words are born from people's mouths and die in their ears.

but some words don't die. they go into people's hearts and survive. and the thing about people is that they lie even in the diary no one else reads. but the truth is simple and lies are complicated. and whatever choice he makes, there will be regrets. so he'll choose what he will regret the least.

he'd be living the same mundane life. no soul had been interested in accepting him, and damon felt like if he lived like this for too long, he'd shrivel up and die. regardless where he lived, it still felt the same— same story, different setting. like this.

but he still came back. came back to you. he wished you, too. even as a shadow, a dream. so he wouldn't need to wait feeling like it was all for nothing everytime he tries to wake you up in that stone coffin a countless times. his soul bleeds. the blood steadily, silently, disturbingly slowly, swallows him whole. stained your lips.

his head rest. his hair splayed on your chest stilled with the curse of eternal sleep. his fingers curled around yours, yearning. his droopy sore, glassy blue eyes staring off at nothing. “come back to me...” he uttered to a feathery whisper, a plea, a prayer, "come home..."