Dear Diary,

I've never wished in my life to be compelled before tonight. Tonight, I really, really wish I forgot everything I just heard. But I didn't. And I'm pretty sure there's no unhearing something like that.

It'd be easier if this made me hate him more. If I maybe believed it was some new version of his standard god-awful plan, but I can't. He was a mess, I could feel it. I could see it in his eyes and hear it in every ragged breath he took. No one's that good. Not even Damon.

God, why didn't I stop him? I mean, I could have plugged my ears or screamed at the top of my lungs telling him that I'd just sucked down a big fat cup tea brewed with every freaking sprig of vervain we have in this house. But, no, I didn't do any of that. I just sat there soaking in every. single. word.

My heart was pounding a thousand miles an hour. I can still feel it pounding, because I'm thinking about it all again. It's like my ribs are barely strong enough to hold it in my chest.

What's wrong with me that he affects me like this? I don't want him. I don't love him. I love Stefan.

So, why do I still feel the press of Damon's lips against my forehead? And why is my stomach wadded into a tiny little knot every time I think of the way he looked at me? Why is it that I can't sleep, though I'm beyond exhausted, because all I can hear is his words over and over in my mind.

So what if he loves me. It shouldn't matter. If anything I should be grateful. Now he'll leave Stefan and I alone. Finally, I will be free of all those weird, longing looks he shoots my way. This is exactly what I've been hoping for.

So, why don't I feel relieved?


Dear Diary,

Damon is sleeping with Rose. The fact that I feel the need to address this in my diary is seriously disturbing. Obviously I need medication. Or maybe a lobotomy.

I should be talking about Stefan, my completely gorgeous and perfect boyfriend. Yeah, we're an item again. Sort of. I think. In between trying to avoid every powerful vampire anyone's ever heard of, Stefan and I take long walks. We share deep, lingering kisses. We gaze into each other's eyes and it would be completely epic like it usually is. Except that I sometimes still think about what Damon said to me.


I thought about it tonight when I bumped into Rose in their kitchen. She was wearing one of Damon's shirts. I didn't ask her for proof, but I'm pretty sure that's all she was wearing. She was fixing two glasses of Scotch with a smug little smile. And maybe that's not proof, but I know just-been-sexed hair when I see it. I was probably sporting it myself.

Which makes my noticing this and feeling the need to write about it even more screwed up than it already is.


Dear Diary,

Rose is out, and now there's a blonde. Nine days? That's skirting really close to flavor of the week material. Is that what I was? His obsession of the week?

Ugh, why does this matter? Why can't I just be happy?

My boyfriend? He's a saint. He sends me roses. He packed me a picnic with fresh strawberries and little, tiny cheeses. He keeps a special fuzzy blanket on his bed, just because I like it and he swears he'd die to protect me, and I know it's not lip service. He'd do anything for me. I adore him.

But adore him or not, when we came home from the movies and found Damon on the couch with his new plaything, I couldn't tear my eyes away. She had her head tossed back, eyes closed, mouth open. He was kissing her in that super tender hollow behind the ear.

I saw his fingers splayed on her thigh and I am going straight to hell, do you hear me, right down to the fiery pit, because for one minute I wondered what his hands would feel like on me. I know. Straight to to hell. In a hand basket, whatever that means.

He looked up at us, at me. And then he took her upstairs. There was no smugness. No humor. He didn't even smirk. He just left.

Stefan and I had sex that night and I wasn't quiet like I usually try to be. I let out every moan and every sigh. It's like someone else has taken over my body, someone bent on self-destruction and total humiliation. I hate myself a little for it, but I know some part of me wanted him to hear. Which makes me horrible and sick in a thousand ways.

I still love Stefan. More than anything. More than I can express. So, what does it mean that I thought about Damon's hands when he touched me tonight?