Chapter Text
Meredith hadn't chosen to go to McGill University in Montreal because of its programs. She hadn't chosen it for its renowned faculty members or reputation. She chose it simply for its location: it wasn't not Duke, and it wasn't too close to Fell's Church. Here, she couldn't run to Alaric for help. She couldn't lose herself in the rut of Fell's Church and settle for town life for the rest of her life. Sink or swim, she told herself constantly. And since, unlike Bonnie, she didn't have a foolish desire to be young and beautiful in her grave, she was making her way.
That didn't mean her friends didn't worry. Bonnie called constantly, even sending her information on other universities—smaller, closer universities, of course. But McGill's scope and distance was welcoming, leaving Meredith free to be whomever she wanted. She wasn't Elena's cool, calm, and collected shadow any more. She no longer had to listen to Bonnie's delusions of druidic grandeur. She didn't have to watch Matt get his sweet misguided heart trampled on time and again. She was out. She was free. She hadn't realized how much Fell's Church had felt like a prison until she'd left it.
Her letters and calls back were always appropriately positive: too much gushing and they'd think she was lying, but not enough and they'd worry. In truth, Meredith was floundering and she knew it. Her grades were good enough—excellent, really—but halfway through her second year, she still hadn't chosen a major; she'd used up most of her scholarship money, and her parents were hardly rich. Her job at an art-house theatre helped a bit, but it wouldn't be enough to finish a degree on, especially since she hadn't selected a focus. But Meredith refused to quit and go back. If she did, she might never leave again.
Linguistics, Meredith thought idly as she walked down a street that still had cobblestone. It was a nice blend of arts and science: it dealt with language, but the details of it, the structure. She stopped to make a note to check into the linguistics program when she noticed something—or, rather, the lack. It was a street she knew well, and she's walked it often enough to know where the light shines and where the shadows fall, and the doorway of the small bed and breakfast across the road was darker than it ought to be, punctuated by strange glints of light.
Under the guise of looking for a pen, Meredith kept glancing over at the doorway, raising her gaze a bit each time until she discovered a pale face in the darkness, the smirk the man wore casting shadows of its own. Her fingers tightened around the pen she found, unconsciously gripping it like a stake. It wouldn't do much damage, she knew, but any help was better than none.
A friendly toot of a horn made her look up, just in time to see a classmate waving as he drove by. When Meredith looked across the street again, Damon Salvatore was gone.