A/N: No, my dear, your eyes do no deceive you. I am actually updating this. I' actually not being a little shit and uploading something new. Now, I originally said this is going to be the last part but guess what? Not happening yet. This is +5k words and I am not even halfway through to the ending. And since I have been very busy and going through so much shit that's making writing difficult, I decided to go ahead and divide the part into two so that I can post faster.

I'll stop talking now. Enjoy and let me know what you think.

They are standing in the same spot where they once danced, in the center of his hallway, right between the small living room and the dining table. It's such a narrow space she remembers worrying that they might end up stumbling over the neglected food sitting atop the table. And she remembers her worries vanishing as they swayed together. She remembers the heat of his touch through her clothing, the slight tremor of his breath as it blew over the top of her head, the small movements of his fingers, gently caressing. But most of all, she remembers the way her heart burst, the way it wanted to escape its shackles, the way it fluttered and shook and wanted to meet his. This odd space separating one half of his apartment from the other was incapable of any harm in Caroline's eyes at that time. But even it betrayed her.

Now, they stand rigid in it. Now her heart races; drums against her chest uncomfortably instead. Now his shoulders are stiff and his face is disinterested. She's been through this before, knows the dreadful feeling of watching someone's figure retreating into a darkness that will never return them back to her. It is a bitter one. Its taste is that of a million disappointments and its pain is that of a burning knife slowly entering once-untouched flesh.

But worst of all, is its haunting permanence. A shadow of unforgiving mockery, it hangs over her head. Laughs deviously whenever she looks at herself in the mirror, or pauses to take a picture: Never good enough, never good enough.

How can she take this feeling now from the eyes she's once worshipped? Those blues whose melancholy cast bright lights upon her riddled mind until clarity, so much clarity the crystal of it is almost blinding, washed over her, how can they reflect another doom of hers?

Never good enough… never good enough… never ever good enough…

Otherwise, in a world where her smile could blind the sun, and her soul could reach out and touch his heart, she would not be seeing the shadow of what once looked like love, flee from his eyes.

"Delicate. Vulnerable. Inspired."

The three words stare back at Caroline. Sprawled in large font across the newspaper. Words of praise. So many of them. Celebrating the style, celebrating the execution, celebrating the moving emotion in the heartfelt choice of Niklaus Mikaelson as the model. And none of it phases Caroline. She stares at the words and wills them to wash over her, to slather her with joy and march her into the sweet happiness of success. And yet… and yet all she can think of is how none of them matter, not when his words, not when his presence, do nothing but reject her work.

What happened? She does not know. One moment he was standing next to her, thoughtful gaze trained on her, then nothing. It's as if he slinked away, slipped through the cracks in her hands and vanished. She could not find him. Not for the rest of the evening. She looked and looked with her heart-sinking more and more at every moment. Elijah, at last, appeared. But he offered no comfort when he explained that he had left after a sudden headache through a stiff grimace masquerading as a smile. She swallowed her questions and put on a smile for the crowd.

Picking up her phone, she tries texting him for the umpteenth time.

Elijah said you had a headache last night, I hope you're feeling better

Hi, just checking in again. Let me know if you need anything!

Do you want me to stop by with soup?

I really missed you today in our usual café. It's not the same without you.

Does your silence have to do with the show last night?

…Do you wanna talk about it?

All unanswered. What should she say now? I'm terrified that you do not want to talk to me? I'm terrified that I've offended you somehow? I really, truly, want nothing more than to see you? Shaking her head, Caroline throws her phone onto her bed. And letting out an exasperated huff, she flops head-first onto her mattress.

He misses the time when he could paint something other than yellow.

The rays of sunshine drip from the edge of his paintbrush, landing softly onto the wooden floor, staining it like they have stained his muddled mind. He swirls the color across his canvas, eyes burning and blurring at the line it leaves against the white sheet. So assaulting. So entrapping. So entrancing. So … her.

He no longer wants any reminder of yellow. He draws the curtains, shuts out the sunlight. The orange hues of his table-lamp are mocking, so he shuts that too. The bourdon he pours is merely a few shades darker than her hair, so it doesn't sit in the glass. He swallows it immediately. One glass after another. It won't sit there relaxing and warm. So he swallows it bitterly and ignores his numbing senses and the way his body screams for him to stop. Even as the sun sets outside and all light ceases its slithering into his room, he doesn't stop.

He misses the time when nothing reminded him of yellow.

Elijah steps into complete darkness.

