Iris
The world isn’t fast enough for me.
It’s like I’m running on a treadmill at full speed while everyone else is walking in slow motion, their feet dragging, their words stretching out like melted wax. I can’t slow down, not when my brain is firing like a hundred neon lights flickering at once, ideas exploding, thoughts racing.
I feel invincible. No, more than that. I feel like a goddamn masterpiece.
“Iris, slow down,” Liana says, but she doesn’t get it. No one ever does.
We’re sitting at our usual spot in Bean & Brew, a tiny coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and an antique store that smells like old paper and forgotten memories. The scent of espresso lingers in the air, rich and sharp, but even that feels dull compared to the energy thrumming through me.
I stir my coffee—black, extra shot of espresso, no sugar—watching the liquid swirl in hypnotic patterns. “Did you know Van Gogh might’ve had bipolar disorder?” I say, leaning forward, words tumbling out too fast, too eager. “Makes sense, right? His colors, his brushstrokes—they pulse with mania. Imagine if he had meds. Would he still be Van Gogh? Or would he just be... dull?”
Liana sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Iris.”
“What?” I laugh, tapping my fingers against the table. My nails—painted a deep, almost violent shade of red—click against the wood in an erratic rhythm. “You ever feel like your mind is moving so fast, like you’re thinking at the speed of light and everyone else is just—” I wave my hand vaguely, “—stuck in buffering mode?”
She gives me that look. The one that makes my chest tighten. The one that means you’re spiraling again.
I don’t want to hear it.
“Iris, you haven’t been taking your meds, have you?”
I freeze. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to notice.
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my seat. “I feel fine. No, scratch that. I feel amazing. I feel alive.”
Her voice softens. “You always say that before—”
“I know,” I cut her off, irritation pricking my skin. “Before ‘the crash.’ Before I drown. Before I fall apart.” I wave a hand in the air dismissively. “What if I don’t crash this time? What if I can stay up here forever?”
Her silence is answer enough.
My phone vibrates on the table, and my heart stutters when I see the name on the screen.
Elijah Carter.
I bite my lip and swipe to open the message.
Elijah Carter: I saw your new painting that you posted on Instagram. It’s... beautiful. Like you.
My chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with mania. I read the message three times before typing back.
You think I’m beautiful?
The dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again. My pulse matches their rhythm.
Liana watches me carefully. “Iris...”
I grin, ignoring the warning in her voice. “Maybe this time, I won’t fall.”
Maybe this time, I can stay high forever.
The moment Eli’s reply appears on my screen, my breath catches.
You’ve always been beautiful, Iris. But your paintings… they show a part of you I don’t think anyone else sees.
A strange warmth spreads through my chest, unsettling in its softness. It’s too tender, too steady, like a whisper instead of a shout. I don’t know what to do with that kind of quiet affection. I’m used to intensity, to passion that burns like wildfire. Eli’s words feel like a slow sunrise—gentle, patient, inevitable.
I shake my head, pushing away the thought. This is just flirting. Nothing more.
“You’re smiling,” Liana notes, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “Is that from Elijah?”
I smirk. “Jealous?”
She rolls her eyes. “Of him? No. If you, maybe. It must be nice to live in a world where feelings don’t terrify you.”
I pause, tapping my fingers against my phone. “Who says they don’t?”
Liana doesn’t answer, and suddenly, the coffee shop feels too small, the air too thick. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the wooden floor. “I need to paint,” I announce. “Now.”
Liana exhales sharply. “Iris, it’s almost midnight.”
“So?”
“So, you haven’t slept in over a day.”
I laugh. “And I don’t need to.” Energy surges through me, buzzing like neon signs. “Sleep is for people who aren’t on fire.”
Her gaze darkens with something I can’t name. Pity? Concern? Exhaustion? Maybe all three. “Just promise me something,” she says quietly.
I tilt my head. “Depends.”
“If you start to feel... off. If things get too fast, too loud—you’ll call me?”
I don’t answer right away. I hate promises. They’re just fragile, breakable things. But Liana is my best friend, and I know she’s not asking for nothing.
“Fine.” I grab my bag. “But I won’t need to.”
She doesn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t even believe me. But it doesn’t matter. Because right now, the world is perfect. And I have a painting to make.
As I step outside, my phone buzzes again.
Can I see you tomorrow? — Eli
I smile, my pulse quickening.
Come to my studio. I want to show you something.
Because maybe, just maybe, I can stay high a little longer.