her children, just like he had. Even though there was a lot of pressure to be just as successful as her brothers, to be successful in the world, to make a name for herself and the Gilbert family name—he loved her. She knew that. And she wanted him to know that she loved him as well.

   Her brothers loved her with their jokes, with their small acts of torture that were funny for them and angering for her. John loved her silently, from away like any other sibling that was considered the black sheep of the family. He showed it with gestures, with smiles, with secrets the two of them shared. Grayson loved her loudly, protectively, because that's what older brothers were supposed to do. She knew that her father had ingrained that into his mind as soon as they found out that the Gilbert's were finally having a girl. Protect her, he told him. She needs to be protected at all costs, Grayson, because she is your little sister—men out there are dangerous.

   Her friends loved her, she knew that more than anything. Cher was loud, outgoing, but most of all the best person Florence could have asked for in her life. They were like rich soil and flowers, each helping the other grow. Bob was the family friend, the one that had been there since birth, since their older brothers had been friends. He was the voice of reason, or tried to be to no avail of the group. Charles was her first boyfriend, her first crush, and a boy whom she at first thought she was going to marry. While they dated, they figured that they were better as friends than romantic partners. The three of them were a part of Florence that could not be taken away, like a vital organ.

   And she knew Stefan, even thought they had known each other the shortest, loved her. It wasn't because of the looks they had shared, or the kisses, or the smiles, but because he held her tight when she felt like crumbling. The day she had a panic attack in his car, the way he had her wrapped around his arm during the night, the way he caressed her when she ran to the Salvatore Boarding House half covered in blood. It was those small moments where she knew that he loved her as well.

   And if she were being truthful, she loved him as well. 

   The small theatre in Mystic Falls was quiet, except the small radio playing their favourite station and the scent of chips in the air. Cher, Bob, and Charles stood on the stage with wide grins on their lips. Out of the three, Bob held the widest smile. Just like he always had, even when his grandfather had died from cancer, when his grandmother died from heartbreak. And to make him—them—feel as if everything were okay, she smiled in return. 

   "What's happening?" she asked as she walked closer to them. "Why are you all here?"

   "You need us," Bob answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "And, we want to be there for you. So, why not cheer you up?"

   "We decided to throw you a small party," Charles said as he spread his arms wide. "A really small party. Only five people, hope you don't mind."

   Florence laughed and closed the distance between them. She wrapped her arms tightly around them, afraid to let go of them. If she did, they would disappear. No, not them. She. She would disappear from their lives, from their memories—that scared her the most. And as she pulled herself closer to them, tighter to them, she realised that she was afraid. Not of disappearing from their mind, but dying. 

   The five of them sat on the stage and laughed, as music played on the background. Florence watched each of her friends, memorised their faces as if it was a part of an exam. She already knew the majority of Cher's movements, how she leaned back every time she laughed and how she tapped her fingers in a rhythm of three whenever she spoke. Charles made hand movements and widened his eyes whenever he spoke, and his voice rose higher and higher until it echoed around the theatre. It was as if his voice was the microphone. Bob allowed his smile to stay on his lips. He spoke with a smile, he ate with a smile, he drank with a smile, and he looked at her with the widest smile she had ever seen.

   Florence knew Bob well, having been friends with him since she was in the first grade. Even when the most saddest thing happened, Bob kept his smile. He said that it was something that Liz, his sister-in-law, taught him. And he, like the good man he was, would teach it to the rest of his family. Little Caroline included. He thought Caroline as the sweetest, most adorable thing he had ever seen in his life. Just like Constance Gilbert, he too liked to keep memories in the form of photographs. His room was full of them. The walls covered in pictures, from various cameras his family had gifted him throughout the years. When he grew up, he wanted to be a photographer for some grand magazine. Photograph whatever, whenever, and become the best he could. 

   He stood and motioned everyone to get close, a camera in front of him. As soon as everyone was together, pressed tightly to fit in the photograph, the flash went off. Stefan's arm was around her waist, his fingers pressed tightly to her abdomen as if she would fall at any moment. Cher's arm was around her shoulders, the top of her neck pressed to her neck. Charles leaned behind her, arms in the air and his mouth open in a smile. 

