Page 26 of Where Daisies Breathe (Star Meadows #2)

CLOVER

DEAR DIARY,

I ’m worried someone is watching me. Maybe it’s just the drugs, though.

I’m not sure. I could be being paranoid.

What I do every day, playing the part—playing the role—it might be fucking with my head.

Acting like someone else, pretending not to care, kissing him and loathing every fucking second of it.

And yet, at times, I crave it. I’m not sure it’s really him I crave, but a human connection.

It helps remind me that I exist even though most of the time I feel like a ghost.

Maybe he’s the reason, though, why I feel like I’m constantly being watched.

Maybe he’s on to me.

Sometimes I feel like he is watching me from the corner of his eye, waiting for me to show my cracks.

I used to be good at hiding them, but I’m not so sure that I am anymore.

Then again, if he saw beneath the cracks, I’m not so sure he’d see the truth anymore—see me.

I’m not sure anything inside me exists. I’m an empty shell, even when I’m with my friends.

I used to be able to find the Clover that still exists when I was spending time with people who knew her, but she’s faded so deeply that I’m not sure even they can see her anymore, at least the ones I’ve been friends with forever.

I have a new friend who doesn’t know the old me, the one who laughed so easily, who wasn’t so broken.

Some of her relatives attend the parties I go to with Jason.

I’m not positive what role they play in this, but I want to find out.

It’s kind of why I became friends with Ava, at least, at first. Now, our friendship feels real.

Well, as real as something can feel based on a lie.

I hate that I’m doing that to her—lying to her. At times, she reminds me of Zoey, which makes the lie ache even more…

The floorboard creaking outside of my closed bedroom door causes me to pause. I glance at it, waiting for it to open, assuming my mom has gotten home.

But nothing but silence follows.

My paranoia soars as I close the diary, set it aside, and stand up.

“Hello?” I call out as I collect my phone off the nightstand.

Then I make my way toward the door and open it. The hallway is empty, so I carefully make my way into the kitchen and living room area. But no one is there. I check my mother’s room, but nothing.

I return to my room, and my gaze lands on the journal that is on my pillow now. Did I leave it there? I could’ve sworn I left it on the bed. But again, maybe I’m being paranoid. Withdrawals are starting to kick in, and my brain is getting twitchy.

I pick up the journal and open it up. There are pages in here that I’ve penned that could get me killed. Maybe it’s time to get rid of them. Perhaps it’s time to get rid of my one last lifeline.

Sucking in a breath, I tear those out and move to toss them in the trash?—

The sound of the front door opening causes me to pause.

Footsteps follow, and when I suddenly note the time on my alarm clock, I damn near have a panic attack.

It’s nearing nighttime, which means Jason is probably here.

In a pure rush of panic, I stuff the ripped-out pages into the nearest thing, which happens to be my case that I frequently carry with me.

It has a daisy on it, and whenever I hold it, it reminds me of Zoey. And now Ava.

I barely have time to get it shut before Jason wanders in. His gaze sweeps my room before landing on me.

“You didn’t answer my text,” he says, his intense gaze making me squirm. “It’s starting to become a habit of yours.”

“Sorry. I was just distracted with stuff." I clutch the case in my hand, my stomach rolling with my nerves, a feeling that increases when his gaze lands on my diary.

“You write in that thing a lot,” he notes, his gaze zeroing in on me. “Aren’t you worried someone will read it?”

It takes all of my energy to keep my breathing even. “So what if someone did?” I say with a shrug. “There’s nothing important on it. Just a bunch of my thoughts. Oh, and I sometimes like to write about when you fuck me.” I plaster on a grin.

Like I hoped, my remark distracts him. “Guess I’ll have to fuck you tonight so you can have something to write about tomorrow.” He reaches out, grabs my arm, and yanks me against him.

He places a rough kiss on my lips, and I force my mouth to numbly kiss him back. When he finishes, he pulls back and looks me in the eye.

“Don’t ever fucking use my name in that,” he says, his tone carrying a warning. “You can write about me fucking you all you want, but don’t ever write my name.”

I nod, fear pulsating through me.

Why does it feel like he knows the truth?

No, I have to be being paranoid again.

But what if I’m not?

What if he knows?

He’ll probably kill me.