The truth is, much like a sailboat with a pinprick of a hole in the side, Christopher had been sinking slowly.
Only those close to him had begun to notice, and if they commented on it heâd simply shrug, say something witty, behave like the party boy heâd grown up to be.
He always had an excuse - for skipping class, for coming home at seven in the morning with only one shoe, for being found with his head in his hands on the curb of an unknown street five miles from home.
But no one had asked him about the bottle of liquor, constantly drained and refilled, that lived deep in the pocket of his jeans. No one asked him why his smirk seemed forced, no one wondered if there was a reason on the days he didnât shave. No one asked why he kept showing up at parties with black eyes, and bloodied fists. He wouldnât answered them if they did.
He missed his mother. He didnât want to become a psychiatrist, because human emotion made him uncomfortable. He was beginning to query the meaning of his actions; he no longer found drinking fun, but a necessity.
Weakness, weakness, weakness.
          Iris, Iris, Iris.
He hadnât notice her sink to the bottom of the ocean. He didnât have the strength to dive down and help her swim. What did that say about him as a person?
He cared, he cared, he cared. But not about himself. He cared, he cared, he cared, but not enough to see through to the cracks in her skin. Who caused them? Who carved them in? Did he, did they, did she?
177 days. He wanted to say everything and nothing, so he chose the latter, because it was easier. If his friends were speaking, he didnât hear, nor did he notice the concerned expression Andrew directed at him upon realising he hadnât said a word. He tried not to look at her - he couldnât look at her. It would say too much, it would reveal too much.
Then they were alone, and for the first time, his eyes found hers.
A storm had been raging in his bloodstream for near two hundred days, and now she was here, standing before him. The sunshine in her eyes had dried the rain dripping through his frail frame, and a sense of calm swept through him for the first time in months, dissipating the thunder cloud above his heart. Then there it was, on his lips. A mysterious thing, a little known friend: a smile.
But did she care for him, as much as he did her? Did her bandaged heart beat to the tune of his name? Did her smile say, âOh, my dear, I missed you tooâ?
 It could have been three seconds or four and a half or close to a hundred, but it felt to Iris like the latter. The distance was s a f e, for now;  the petite brunette neednât worry about brown hues fixed on lips she wanted to touch, or the subtle tremble in her digits, the ones that felt as though underneath its membrane was a magnet, and Chrisâ chin its iron, the magnetic pull becoming stronger after each step, as they became closer and closer and...
And it was a good thing Iris and Chris were not in close proximity because all he had done was spoken her name on his lips and the bum bum bum of her heart was in her ears and it was like 177 days had never created a chasm between now and their last moment. For her nothing had changed... But for Chris? She couldnât read his mind, unfortunately, so she was left with a pathetic, vulnerable ponder: Was there someone else?
Iris could not read his mind, that was true, but she could read him and sometimes that was enough. The usual perfectly trimmed chin was now dominated in a stubble on the verge of being deemed out of control, eyes glazed over in an unreadable expression that juxtaposed the shocking, rare sight of Chrisâ smile, and Iris found herself wondering how much smiling he had done the past few months.   Cue the pang of guilt-- but more than that, worry.
They would never be the type to discuss their mistakes and issues and insecurities unless accompanied with the taste of their favourite liquor, so Iris wouldnât highlight the clear change in the young man. Her worry was compartmentalized, pushed away, for now, because Chris was expecting a response and Iris Winters was not one to miss a beat.
                    âBriggs.â Irisâ words triggered a broadening of her smile, an automatic response at the name. Arms poised at the waist, a diminutive tread was taken. Her confidence was illuminating, a wondrous thing given countless unspoken words of concern and for now she had everyone- even herself- under a dazzling spell. âGuess weâre roomies, now, huh?â A teasing tone but in it leaked the emotion depicted in her eyes, presented in her steps that inched, without her attention, closer to him-- and a teasing tone that would fade in mere seconds if overpowered by the pull, if encouraged in even a glance by the blonde himself. A desperate tug that would soon have her stood directly before the boy she had been forced to avoid and when they were that close... Who knew how much control theyâd have over themselves?
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
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