   Bob pointed the camera at himself as he stood in front of them. A picture of the five, so he would look at it over and over.

   Florence wondered if he would look at if after she was gone, or if he would decide to ignore them until he was ready to face her death. Out of the three of her best friends, she knew he would take it the hardest. He was a strong man, who pushed a smile whenever he was sad, but it would hit him hard.

   His grandfather had prostate cancer, and knew he had little to live. Bob prepared himself for it, practised daily how it would be like when his grandfather would finally leave. When he actually died, Bob didn't cry. He smiled, said that he would smile because he knew his grandfather wouldn't want him to cry. 

   His grandmother followed his grandfather. She fell ill and stayed in the hospital for weeks, to the point where the doctors said that she wouldn't leave alive. Just like before his grandfather, Bob practised how it would be like for her to be gone. When she actually died, just like when his grandfather did, he smiled. She wouldn't want him to cry, he told her. 

   But, this time, he wouldn't be able to practise her death. At that moment, she was smiling and laughing as if nothing was wrong. Every moment that passed, she felt weaker and weaker. There were times where she couldn't wait to lean back, close her eyes, and sleep—she knew better. As soon as she did, she wouldn't wake up.

   "We're planning another outing!" Charles said as he brought another bag of chips towards the circle. "This time, we're going to my lake house."

   "We are some privileged fucks," Cher laughed, shaking her head. Three taps from her pointer, three from her middle, then back to her thumb. "Each of our family has a lake house."

   Stefan raised his hand. "Mine doesn't," he smiled.

   "Yeah, well, yours has a boarding house," Bob laughed. "That's sort of cooler than a lake house?" He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back on his hands. 

   "And who knows what else you've gotten throughout the years," Cher teased with a wiggle of her brows, the opening of a can of Coca Cola by her lips.

   Florence smiled and shook her head from amusement. "That's sounds good," she said, swallowing hard. "We'll need that trip." And she watched her friends laugh and agree, and start to make plans about the oncoming trip. They spoke to her as if she would be there. Made plans as if she would wake up tomorrow, like any other day.

   "We?" laughed Charles. "I think you need it most..." He trailed off as he realised the words that let his mouth. 

   Florence tried to smile. She pushed her lips to spread wide, but they didn't move. Instead, they stayed in a straight line as her eyes fell to her shoes. The thought had sunk into her over and over again, as if it were a pestering fly that didn't want to leave her alone. It was the realisation that she had died, that her father had died, that her brother was in a state of emergency at the hospital—hanging on to life as if it were a piece of string. Every time those thoughts sunk into her mind, she began to feel numb. 

   The tips of her fingers were frozen, her chest ached, and the bit of strength she had left seemed to fade. Her father had died. And it had sunk in before, but at that time the thought decided to dig a crevice into her very being. Tears began to fall down her cheeks and he throat closed up. She immediately lifted her hand and wiped them away, as if nothing had happened. A smile formed on her lips and she shrugged her shoulders. 

   "I need it," she said, her voice breaking. She eyed each of her friends, forcing the smile to form wider around her lips. "And it'll be great! This time, let's not have Cher steal beer from her brother. I'm pretty sure that those had been in his car for a long time!"

   Cher gasped and dramatically laid her hand over her heart. "He bought those with the money I gave him!"

   "He probably took the new ones for himself and gave you the old ones," Charles chuckled with a wide grin. "This time, I'll have my brother buy it for us."

   "I doubt Tripp would buy us beer," Bob muttered as he leaned back on his hands. "Isn't he with your mom?"

   Charles shrugged his shoulders. "He's coming to visit in a few days. Something about Mom's new boyfriend being an unbearable pain in the ass." He laughed and waved a hand in the air. "He's staying until August, and then we're going to visit Mom before school starts."

   Charles' parents had divorced when he was in the sixth grade. His older brother Thomas, given the nickname Tripp by their father, decided to move in with their mother to Charlotesville. Their father stayed in Mystic Falls, deciding that their hometown was better than anything.