Tonight, the buttons of his jacket are undone, his tie is a little crooked, the buckle of his belt just off the center, and a single hair is drooping lazily over his forehead. There is a wrinkle in his white shirt and a speck of dust on the tip of his left black shoe. And none of that matters when his brother's apartment is bathed in complete darkness

Two days. It's been two days since he's found him recklessly stepping off the curb. The lurch in his stomach would haunt Elijah for lifetimes before he can forget. He thought he wouldn't catch him. His imagination instantly conjured up the image of Niklaus, frightened, young, hopeless Niklaus, flying into the air, a bird about to be freed, only to fall against the unforgiving concrete, his head smashing, skull cracking. And where would Elijah go, and what would he do and how would he go on with the image of lifeless Niklaus sprawled against the cruel asphalt imprinted in his head?

But he did catch him. And for a moment it felt like he had just caught his own soul, and he saved him, and Kol took him home and he drank and drank and drank and they had to tuck him in as if he were eight years old again. And you wouldn't speak to me and I gave you space and you didn't answer me and I gave you space and I gave you space and I always give you space so why are you bathed in darkness, brother?

Elijah blinks, then swallows, then jumps at the creak of his own shoes against the wooden floors. Deathly silent. Always death silent. No music, no TV, nothing but the sound of Niklaus shuffling his figure around as if dragged or drugged. And not even this tonight. Not even this.

The darkness hurts Elijah's eyes as if red itself was bathing the living room. He blinks again. Wills the suffocating emptiness away.

"Niklaus," his voice cracks and Elijah hates Niklaus passionately for a moment. He's doing this to him again and again and again. You are haunted by Henrik's small, curled up figure at the bottom of the staircase, cold, lifeless, cruel in its abandonment. But don't you know that it is the disinterest in your eyes, that the blankness of your soul is what haunts me, Niklaus? Your stillness and misery. And you're cruel in your disregard for me, brother. So, so cruel. So you do it again and again and again.

His fingers trace the wall next to the door, searching for the light switch. It flickers open to reveal emptiness. Niklaus is not in the living room.

"Niklaus!" the futility of his voice chokes him. How useless can words be.

He ventures further into the apartment and into the studio he stumbles. He cracks the door opened and watches the light of the living room seep into Niklaus' studio. The latter's head snaps up, looking dazedly at the silhouette of his big brother. He is hunched on the ground, back resting against the armchair he keeps in the room, glass cradled in his hand.

"Niklaus," this time Elijah's sigh is of relief. He flicks the light open in this room as well. And finds his brother sitting amidst the smell of bourbon and a flood of yellow. The canvas is smeared with it, every drawn line is a different shade of yellow and a little bit of it is tinged with blue. Niklaus' work shirt and jeans are littered with drops of sunshine, too. His hair, his chin, his hands, they're all invaded by it, even his paintbrush is dripped with it and the color has dried on it.

Say, Niklaus, say you aren't doing this to yourself again. Say you aren't tormenting your soul with cruel sunshine and soft, light hair strands. Say, Niklaus, say this isn't a case of green once more. You couldn't look at anything but green for weeks, and you couldn't tolerate the sight of it and it locked you up for too long in a bubble of suffocating solitude. The whole world is green, Elijah. You said. And now tell me, Niklaus, tell me the whole world is not yellow, Niklaus. Tell me you aren't looking to smother yourself in snow, in neutral white and mocking grey. Lie, Niklaus, lie and say you do not see yourself a choking, shapeless form.

"Why are you sitting in the darkness, Niklaus?" Elijah frowns.

A moment of silence, two and then,

"Lights are too bright… too yellow"

Elijah squeezes his eyes shut, exhales, swallows.

"I've never noticed that even bourbon is darker yellow."

Slowly, Elijah enters the room and joins his brother. He takes the glass of bourbon from a willing Niklaus and takes a sip.

"How long have you been cooped up here, brother?"

Niklaus shrugs, takes a swig from the bottle this time. Elijah shakes his head, snatches that from his hand, too. Niklaus half-heartedly attempts to take it back.

"You've had enough." Elijah doesn't bother to sign this to him, knowing that he understands.

Niklaus sighs, looking ahead and opting for silence.

Elijah can smell the alcohol on his breath, the half-drunk bottle weighing him down. Gently, he touches him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"She said you haven't talked to her since her gallery." Perhaps he shouldn't open up this subject, perhaps this will only make Nilaus close up, perhaps it isn't his place at all. But his brother's bloodshot eyes and the tremor of his lower lip plead for help.

