Iris can't sleep that night. Her mind races with everything she's just said to Cassian. The weight of the conversation, the vulnerability she's shown, feels both freeing and terrifying at the same time. She can feel the cracks in her heart starting to widen, the old wounds she's tried so hard to keep sealed now exposed in the open. Yet there's a strange comfort in knowing that Cassian hasn't turned away. He's still here, still holding on.
The next morning, Cassian calls, his voice warm but tentative. "Iris, I was thinking... I want to help you. I want to be there for you, but I need to know what happened. What's been eating at you all this time?"
Iris hesitates, staring at the phone in her hand. She's never shared this with anyone, not even her closest friends. The pain of losing her brother is a wound she's carried alone for so long, it's almost like it's a part of her. But Cassian's words are a gentle pull, coaxing her toward something she's been running from for years.
"I'll meet you at the studio," she finally says, her voice shaky.
When she arrives at their shared studio space, Cassian is already there, waiting. His expression is unreadable, but there's a softness in his eyes that makes Iris feel both safe and exposed. The walls that she's carefully built around herself begin to tremble, and for a moment, she feels like they might crumble entirely.
They sit down in front of the easel where their last piece still stands—unfinished, its edges jagged and raw, much like the emotions Iris has yet to confront. She takes a deep breath before speaking, her voice barely above a whisper.
"My brother... his name was Oliver. He died when I was fifteen." Her hands tremble as she runs them through her hair, trying to steady herself. "It was a car accident. He was... he was everything to me. And I wasn't there. I wasn't there when it happened."
Cassian doesn't say anything at first. He simply listens, his gaze steady, never wavering. Iris looks down at her hands, feeling the familiar weight of guilt settling on her chest.
"I... I blame myself. I should have been there. I should have known." She looks up at him then, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "I was the one who was supposed to protect him, but I wasn't."
The confession pours out of her like a flood, all the years of guilt, grief, and regret she's been holding onto crashing together. Her emotions are raw, laid bare for the first time, and she feels both exposed and lighter in the same breath.
Cassian reaches out and takes her hand, his touch warm and reassuring. "You didn't fail him, Iris. You couldn't have known. It wasn't your fault."
"But I—" she begins, but Cassian cuts her off gently.
"I know it's hard. I know the guilt feels like it's suffocating, but you can't keep carrying it. You weren't there, but that doesn't mean you didn't love him."
Iris swallows hard, her throat tight with emotion. "I didn't know how to live without him, Cassian. It's like everything went dark. I couldn't speak. I couldn't create. Everything I did felt meaningless."
He doesn't rush to fill the silence, but there's a deep understanding in his eyes. He knows what it's like to lose someone, to have pieces of yourself stolen. He's seen it in his own life, the way people wear their grief like armor, keeping everyone at a distance to protect themselves from the pain.
Slowly, Iris begins to open up more, talking about her brother's death in more detail—how it happened, the aftermath, and the way the tragedy tore her family apart. She speaks of her parents' silent grief, their inability to speak to her about it, and how the silence only deepened her isolation. She confesses how she buried herself in her art, using it as a way to escape from the pain, to silence the emotions she couldn't deal with.
As she speaks, Cassian listens intently, never interrupting. He understands that sometimes, it's not about finding the right words—it's about letting the other person be heard, letting them release the pain without judgment.
When she finishes, there's a long silence. Iris feels drained, her soul laid bare, but in a way she's never allowed herself before. She looks at Cassian, unsure of what comes next.
Cassian leans in, his voice soft but firm. "You don't have to keep carrying all of this alone. I'm here, Iris. I'm not going anywhere."
His words settle in the space between them, quiet and comforting. It's the first time in years that Iris feels like she doesn't have to be strong all the time. She doesn't have to hide her grief behind a wall of silence and art. For the first time, she lets herself breathe.
They sit in the quiet for a long time, the weight of the moment lingering in the room. Cassian doesn't push her to talk more. Instead, he simply holds her hand, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles as if telling her he's there, through it all.
"I don't know if I can fully move on," Iris admits quietly, her voice raw. "But... maybe I don't have to. Maybe I can just start healing, piece by piece."
Cassian nods, squeezing her hand. "One step at a time. That's all we can do."
***
As the evening falls, Iris and Cassian stand in front of the unfinished artwork they've been working on. The jagged pieces of color and form that once felt chaotic and disconnected now seem more like a representation of their own journeys—fragile, yet coming together in a way that feels strangely whole.
Iris picks up her brush, her hand steady for the first time in a long while. She adds a new stroke to the canvas—a single thread of light cutting through the darkness. It's a symbol of hope, of a future that, while uncertain, is worth embracing.
Cassian stands beside her, watching her work, a silent support that speaks volumes. He knows that this moment isn't just about art. It's about them—about trust, about healing, and about finding strength in each other.