Page 164 of Unholy Obsession

“Since when do you journal?”

“Since I started tracking my moods.”

Her voice is clinical. Distant. Like she’s talking about the goddamn weather.

I don’t like it. I don’t like the way she sits there, perfectly composed, writing her thoughts like they aren’t meant to be torn out of her, spat at me, and fought over until we’re both raw.

She used to be all jagged edges, sharp and wild and impossible to hold without getting cut. Now, she’s smoothingherself down. Filing away the parts of her I used to clutch like a lifeline.

I lean in, close enough that my breath ghosts over the shell of her ear. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” I murmur, dark and quiet, the way she used to love. “I know exactly who you are.”

She pauses. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to think I’ve cracked through. Then she exhales. Slow. Even. Like she’s past it. Like she doesn’t crave me anymore.

And that’s when I feel it?—

Real fear.

Not for her. Forme.

What if this isn’t just about her getting better? What if she’s outgrowing me?

I sit back, jaw tight, and watch her hand move across the page, logging things I don’t understand. Moira never used to write things down. She used to scream them out into the world.

I don’t know this version of her.

And I don’t know if she still wants me.

Hours pass in silence, and at some point, she dozes off against the window. I study her, trying to make sense of the sight. Moira asleep. Moira still. Not tossing and turning, not mumbling half-crazed thoughts in her sleep. Just… peaceful.

It unsettles me more than anything else.

I reach out before I can stop myself. A curl has slipped over her cheek, and I want—need—to tuck it behind her ear. To touch her. To make sure she’s real. But my hand stops inches from her skin. I let it hover there, suspended, before curling my fingers into a fist and pulling back.

Then, an alarm goes off.

Moira stirs and blinks, then reaches into her bag. She pulls out a bottle, dry swallows a pill, and tucks it away like it’s nothing.

I watch. I wait. I feel the words scrape up my throat before I can stop them.

“What was that?”

She arches a brow, the ghost of her old smirk dancing on her lips. “My meds.”

Silence.

“What kind of meds?”

“The kind that makes me less fun.”

I hate the way she says it. Like she’s taunting me, daring me to react. Daring me to admit Idomiss the fun. The fire. The chaos.

I don’t answer. Because I don’t fucking know the answer.

She watches me, something sharp in her gaze, and then, finally, she says it:

“You don’t like me like this, do you?”

I freeze.

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