Niklaus swallows, tears brimming in his eyes. He does not answer.

"Niklaus, the pictures…"

"It's not I in the pictures." He interrupts.

Elijah swallows, "she is not Charlotte, brother."

"There was nothing wrong with Charlotte, 'Lijah."

A second passes, then several. Elijah swallows.

"Perhaps you should talk to Caroline, brother…"

The look Niklaus shoots him is of anger. Elijah snaps his mouth shut.

"It doesn't matter, Elijah. None of it matters. Nothing matters."

An hour later and Elijah found himself tucking Niklaus in again. Like a child… again. Scared, confused, hurt… and now drunk. At least there is no fever to deal with. Nor does Elijah need ice to ease the pain of father's slaps.

He is about to turn off the bedside lamp when his eyes catch the book resting on the nightstand. The Hunchback of Notre dame. A fourteen-years-old Niklaus flashes into Elijah's mind, lying on his bed, poured over the book. A distressed expression on his face.

What has you so unnerved, brother?

He thought she loved him. But she was only being kind.

Perhaps it is time that Elijah talked to Caroline, after all.

"Get up." Katherine pulls the covers off of her, revealing her in her sweatpants and hoodie glory.

"No." Caroline pouts, burrowing her head further into her pillow. "I don't want to."

"You're being a baby." Katherine says, arms crossed over her chest.

"Then let me be a baby in bed." Caroline mutters, voice muffled by her pillow.

Sighing, Katherine strides with purpose to the foot of Caroline's bed. Taking a hold of Caroline's feet, she starts pulling her off of it.

"No." Caroline whines, grabbing onto the pillow and the sheet. As Katherine drags her, the pillow remains firmly under her head, and the bedding slowly comes off. "Leave me alone."

"You've been lying in that bed for the past three days. Moping around time is up." Katherine says through gritted teeth.

"But Katherine…"

"Caroline Forbes," Katherine starts letting go of Caroline's legs so that they dangle, halfway off the bed. "Remember what you told me the last time you had a show which Stefan dumped you during?"

A pause, "No."

Katherine roll her eyes. "You said that you just had a smashing success in your career and you were not going to allow some guy to ruin this success. And when I offered you ice cream and a round of therapeutic movies, you said no, and we went out with Bonnie and Elena to celebrate. Do you remember now?"

"Yes." Caroline's voice is defeated.

"Then why the hell are you flopped on your bed with your face buried in the pillows even though this show was even more of a success this time? Why aren't we giving Klaus the finger and having a girls' night out?" Katherine throws her hands up in the air, her expression of disbelief masking up her anger. If it is up to her, Klaus would already be dead and buried right now.

"Because," Caroline pauses, stalling as she plays with a stray thread of her pillow case.

"Yes?" Katherine arches an eyebrow.

"Because I wasn't in love with Stefan." Caroline's sigh is defeated. Her eyes burn as tears form in them, promising to spill their salty fire down her cheeks.

Katherine's shoulder sags, the anger that has sharpened her eyes softening at the weight of Caroline's melancholy.

"I don't know what to do." Caroline's whisper is so faint, Katherine barely hears it.

"I'm not all that interested in this question," the brunette shakes her head. "I'm much more interested in what the hell did you do to deserve this?"

Caroline sits up, her eyes wide, her hair surrounding her face wildly. "I didn't do anything." Her tone is exasperated.

"Exactly. He's suddenly blowing you off for absolutely no reason." Before she realizes it, Katherine's tone becomes sharper, rising along with her anger. "He left in the middle of your show, which was about him by the way, has been ignoring all of your texts the past three days. Did not bother to visit and explain. Did not even bother to send a congratulations card. And because of him, you couldn't enjoy your success. So tell me again why you think this guy is worthy of moping around because of?"

Caroline lowers her gaze. Slowly, she draws her legs together, bending them to settle her head on her knees. "I don't know." She says, thoughtful. "But I feel like I'm missing something. I feel like there is more to it than him throwing a tantrum." She pauses, takes a deep breath. "There is a reason. There has to be."

