The storm lingered in Iris's mind long after it had passed. That night, sleep eluded her as the memory of Cassian's steady hands and quiet reassurance replayed over and over. His words, "I'm here," seemed to echo in the stillness of her room, warming a part of her she'd thought long frozen.
At school, their interactions took on a new weight. Cassian's usual teasing remarks softened, replaced by stolen glances and lingering silences that spoke louder than words. Iris wasn't sure what to make of it, but something between them had undoubtedly changed.
.
Their art project was nearly complete—a stunning tapestry of woven threads, abstract sketches, and painted panels. It was a reflection of their shared journey, one that captured grief, resilience, and the fragile beauty of connection.
"We're almost there," Cassian said one afternoon as they stood back to admire their work. "But something's missing."
Iris tilted her head, studying the piece. It was powerful, but she understood what he meant. There was an emptiness in the center—a void that seemed to beckon for something more.
Cassian turned to her, his gaze intent. "I think it needs a voice. Your voice."
Iris froze, her heart pounding. She shook her head quickly, retreating into herself.
"Iris," he said gently, stepping closer. "You don't have to speak. But you have something to say. And I think... I think this project won't be complete until you find a way to say it."
Her throat tightened, and she turned away, pretending to fiddle with her notebook.
Cassian didn't push further. Instead, he said, "Let's take a break. Clear our heads."
.
That evening, Cassian suggested they visit a stargazing spot outside the city. It was a secluded hilltop, free from the glare of streetlights, where the night sky stretched endlessly above them.
"I come here when I need to think," he said as they settled onto a blanket he'd brought.
Iris looked up, the stars twinkling like distant promises.
Cassian leaned back on his elbows, his expression thoughtful. "You know, stars are kind of like us. From down here, they look so far apart, but they're actually connected—part of the same universe."
Iris glanced at him, surprised by the sudden depth in his voice.
He turned to her, his eyes searching hers. "I know I talk too much sometimes, but with you... it's different. You make me think about things I've never thought about before."
Her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, focusing on the stars.
After a long pause, he asked, "Do you ever wonder what your brother would say if he were here?"
The question caught her off guard. She gripped the edge of the blanket, her mind flashing to memories of her brother's laughter, his unwavering support.
She nodded slowly, blinking back tears.
"I think he'd be proud of you," Cassian said softly. "For finding a way to keep going, even when it hurts."
His words unraveled something in her. She reached for her notebook, her hands trembling as she wrote: He used to call me his little star. Said I'd shine brightest when things were darkest.
Cassian read the note, his expression tender. "He was right."
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world felt still. Cassian reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His hand lingered, his gaze dropping to her lips.
But before the moment could deepen, a sudden rustling in the nearby trees broke the spell.
"Probably just the wind," Cassian said, though his voice was tinged with disappointment.
Iris nodded, her heart still racing.
.
As they drove back to the city, the weight of unspoken words hung between them. Cassian dropped her off at home, offering her a soft "Goodnight" before driving away.
Iris watched his car disappear into the distance, her hand brushing the notebook in her pocket. For the first time in years, she felt an unfamiliar tug in her chest—a flicker of something that felt like hope.
But alongside it was a shadow of fear. She had spent so long building walls around her heart. Could she risk letting them crumble?