You're seventeen and naïve and you're absolutely infatuated with him.

You're eighteen and decidedly cynical, but deep inside you want him to turn around and acknowledge you.

You're nineteen, and reverting back to your naïve fifteen year old self, you think that this just might work.

You're twenty now. And you're still hoping.


You grow bored easily as you fingernails tap incessantly against the glass of the champagne flute and your eyes roam the gracious and elegant hall, full to the brim with gracious and elegant people conversing graciously and elegantly. You hate lame get-togethers. You prefer strobe lights and darkness to chandeliers and candlelight, hard liquor to champagne and white wine, loud pounding beats to whatever God awful eighteenth-century crap the orchestra is playing. But you're here because he is, and you want to make a good impression, despite the fact that you're wearing a slutty inappropriate dress, sitting in the corner with your slutty inappropriate friends and downing flute after flute of expensive Cristal.

You see his dark head over the crowd and your heart jumps into your throat and your nerve endings suddenly burst into fire, but your face is a study in nonchalance as you smirk at your friends and pretend you're the one in control.

The girl at your left in a Balenciaga knockoff is barely paying any attention as she gulps down her fourth flute of champagne. Her eyes are dilated and her lips pulled in a dreamy smile and you know that she took a hit before she got here. The girl at your right is sober, at least. Not the best sidekick to set off your charms, perhaps, but she'll do. You suggest quietly to Knockoff that the guy by the bathroom is checking her out and she gets up, stumbling away, just in time.

You sit up and inconspicuously position yourself to best show off your figure, lazily draping yourself elegantly across the couch, waiting for his appraising and approving gaze.

But it doesn't come. Instead he brushes past you without so much as a glance, and for a second your eyes reveal how you feel before you cover it again effortlessly. You shrug as you grin at the friend by your side. "Wanna leave?"


It's two AM in the morning and the two of you are far from sleep.

Your brain-cells melt and your nerve endings collide with each other and you forget his indifference without a second thought as you make the same nightly mistake. Of course, you don't know it's a mistake. How could you, when he's told you time after time it is? You just try to read deeper into it every time.

Afterwards you're sleepy and sated as he lights up a cigarette and read by the lamp light. You don't mind. No. You really don't.

You wait for him to look at you and say something. Whisper sweet nothings into your ear; tell you how sexy you look in the candlelight. But honestly—you would settle for anything at the moment. He doesn't.

You hate how needy and desperate and clingy you are. You've always hated those girls who call their boyfriends incessantly and you've always enjoyed picking those phone calls up and urging them to yell. Now you've become one of them.

You are an addict now. Always hungry, always desperate for your next fix, willing to do anything to get it. Maybe you wouldn't be like this if he was perhaps a tiny bit interested in pursuing a relationship with you, a tiny bit interested in hearing you talk instead of scream, a tiny bit interested in what lies beneath that shiny golden hair of yours that he loves. You want him to be interested in you the way he never could be and you want not to be completely desperate for your nightly rendezvous. But he's not, and you are, and you don't see any reason to go into that and ruin a good thing.

And so you close your eyes and fall asleep with the cigarette smoke in the air, knowing full well that he will be gone in the morning.


You see him with his newest girlfriend and try to pretend that it's no big thing while your eyes shine a bit brighter and you laugh a bit harder.

She's gorgeous, that one, you couldn't help but admit. She's petite and small and elegant, dark haired and pale in her sweater sets and clear make up, so different from your tight jeans and smudged eyeliner. You couldn't help but compare yourself to her either.

She's innocent while you're experienced; she's tame while you're wild. You tell yourself that you're so much better looking so much more suited to him, but some part of you registers and acknowledge the fact that there's a light in his eyes that isn't there when he looks at you, acknowledges the fact that there is no sarcastic twist to his smile. But that part is smaller than the other and you push it down harder until it drowns. You won't admit anything, will you, weak little girl that you are?

You giggle louder in hopes that he'll look up and wonder who's making you laugh. But when he doesn't and his eyes stay fixated on the girl, that shriveled up thing in your chest curls a bit and you die a bit more inside.

You signal to the bartender for another drink.


Because the fact of the matter is, you will never be anything more than a guilty pleasure.

Admit it. You don't want to notice it or acknowledge it but you know it's true. You know that every time you smile at him he's making an excuse to avert his eyes. You know that every time he steps out of your room he's adjusting his shirt, looking for a way to escape. You know it all. You just won't admit it.

He's smiling now. "Are you coming?"

It's eating at you, this thing that you've got going. It's pulling you into pieces, killing you slowly, but still you can't bring yourself to say no.

Your responding smile trembles. "Yes."


I don't know where the hell this one came out of, actually. Oh, scratch that. I knew exactly where it came from.

Anyone else obsessed with the Vampire Diaries? I certainly am, and this was based loosely on the Damon/Caroline pairing that ended when he tried to kill her, haha. But whatever, this one was really random, given that I'm actually a Damon/Katherine shipper.

Now that the rant's over (sorry for that) ... reviews are appreciated, guys!