But what is it? If she can answer this question… If only she can answer this question. Leaving in the middle of the show, she can understand. Klaus has never been a people's person. But completely ignoring her? He's never done that before. Even her interactions with Elijah have been reduced to the bare minimum. Back, they were, to the days of polite smiles and professional conversations, as if the past few months, ever since Klaus declared himself a presence in her life, have not happened. As if nothing related her to Elijah other than work. As if he hadn't taught her Sign Language to help her move closer towards Klaus. As if Klaus is not a part of either of their lives. Sometimes, she finds herself wishing that it is not Klaus but Elijah who would strut in and explain. Explain everything. All the things Klaus keeps bottled up in his sad blue eyes. But he doesn't. Perhaps because there isn't anything to explain at all. Perhaps because just like that Klaus has decided to write her out of his life.

No. It can't be that.

The bed dips slightly beneath her as Katherine sits down. Her brown eyes are full of understanding, of warmth. A look she rarely ever sees the fierce, cat-like Katherine Pierce wearing.

"Listen, Care," the softness of her voice startles Caroline. Can it be that she understands? Can it be that someone understands? Can it be that she knows Klaus has left her mid stride, frozen with the dreams of the future looking more out of reach than ever, and the ghosts of the past coaxing her back? Can Katherine truly understand the impending doom of not Caroline, no, but of her art? Can she possibly understand that him leaving, disappearing like that, as if deliberately crushing her very soul, the soul that feeds her, can mean nothing but doom to a style? Can mean nothing but indecisive grey and hazy colors for her work? After all, how can she stare a subject in the eye anymore and conjure up joy when inspiration reminds her of nothing but him?

Does Katherine understand this? Say, Katherine, would he be so cruel and leave her hanging, suspended in the air, mid-jump, mid-stride, halfway stuck between Earth and Heaven?

"Listen, Care," Katherine says again, tongue darting out to lick uncertain lips. "I know you love him. And I know that more than anything you wanted this show to be for him. I know that you wanted nothing more than to show him what he truly means to you. I know that how he reacted is a huge blow. But what I know, what I understand more than anything, is that you lying here in bed is not solving anything. You're not doing anything by just moping around. It's been a week, Care. A week. You have to get up. Either do something about it, or let it go and move on."

"You're right." Caroline murmurs, grip tightening on the pillow she's been holding. "You're right."

With that, she throws her pillow, scrambles off of the bed and opens her closet. Rummaging through it, she pulls out a shirt and a pair of pants, throwing them onto her bed before walking towards her bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Katherine asks, frowning.

"I'm done mopping around. I'm going to see him."

She stands before him. Posture calm. Eyes scrutinizing. Expression neutral. As he trembles. Is it his heart that trembles or his limbs? Both perhaps. Or neither. Maybe what quivers is his mind. Or lips. As they long to reunite with hers.

"Caroline," he licks his lips. The name forever strangled in his throat. He's stood before a mirror for evenings on end before, attempting to say her name. Twist your mouth that way, move your tongue this way. Just like they've attempted to teach him one time.

E.

He remembers convincing himself that it would be a surprise. That he would call her by name to get her attention. He imagines her shocked face. He imagines her elated face. She would be happy, wouldn't she? She would want to hear it falling from his lips as much as he'd want to say it.

E.

He imagines such a name would sound beautiful. Otherwise it wouldn't belong to her.

"Can we talk?"he notices the jittering of her hands.

But he would not look beautiful saying it. He would distort the name. Night after night, in front of the mirror. Convince yourself, Niklaus. Say you will do it, boy. But you shan't. He looks hideous in front of the mirror. He looks hideous trying to mouth it. Night after night. His mouth twists and flattens and moves and stretches and it makes no sense to him and he knows not what he's saying. Except that he looks ugly trying to say it. And he would sound even more heinous trying to say it.

"Come on in." he steps away from the door.

Night after night he would snap his mouth shut. Night after night he would press his lips into a thin line. Night after night he goes to bed with the ghost of his father's slaps stinging his skin. And his mocking face behind his eyes.

He gestures for her to sit, but she dismisses his invitation with a wave of her hand.

"Elijah says you had a rough night. The night of my show, I mean."

Yes, rough. And the days after have been torture.

He is surprised to find that even after a billion attempt he does not seem quite able to perfect the shade of her hair color. It's slightly darker around the roots. Perhaps he must try to draw a gradient from the top of her head to her soft curls.

"I sent you texts. You know, checking up on you."

No, but that won't do. It's not quite that obvious. The change is much subtler than a superficial gradient. If he can only get the shade right. Maybe if he touches it, maybe the softness would guide him.

"But you didn't answer." She licks her lips, looking away. Her nerves now obvious in every movement. "So I came here to check up on you."