   "I think Tripp never liked us," Cher said. She wiggled her foot and tapped the stage with her fingers. A rhythm of three—tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Then, she began once again at her thumb and ended on her middle finger. "He always glares at us whenever he comes, like we're the reason he's angry."

   "He's always angry," laughed Charles. He let his laugh echo around the theatre, as if a grand joke had been told. His laugh died down with his smile, leaving behind a face full of bitterness.

   Florence knew him well enough to know that he became bitter when it came to Tripp Fell. She reached for his hand and squeezed the it as best as she could. A sign of comfort. The only thing she could give him at that moment. It took her a moment to realise that it was the last comfort she would ever give him. So, she smiled brightly. As bright as she could. As if it were the Fourth of July again, and the fireworks were up in the sky, and she kissed Stefan.

   Cher stood up and patted behind her. "Okay, so I'm gonna go wait for the pizza!" She motioned to Florence with her head, then jumped from the stage.

   Florence pushed herself up and followed after her, trying to keep up. Her best friend had always been taller than her, faster than her. She knew how to smile better, and how to please those around her with a quick flip of her hair and a few words. It was something Florence had envied. She had always thought that her best friend was perfect, the type of girl she aspired to be. 

   They silently walked towards the entrance of the theatre. Cher abruptly stopped and turned, facing her with a wild look. Her eyes were wide, her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something but no words came out. 

   Florence tilted her head to the side and crossed her arms in front of her. "Cher?" She took a step forward. "You okay there?"

   "The crash was in the news this morning," she suddenly said. "You were in the front seat, Flo, there's no way you..." Her words trailed into the distance, like a quick breeze on a hot day. The heat of them stayed between them, burned as if they were fire. And then the heat began to fade. It was silent, cold. Frozen. "You didn't make it, did you?"

   Florence's arms fell to her side as her mouth opened. She searched for words, but all that came was that terrible feeling in her chest. Dread. Or was it regret? It was a terrible thing. It made her want to fall to her knees and say the truth—she had died. 

   "You didn't..." Cher took a step back and brought her hands to the side of her head. "How did you—why are you—HOW COULD YOU?" Her voice rose louder and louder, until she yelled. Tears fell down her cheek as she stumbled only one step forward, and then she fell to her knees. "How could you do this to me, Flo?"

   "I didn't..." Florence knelt in front of her and quickly hugged her, bringing her close to her chest. Her hands shook as she passed them through Cher's hair, as she tried to calm her. The sobs made her tighten her hold. If she let go, Cher would disappear from her grasp. She didn't want her best friend to be alone. "I'm sorry."

   Cher pulled away and quickly wiped away her tears. "Can't you... Stefan said that you can still survive. All you have to do is drink human blood." She pulled a pin from her shirt and pricked her pointer finger, held it out towards her best friend. "Here."

   Florence gulped at the sight of blood. Stefan had told her that even though she was in transition, the scent and the sight of it would still affect her. It did. She heard Cher's blood go through her system, her heartbeat flutter against her chest like a flap of a bird's wings. The electricity in the walls buzzed, and the laughter from inside was loud. She swore she heard Stefan.

   "I can't..." she finally said, standing. "Cher, I can't."

   "Can't or won't?"

   "I can't!" Florence wrapped her arms around herself and shook her head. "I can't drink that because I don't want to be a vampire!" The words left her mouth like a gust of wind, knocking her back. Her throat swelled, and tears pricked her eyes, and her emotions got the best of her. "I-I don't want to live while everyone around me dies, Cher. I'll see Mom die, and Grayson, John, Miranda—even Elena. They will all die while I'll still be here. I already saw Dad die; I don't want to see any more."

   Cher wrapped her arms around her, pulling her to her chest. And like the night before, Florence let go of everything. She sobbed and held her friend tightly. The realisation of her words hit her like the storm. She didn't want to be a vampire. She didn't want to live, to explore the world, all while those she cared and loved would die. 

   A future with Stefan sounded tempting, because who wouldn't want to be with the boy they loved? But, Florence could only think of her family. She didn't want to leave them behind while she became immortal. If her time had come, then she would let it sink in peacefully.