Iris
"Why do you always paint in black? Does this have any meaning?" Eli asks.
I freeze.
My fingers tighten around the paint-stained cloth in my hand. The question lingers in the air between us, heavier than it should be.
I could lie.
I could tell him black is just a color, that it’s aesthetic, that it’s nothing more than a creative choice.
But Eli isn’t stupid.
He watches me with quiet patience, like he already knows I won’t answer. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll finally let him in or if I’ll just shut him out again.
I take a slow breath. “Black is… safe.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Safe?”
I nod, fingers tracing the dried paint on my palm. “Black hides everything. Mistakes, flaws… emotions.” My voice lowers. “It makes things disappear.”
Eli doesn’t speak right away. He shifts closer, his presence warm, steady.
“You don’t have to disappear, Iris,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens.
I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I hesitate. The words are right there, balancing on the edge of my tongue, but I don’t know if I can say them out loud.
That I feel like a glitch in my own life.
That some days, the weight of existing is too much.
That I don’t know how to explain the constant war in my own head.
Instead, I force a smirk. “Relax, Carter. It’s just paint.”
Eli studies me for a long moment. I know he doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go—for now.
“Alright,” he says, stepping back. “But one day, I want to see you paint something different.”
I arch a brow. “Oh? And what do you suggest, oh wise art critic?”
He grins. “Blue.”
I roll my eyes. “Why blue?”
Eli shrugs. “Because blue is infinite.”
I scoff. “You just made that up.”
“Maybe.” He smirks. “But it sounded poetic, didn’t it?”
I shake my head, but despite myself, I smile.
Because only Eli could take a conversation about black paint and somehow make it feel like hope.
And maybe—just maybe—that scares me more than anything.
"Why won’t you give me an example? You’re an artist too, right?" I challenge, crossing my arms.
Eli leans against the table, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, so now you admit I have talent?"
I roll my eyes. "I never said you didn’t. I just don’t understand why you keep bothering me about colors when you barely show me your own work."
His smirk fades slightly, his fingers tapping against the wooden surface. "Because your paintings say something, Iris. They’re raw. Honest." His voice softens. "Mine just… exist."
Something in his tone makes me pause.
Eli rarely talks about his own art. I know he sometimes sketches, have caught glimpses of crumpled drawings in his bag, but he never lets me see them. Never lets anyone see them.
I tilt my head. “Show me, then.”
He laughs, but it sounds nervous. “Not a chance.”
“Why not?”
Eli shifts, looking away. “Because you’ll see too much.”
I blink at him, thrown off by the weight in his words.
“Too much of what?” I ask carefully.
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “You think you’re the only one who hides in art?” His gaze flickers back to me, unreadable. “I do it too, Iris. I just don’t let people look long enough to figure it out.”
The room feels smaller all of a sudden, like the space between us is closing in.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say.
Then, in the quietest voice, I say, “I want to look.”
Eli stills.
Something shifts in his expression—hesitation, vulnerability, something deeper I can’t quite name.
He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “Not today.”
I study him for a moment, then nod. “Okay.”
Because I get it.
Because I’m not ready to show him everything, either.
But now, something between us feels different. Like we’re standing at the edge of something we can’t take back.
And maybe… I don’t want to take it back.