Does she remember the night they danced? They were standing right in this spot. He's invited her for dinner, and she's burst in with joy itself towing behind her. She turned on the radio, he thinks. Or had a CD, perhaps. He can't quite remember anymore. And she's dragged him from his chair and made him dance with her. A slow dance. The first of his life. He's given her a look when she insisted but she laughed him off.

My favorite song. She's said. Don't worry. She's said. I'll lead you through the steps. She's said.

He needed no one to lead him though. He held her in his arms. Warm and soft and radiating happiness. They were so close he was afraid his breath was too loud. They were so close that her head rested upon his shoulder. And she sang to him throughout the dance. Her breath tickled his neck as she hummed the pains of love and sensual memories. Intoxicating. He's shivered with every word and longed for every breath.

It was the first time he realized that dancing is an embrace.

"You look OK." There is a defeated look in her eyes.

He wants to reach out and smooth the frown between her brows. He doesn't.

"Listen, Klaus," She licks her lips again. Now her eyes look away. They wander from over his shoulder, back to the floor, briefly catch his face, fixate on his chest. Anywhere but his eyes, anywhere but his gaze. "We need to talk about that night. You know, what happened in that show."

He shrugs. Does she catch the stiffness of it? Perhaps. Though he's far too equipped at feigning indifference. "Nothing happened."

She murmurs something. Looking away still.

What have you come to say, sweetheart? Why are you here, Caroline? Explanations? Yes, that must be it. Why else would you step with the distress of the universe heavy on your shoulders? Why else would you look like I feel inside? But, perhaps, love, perhaps, my dear, you do not realize that words are not my strongest suit. Perhaps, love, perhaps, Caroline, you do not realize that all I want is to perfect the tantalizing yellow of your hair.

"You haven't answered any of my texts." Her eyes venture back to his. "Are you angry with me?"

Angry…

"The pictures…"

"The pictures are fine."

He doesn't know why his eyes narrow at their mention.

She had always been kind.

"Klaus…" Her lips are now trembling.

If he catches her lips, if he inhales her breath as she mutters his name, what would it taste like?

Angry.

"Should I not have come here?"

Yes. No. Yes. No. It doesn't matter.

She had always been kind.

Now her sparkling blue eyes hold his gaze. Now tears stretch on the rim of her eyelids. Now they wait for a single signal from him, for his permission, to leave their comfortable home and burn a trail down the smooth cheeks.

Does she understand?

He does not want to give such permit. He does not want to see even a glimpse of those pained tears, nor does he enjoy the light quiver of her lips, nor does the stiffness of her shoulders bring him any kind of pleasure, nor does he care to ever see the desperate plea etched in her incessant look.

Can he ask her for another dance?

But there's something else in her blue orbs. Something that he cannot place is glaring back at him with such unrelenting passion, with such unyielding devotion in her eyes. He's seen it before in them. Countless of times. He can hardly remember a time anymore when he has not seen it. Something other than the hurt, and the silent plea, and the heart shattering sympathy. And he wants to know what it is. Desperately. He wants to ask her what the look in her eyes means. Now. He wants to beg for an answer. Whatever it might be. The question is burning. It is absolutely maddening. And it feels like condemning himself to long years of torture to leave it unasked. But his tongue is sealed and his hands are tied and his heart is heavy and he is exhausted, oh so exhausted. So exhausted he feels the ache of his bones with every shift. So exhausted every inhale is torture. So exhausted his hollow eyes can't bring themselves to fire up like they used to before. So he tells her nothing. He asks her no questions. And he orders her tears to flee. Then he watches her with an aching chest lower her eyes to the ground, turn around, and leave.

The rain is pouring, washing the streets amidst its cacophony of melancholy. She runs towards her car, bursting into it as if her very breath depended on the space with in. Shaking, she is, quivering from head to toe. The raindrops splatter across her window, they roll down her face. Cold. So cold.

She shudders.

He said he liked the rain. They were walking out of their favorite café when it started pouring. The sky was furious that day, opened its doors wide and let everything out.

Come under the shop's roof. She said. You'll catch a cold. She said. It's freezing. She said.

He tumbled into the showers all the same. Hands tucked into jacket pocket, face down, shoulders relaxed. And he just stood there, under the waterfall. Every bit of him soaked through. He looked up at the sky, face a vision of elation, then turned to her. And smiled.

Everyone understands the rain. He said.

And now she realizes she doesn't.

