Page 176 of Silent Shadows

Her expression shifts. Oh no. Recognition.

“The shell?” she asks softly with an eyebrow raised. Then waits.

I hate her right now. I really do. Because suddenly the room feels too quiet. Because I know. I know exactly what she means.

The girl who turns discomfort into jokes before anyone can notice she’s uncomfortable. The girl who talks about sex for a living but panics when somebody looks at her too closely. The girl who knows exactly how to be wanted. And absolutely no idea how to be known. My throat tightens.

“I think…” My voice catches embarrassingly fast. Cool. I clear my throat and try again. “I think I’m terrified people will hate me if they know me.”

Marissa doesn’t rush to comfort me. Just sips patiently.

“I don’t even know who I am half the time,” I admit. “I’ve been doing the same thing for so long that I don’t know what will happen if I stop.”

A laugh escapes me.

“Like, what if underneath all the confidence and personality and whatever…” I shrug helplessly. “There’s just some weird girl who likes birds and dirt and conspiracy theories and cries when people are nice to her?”

“Oh, babe,” Marissa blinks, her own eyes getting watery. “That is who you are. The Daisy I used to know, at least.”

Now I might cry. No, I’m already crying.

“Did Miles only see the shell?” she asks softly.

I see flashes of Miles in my mind. Rain on the RV roof. The couch. Him holding me up. His tongue on mine. The way he noticed when I was cold. The way his hold on me tightened in his sleep.

You care in a way people can feel.

“No,” I whisper.

The word comes out broken.

“No, he saw me.” A tear breaks free.

Marissa nods once.

“So maybe,” she says, “the question isn’t whether people will hate it.”

I look up.

“Maybe the question is whether you’re brave enough to let them love it.”

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“No, I think you do.”

She nudges my foot.

“You said something before.”

I squint. “When?”

“Like, five seconds ago, bitch.”

Helpful.

“You said you let you down… What does that mean?” she asks.

I look toward the window, as if the honking drivers below hold the answer. But I know exactly what it means. I just don’t want to say it. I pull the comforter tighter around me.