Me: Fine. But if you annoy me too much, I’m leaving you in the middle of the street.
Eli: As long as it’s next to you, I don’t mind. ❤️
I stare at his message longer than I should.
How does he do it? Make me feel like I’m worth this kind of love?
I don’t know the answer.
But for now, I text back a simple "See you later."
Because maybe, just maybe, I can let myself believe in him a little more.
And maybe, one day, I’ll believe in us too.
(Iris’s POV)
I stare at my phone even after sending the message.
"See you later."
It’s such a simple reply, but for me, it feels like a commitment—a silent agreement that I’ll show up, that I’ll try.
I glance at my painting again. The colors still feel heavy, but now, I wonder if adding a little more gold might make a difference.
Sighing, I step away and grab my jacket. A walk with Eli might actually be good for me.
Maybe the fresh air will clear my mind.
Maybe being with him will quiet the doubts.
I head outside, the crisp afternoon breeze brushing against my skin. I spot Eli waiting near the park, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the surroundings. The moment he sees me, he grins.
"Wow. You’re early," he teases.
I roll my eyes. "Shut up."
He chuckles and falls into step beside me.
For a while, we just walk in silence. The air is filled with the sound of leaves rustling and distant laughter from kids playing. It’s peaceful.
Then, Eli glances at me. "You okay?"
I nod, but I know he doesn’t fully believe me.
"You don’t have to pretend, you know," he says gently. "Not with me."
I bite my lip, looking away.
The truth is, I don’t know how to tell him what’s on my mind. That I’m scared. That loving him—letting him love me—feels too good, too fragile, too dangerous.
But instead of saying any of that, I simply whisper, "I’m trying."
Eli doesn’t push.
He just smiles, reaches for my hand, and gives it a light squeeze.
Eli’s hand is warm against mine. Steady.
I don’t pull away.
We continue walking through the park, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows on the pavement. I focus on the rhythm of our steps, the way his thumb absentmindedly brushes against my skin.
For the first time in a while, I feel present.
Not trapped in my thoughts. Not drowning in the weight of my emotions. Just… here. With him.
"You know," Eli starts, his voice light, "I read somewhere that holding hands can reduce stress."
I raise an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
"Yup." He nods, grinning. "It lowers blood pressure, calms the nerves—basically, I’m doing you a favor by holding your hand."
I scoff. "And here I thought you were just being sweet."
"I am sweet," he says, feigning offense. "But I’m also scientifically proven to be good for your health."
I shake my head, but I can’t fight the small smile tugging at my lips. He always knows how to lighten the mood, how to pull me out of my own head without making me feel like I’m broken.
As we walk past a small pond, I slow down, my gaze drifting to the water. The reflection of the sky ripples against the surface, distorted yet beautiful.
"Eli…" I hesitate, my fingers tightening slightly around his. "Do you ever get scared?"
"Of what?"
"Of… loving someone too much?"
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks ahead, as if searching for the right words.
"Not really," he finally says. "I think love should be something we let ourselves feel. Not something we run from."
I let out a breath. "That sounds easy when you say it."
He turns to me then, his expression softer. "It’s not easy. But it’s worth it."
I look down at our hands, still intertwined.
I want to believe him.
I really do.
Maybe love isn’t something to be feared.
Maybe, with Eli, love is safe.
And maybe… just maybe… I can learn how to let it in.
Even if it takes time.
Happiness scares me.
Not because I don’t want it—but because I don’t know how long it will stay.
As I sit in my apartment, staring at my unfinished painting, my mind drifts back to my walk with Eli earlier. The way he held my hand, the warmth in his voice when he spoke about love. He makes everything sound simple, but for me, nothing ever is.
I grab my brush and dip it into black paint, dragging it across the canvas in slow, uneven strokes.
Dark. Messy. Unpredictable.
Just like my thoughts.
My phone buzzes beside me. Eli’s name flashes on the screen.
Eli: "Got home safe. Just wanted to check on you. How’s my favorite artist?"
I hesitate before typing a response.
Me: "Alive. I guess that’s a good thing."
A few seconds pass. Then—
Eli: "More than good. It’s amazing."
I stare at his message, my chest tightening.
How does he do that? How does he make existing feel like something to be proud of?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to tell him I’m scared. That I don’t know how to handle the idea of someone caring this much. That I feel like I’ll ruin everything, just like before.
But instead, I type:
Me: "You’re too optimistic for your own good, Eli."
His reply is instant.
Eli: "Maybe. But that just means I’ll be optimistic enough for both of us."
I exhale, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself.
Maybe happiness is terrifying.
But with Eli, maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to be so afraid.
At least, not today.