Iris
Me: How did you know that I'm not sleeping right now, even 5 minutes late I replied to you?
I hit send before I can overthink it.
My fingers tighten around my phone, waiting.
Three dots appear on the screen. Disappear. Then come back again.
Eli: Because I know you.
A slow exhale slips past my lips.
Of course, he’d say that.
Because Eli always knows.
I lean back against the studio wall, my bare feet brushing against the wooden floor, the air thick with the scent of paint and something else—something heavier. Something I don’t want to name.
Me: Creepy, but I’ll allow it.
Eli: It’s not creepy if it’s true.
I bite my lip, staring at the screen.
It is true.
Eli has this way of reading me, of knowing things even when I don’t say them out loud. He’s never asked why I stay up all night, why I get bursts of energy that make me feel invincible only to crash hard when the high wears off. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t push. But he knows.
Maybe that’s why I’ve kept my secret from him.
Because the moment he finds out about my condition, everything might change.
He might start treating me like I’m fragile. Like I’m something to be handled with caution instead of the wildfire I am.
I don’t want that.
I don’t want him to see me differently.
My phone buzzes again.
Eli: Are you painting?
Me: Uhm, maybe?
Eli: Maybe? Show me.
I hesitate. My latest piece is a mess—chaotic, raw, too much.
Like me.
Me: It’s not done yet.
Eli: I don’t care. I just want to see it.
That warmth curls in my chest again, dangerous and unsteady.
I switch to my camera, snap a quick picture of the canvas, and send it to him before I can change my mind.
A full minute passes before he replies.
Eli: Iris.
Just my name. Nothing else.
But somehow, it feels like everything.
I swallow hard, my pulse racing.
Me: What?
Eli: It’s beautiful.
I don’t know why that makes my throat tight.
I don’t know why my fingers tremble when I type my next message.
Me: It’s a mess.
Eli: Maybe. But it’s still beautiful.
I close my eyes.
He always does this. Makes me feel like I’m more than just the mess in my head. Like the chaos inside me isn’t something to be fixed, but something worth looking at.
And that scares me more than anything.
Because I don’t know how to let someone see all of me—
—without the fear that one day, they’ll decide I’m too much.
Me: Don’t lie.
I stare at the message, my fingers hovering over the screen.
I shouldn’t have sent that.
But the words slip out too fast, too raw. Because I don’t believe him. Not really. People say things like it’s beautiful or you’re fine or you’re not a mess all the time, but they don’t mean it. They just don’t want to deal with the truth.
Eli takes his time before replying.
Eli: I don’t.
A short, simple answer. But it hits me harder than any flowery compliment ever could.
I don’t know how to respond.
Instead, I turn my phone over, pressing it against my chest like that’ll somehow stop my heart from beating so loud. The room is too quiet now, except for the sound of my own breathing. My thoughts start to spiral, filling in the silence with a hundred different questions I don’t want answers to.
Why does he say things like this?
Does he actually see me?
Or am I just imagining all of it?
My phone buzzes again.
Eli: I mean it, Iris. I swear. It’s beautiful. Just like you.
My breath catches.
He’s never said something like that before. Not like this. Not in a way that makes my stomach flip, and my skin feel too tight.
I don’t know what to do with it.
So, I do what I always do. I make a joke.
Me: You’re being suspiciously nice tonight. Who are you, and what have you done with Eli?
Eli: Maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t care.
I freeze.
Because that—that—feels like something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
My hands shake as I type back.
Me: Eli…
But I don’t know what to say after that.
Because if he really does care—
If he really sees me—
Then what happens when he finally realizes that I’m not the version of me he thinks I am?
What happens when he finds out the truth?
Eli: Nah. Kidding, I'm totally Eli. Elijah Carter, your handsome friend. Why are you thinking that I'm not Eli?
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Of course. That’s just Eli being Eli. Dropping something heavy like a bomb and then acting like it was nothing.
I should be relieved.
But I’m not.
Instead, my fingers tighten around my phone. That word—friend—sticks to my ribs like something sharp, something that won’t let go. I should be used to it by now. Should be used to hearing it and not feeling anything.
Except I do.
I feel everything.
Me: Because you don’t usually say things like that.
A few seconds pass before he replies.
Eli: Like what? That I care?
Damn him.
I don’t know if he does this on purpose—throws words at me like darts, waiting to see which ones hit the hardest. If he knows how easily he can make my heart trip over itself with just a few texts.
Me: No, you do. Just not like that.
Eli: Maybe I should start saying it more, then.
My stomach twists.
I don’t know what he’s trying to do. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is just Eli being himself, the same way he’s always been—calm, steady, unshakable.
But something feels different tonight.
And I don’t know if I want to run from it or dive in headfirst.
Me: Careful, Carter. I might start thinking you actually like me.
I add a winking emoji to keep it light, to make it seem like I’m joking. Like it’s just teasing.
But Eli takes his time replying.
Too long.
And when his message finally comes through, my hands go cold.
Eli: And what if I do?
I stare at the screen, my pulse roaring in my ears.
This isn’t a joke anymore.
This is something else.
Something dangerous.
Something I don’t know how to handle.
Because if Eli really means what I think he means—if he really does like me—then everything between us is about to change.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.