The sound of cello always drifted from her house. Its somberness washed over Elijah with a peculiar sense of longing. Somewhere between true bitter sadness, and imagined, pleasurable pursued heartache, he found himself. He imagined that if Niklaus' mind played music, it would sound like a cello. He imagined that his sadness would sound as poetic as the cello's unspoken aches.

When he knocked, the sound stopped. He instantly missed it. Just how pleasing it would have been to have this conversation with the world's most morose instrument playing in the background. He should have known better, though. He imagined the elegant movements of her hands coming to a halt. She would unburden herself from the weight of the instrument, rise to her feet. A step, two, and then-

"Elijah?" the shocked question did not rattle him.

He smiled. "Good evening, Charlotte. How have you been?" The question is unnecessary. In fact, he hoped it did not come off as mocking. Her weight was supported against the door, her face was pale, her eyes swollen and red. She was, possibly, in just as bad a shape as Niklaus.

"Alright." She said. "How can I help you?"

"I was hoping that we can talk." He said, eyes flicking over her shoulder only to refocus. "About what happened between you and Niklaus a couple of nights ago."

She swallowed, expression hardening. "Did he send–"

"No, he did not." Elijah shook his head. "And you know that he would not."

She tugged at the sleeves of her over-sized sweater, until she could fist the end of each in her hands, completely covering her palms. She did not look at him.

"I came to ask," Elijah started, eyes flicking to the floor then back up to the elegant shape of hazel eyes, "I came to ask about what happened."

She licked her lips, eyes glued to the ground. "I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I ended things with him."

He sighed, gulped, felt tears spring into his eyes for a reason he did not know. "Charlotte…" He tried to reach out to her, but she backed away.

"No, Elijah, no." Her tone is a little louder than she intended. And it fell into a whisper when she added, "no. Not this time. I know you have this weird thing between the two of you, but you don't get to fix this for him. Not this time."

Her tone left no place for argument. The warmth of her eyes turning rigid before him. In that moment, he realized that he knew not why exactly he had come here. To fix things? To accuse her? Both? Neither? Maybe he thought he could somehow erase Niklaus' pain this way. Maybe he thought it would be much like that time when he fell down the stairs, cutting his knee. And in a moment of affection, his mother bent to kiss the hurt away. Oh, but he had forgotten that he was not Niklaus' parent. Nor was Niklaus a child. Nor could he reach his heart to kiss the pain away.

"Why, Charlotte? You seemed happy." His questions were futile. Useless. So why did he ask them? Perhaps all he wanted was to try and gain insight into Niklaus' mind. Perhaps it was not about Niklaus at all, but about himself. "Even when I brought up the contrast between the two of you, your music, your lifestyle, you laughed it off. Did you think you could just explore what it would be like to be with someone like him?" His tone sharpened before he realized it. Only then did he realize that he believed the accusation.

'Till when, Elijah, until when you'll use yourself as Niklaus' shield?

"There is nothing wrong with Klaus." Her answer lacked the defensive tone he expected. Rather, she was quiet as she spoke, composed. A tear or two began gathering at the corners of her eyes. "His difference never bothered me. I didn't care that there was so much silence in his world. On the contrary he calmed me down. And I loved him. God, I love him." A tear slipped from her eyes. "But his love was suffocating me. In ways I can't explain, Elijah. Not to you. In ways only he can understand but he never speaks to me. He never bothers to say anything. Ever. It's as if everything inside him is dead." She takes a deep breath, averts her eyes to the floor, takes another breath. He feels the weight of her tears against his hear. "It doesn't matter what you say or what you do, Elijah. It doesn't matter how he feels, it doesn't matter how much in pain he is. I cannot do this anymore."

"I think he loves you." He hated how his voice got strangled in his throat.

"I think he doesn't." she shook her head.

Elijah's head dropped, concentrating on keeping his tears at bay.

"Take care of him, Elijah. And, please, don't come back."

Now his phone is in his hand. Caroline's name sprawled on the screen. All he has to do is press a single button. All he's been attempting to do for the past few days is press said button. His conversation with Charlotte, something that seems from another lifetime, keeps coming back to him. Holding him back. After all, what good it did that confrontation do Niklaus. Except…

He presses dial and waits.

"Hello, Caroline. I need to speak with you. Shall I buy you breakfast tomorrow?"

Perhaps this conversation, too, will not be about Niklaus.

OK don't hate me. I promise you'll get a happy ending for this story. Cross my heart.

Let me know what you think please!