Page 36 of Petite Fleur

However, she and this friend walked to Maeve's apartment together today.

I tried to follow, but Maeve saw my car, and I had to get the fuck out of there before she caught on.

I can't get caught like this; I can't get caught at all.

I already feel like a fucking pervert following her around everywhere she goes, but I can't help it.

Last week, some asshole on the football team tried to follow her home.

I saw him joking with his friends about it.

I heard what they were saying; this asshole thought he could talk about my flower like that?

Saying hippie bitches are hot and how they're usually freaks in bed, that was when he started to follow her.

That's not happening.

Nobody touches her but me.

He's still in my basement, and I can't decide what to do with him yet.

If I kill him, I lose the rules I've set up for myself. I only kill those who abuse and hurt others, but to be fair, he sounded like he wanted to hurt my girl.

At the very least, he wanted to scare her, and I will not allow that.

I'm still torn on that one, so I haven't shown him my face in case I let him live.

All he's seen is the flimsy Halloween mask I bought a few months back when I was feeling low.

I was debating kidnapping my girl and keeping her for myself.

I talked myself out of it, but the more I think about it, I wish I had done it.

Maybe by now, she'd be as in love with me as I am with her.

Or maybe not; maybe it's just wishful thinking, and I've descended into madness over this woman, but it keeps getting harder and harder to resist her pull.

It's getting harder only to watch her from a distance.

But I definitely feel like a fucking pervert sitting outside of Maeve's complex, waiting and watching in hopes of seeing where she goes next.

Her schedule is usually so exact.

Work, school, home.

She always declines her friends' invites for dinner or drinks and she rarely goes with them for lunch off campus.

From what I've noticed, her budget is tight; she spends less on food a month than I spend on a single pair of pants.

It's monthly, sometimes less, when she eats outside the dining hall.

I hate that she's unable to live the traditional college experience.

You know, the one where you blow your money on cheap booze and greasy food, stay up until dawn partying with friends, and yet still drag yourself to class in your pajamas because it's finals week.

These are supposed to be the best years of her life in the worst way.

She's supposed to survive solely on cheap noodles and stale coffee, going from one hangover to the next and turning down dates with boys because they'll never measure up to me.