CHAPTER 3: THE EDGE OF SOMETHING
Iris
The thing about insomnia is that it doesn’t feel like not sleeping. It feels like being caught in the space between dreams and reality—wide awake, but not really here.
It’s past 3 AM, and I’m in my studio, surrounded by half-finished canvases. The room smells like turpentine and something unnameable—something raw and electric. My hands are smeared with paint, streaks of red and blue covering my fingers like veins exposed beneath my skin.
I should be asleep.
Instead, I press my brush to the canvas, my strokes frantic, desperate. Colors explode in sharp, chaotic patterns. My thoughts are too fast, too loud, and painting is the only way to make them quiet.
But it’s not working.
Because all I can think about is Eli.
I hate that.
I hate that he still lingers in my mind, like charcoal dust clinging to paper. I hate that even after two years, I can still hear his voice, steady and low, grounding me when I felt like I was unraveling.
And I hate that tomorrow, I’ll be seeing him again.
My phone vibrates on the table, the screen lighting up.
Eli: Still awake?
I hesitate before replying.
Me: Always.
A few seconds later, another text comes through.
Eli: I had a feeling.
I scoff, rolling my eyes. Of course he did.
Because Eli knows me.
Better than I want him to.
I drop my brush into the water jar and step back, staring at the painting in front of me. It’s messy. Wild. The kind of piece that only makes sense when you look at it sideways.
Just like me.
My phone buzzes again.
Eli: Can’t sleep? Or don’t want to? Stop whatever you're doing, go to sleep.
I hesitate.
There’s a difference between not being able to sleep and not wanting to. And Eli knows which one I fall into.
I don’t answer.
Because if I do, I might say too much.
Instead, I toss my phone onto the table, step back from the canvas, and let out a slow, shaky breath.
Tomorrow, I’ll see Eli again.
And I have no idea if that’s going to fix me—
—Or ruin me all over again.
Eli knows me.
Not in the casual, surface-level way most people do. He knows my quirks, my moods, the way I can’t sit still when I get an idea in my head. He knows that I forget to eat when I’m painting, that I sometimes go days without sleeping. That I can be reckless, impulsive, impossible to slow down.
He knows me.
But not everything.
Not the things I keep hidden beneath layers of color and chaos. Not the reason I sometimes crash after feeling like I can take on the whole damn world. Not the truth behind why I run so fast, so hard—why I can’t stop.
Eli doesn’t know my condition.
And maybe that’s for the best.
Because if he did, maybe he’d stop looking at me the way he does. With warmth. With patience. With that quiet steadiness that makes me want to lean into him more than I should.
I consider him my friend, my partner in crime.
But the truth?
I like him.
Not in the playful, teasing way I pretend to when I call him Broody Sketch Guy. Not in the way I flirt with strangers just for the thrill of it.
I like him because he sees me. Because he’s careful with me, even when he doesn’t know why I need it. Because he has this way of grounding me without making me feel caged.
But I don’t think he sees me the same way.
Maybe to him, I’m just a friend. The wild one. The unpredictable one. The one who drags him into trouble and makes him laugh when he’s being too serious.
I don’t know what would be worse—Eli never knowing how I feel, or him finding out and realizing he doesn’t feel the same.
My phone buzzes again.
Eli: Go to sleep, Iris.
I smirk.
Me: Make me.
A pause.
Then—
Eli: If I were there, I would.
I stare at the message, my heart slamming against my ribs.
That’s the thing about Eli. He never says more than he needs to. Never gives away too much. But sometimes, in the spaces between his words, I think maybe—just maybe—he feels something, too.
Or maybe that’s just me, reading too much into things.
Like always.