Iris
Maybe you’re wondering how I met Eli.
How a wildfire like me ended up drawn to someone like him—quiet, steady, the kind of person who doesn’t need to fill the silence just to feel alive.
It wasn’t some grand, cinematic moment. No instant sparks, no dramatic music swelling in the background. It was just... ordinary. Except nothing about Eli has ever felt ordinary to me.
Two Years Ago
It was a shitty day. The kind that left me feeling hollowed out and stretched too thin, like my own skin wasn’t mine. I had been running on three hours of sleep, my meds were making me nauseous, and I was sick of everything—the noise, the dullness, the way the world felt muted, like someone had turned the saturation all the way down.
I needed color.
So, I found myself at The Art Den, a local studio-slash-café where artists could rent space to work. I hadn’t planned to stay long, just long enough to steal some inspiration, maybe let the paint do the talking since my brain refused to cooperate.
That’s when I saw him.
He was sitting in the back corner, sketchbook open, pencil gliding effortlessly across the page. His hands were stained with charcoal, dark smudges trailing up his fingers like delicate tattoos. He wasn’t hunched over like most artists I knew—he was calm, deliberate, every stroke precise.
I should’ve ignored him.
Instead, I walked right up to him, zero hesitation, because that’s just who I am.
“What are you drawing?” I asked.
He glanced up, and for a second, I was caught off guard. His eyes were this impossible shade of green—like forest leaves after a storm. Dark, deep, full of things I couldn’t read.
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, studied me, like he was trying to figure out what kind of person walks up to a complete stranger with no introduction.
Then he turned his sketchbook around.
It was a portrait. Of me.
I blinked. “Did you—did you just draw that? Like, right now?”
He nodded. “You were sitting by the window earlier.”
I hadn’t even noticed him watching me.
I stared at the sketch. It wasn’t perfect, not in a hyper-realistic way, but there was something raw about it—like he had captured something beneath my skin, something I didn’t even know I was showing.
“Damn,” I muttered. “That’s… actually insane.”
He smirked. “Insane, huh?”
“In a good way,” I added quickly. “Like, freakishly good.”
I sat down across from him without asking, because personal space isn’t really my thing. “You do this a lot? Stare at strangers and sketch them like some kind of broody art prodigy?”
He chuckled, the sound low and rough. “Only when they’re interesting.”
A strange warmth curled in my chest, something dangerously close to fondness.
“You don’t even know me,” I pointed out.
He shrugged. “I didn’t have to.”
For the first time that day, the world didn’t feel so dull.
And that’s how it started.
Me, with my reckless energy and chaotic mind.
Him, with his quiet intensity and steady hands.
A wildfire and the artist who wasn’t afraid to paint with flames.
I should’ve walked away that day.
I should’ve thanked him for the sketch, maybe thrown him a playful smirk, and left before I got too curious.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I stayed.
“So, mysterious artist,” I said, resting my chin on my palm. “What’s your name?”
He hesitated for half a second before answering. “Eli.”
I tapped my fingers against the table. “Eli what?”
“Elijah, but you can call me Eli.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re doing the enigmatic stranger thing? Should I just call you ‘Broody Sketch Guy’ instead?”
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. “You could.”
“Hmm. Nah, I like Eli better.”
He nodded, satisfied. “And you?”
“Iris.” I grinned. “Like the flower. Or the eye. Whichever sounds cooler.”
He tilted his head, eyes studying me like I was something worth figuring out. “You’re an artist, too?”
I leaned back, exhaling. “More of a painter. But yeah. Art is kind of a thing.”
Eli didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he flipped to a new page in his sketchbook, grabbed his pencil, and started drawing again—right in the middle of our conversation.
I stared at him, a little offended. “Uh, hello? I’m still here. You just gonna ignore me?”
“I’m listening.” He didn’t even glance up. His hand moved effortlessly, lines forming before I could make sense of them. “Keep talking.”
I narrowed my eyes, half-tempted to snatch the sketchbook from his hands. “You always sketch people while they’re speaking?”
“Only when they say something interesting.”
I folded my arms. “And what if I don’t?”
Eli smirked, tapping his pencil against the paper. “Then you’re not as fascinating as you think you are.”
For a moment, I just blinked at him.
Then, to my absolute horror—I laughed.
A real, genuine, full-bodied laugh. Not the forced kind I use when I’m pretending, I’m okay. Not the manic kind that spills out when my brain is moving too fast. Just… normal.
That should’ve been my first warning.
Eli had a way of pulling things out of me before I even realized they were there.
“So, what’s your deal?” I asked, tilting my head. “You some tortured artist type? Or do you just like sketching random girls in coffee shops?”
Eli’s hand paused for a second. Barely noticeable. But I caught it.
“I just like capturing things,” he said finally. “People. Moments. The way someone looks when they think no one’s watching.”
My throat tightened.
Because for a second, just a brief, fleeting second—I wanted him to capture me.
And that was dangerous.
Because the last thing I needed was someone looking too closely.
Present Day
My fingers hover over my phone screen, rereading Eli’s last message.
Can I see you tomorrow?
I bite my lip.
He still sees me. Maybe more than I want him to.
And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.