ଓ༉‧.⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

The irony and contradiction about Lyra's favorite color being blue wasn't lost on Iris.

For starters, she never wore it, arguing it clashed with her eyes, or with the shade of blonde her hair was on any given day, or with her skin as the colder months stole her natural tan. She'd complain and kick her feet when faced with blue clothing, but Blue by Joni Mitchell was her favorite album of all time, and most of the decorations in her dorm room were toned in different shades of cyan, turquoise, and navy. She'd avoid blue clothes like the plague, but use blue everywhere else, in areas she wouldn't bring along to where she could be seen.

She'd grown out of it by the time they graduated college, shifting to more muted, neutral colors like beige, white, and gray for the sake of fitting more adequately into the corporate world (though Iris had never quite understood what it was exactly that she did). That had been one of the key signs something wasn't quite right, with Lyra settling for an office job to please her parents (or because she thought it was what would please her parents, when all they'd ever wanted was for her to be happy and feel fulfilled), but Iris hadn't thought much of it at the time. If anything, she'd assumed it was a sign of maturity.

Oh, how wrong she'd been.

Lyra's preference for blue was also ironic considering everything that had followed their falling out.

It was ironic considering the striking color of the ocean and grandiose that day, one of the few winter days with a clear sky (which had been ironically painful enough by itself, taunting everyone in a way if one remembered how catastrophic it had been).

It was ironic considering the blue tint on her skin and lips, even under the makeup the mortuary cosmetologist had applied to her face in preparation for the open casket ceremony. Whoever they were, they'd used the wrong shade of foundation, making her appear paler than she actually was, even in death, and Iris knew she would've protested and stomped her feet over the atrocious choice of lipstick people assumed she would have liked. It was too bubblegum pink-y for her, too garish, too attention seeking from a girl who would've been happy slipping under the radar.

And because Iris Fox was Iris Fox, she knew all of that, and remembered all of that. She remembered leaning over the casket and staring down at Lyra—her body, not her—and knowing how much she would have hated the whole thing, all the attention, and the hideous summery blue dress they'd made her wear. She'd be shivering harder than Iris was, all bundled up under a heavy winter coat, bony knees clicking against each other when she walked.

But that was a different timeline, after all.

In this one, Lyra still sported her short hair, her nose ring, and the pink streaks. She still wore bright colors, still disliked the way blue looked on her, was still clueless about Iris having gone through all of this before. Furthermore—and perhaps the most important part of it all—she was still oblivious to the inner turmoil in Iris' head, aching with guilt over everything she wasn't admitting to—her feelings for Lyra, the truth about having rewound time to save her life and ease her conscience—and how well she'd been hiding things.

Perhaps that was the real issue, the one that drove the point home, and the one that had driven them apart. She could convince herself she'd been doing this all along to save Lyra, to save her family from the heartache of burying their own daughter at twenty-six, but, at the end of the day, it had all been for herself.

At her core, Iris was deeply selfish, and was too blinded by delusions brought by her innate savior complex. How and why it had developed, she wasn't certain, but she had enough self-awareness to know about it; she just didn't know how to quit it. Being needed by other people was one of the most addictive things anyone could experience.

It was November then, still early on in the month, and Lyra was stressed about midterms. She was also stressed about going home to see her parents, even though Thanksgiving was still weeks away, and Iris distinctly remembered that day.

She remembered they'd froze each other out and had been for a few days at that point for no apparent reason. In retrospect, it might not have been for no reason, even though Lyra had always been flighty, picking fights for the adrenaline it brought her, to feel something just because she could, Iris was also at fault—both for falling for it and for taking the bait. For not knowing better. For not trying to do better.

Their arguments usually ended the same way every time.

Iris would go silent, as escalating the situation by admitting Lyra was aiming below the belt, forgetting all about limits, not just her own, was a lot more damaging than refusing to engage. Internalizing the emotions haunting her would always, always matter more than accidentally setting Lyra off like a firework and worsening what was already a stressful situation for the both of them; after all, Iris was trying to keep her alive. Maybe she'd always been, sacrificing her own happiness until the day she couldn't take it anymore.

Lyra, on the other hand, would keep going and going, throwing one dagger after another until she finally landed a direct hit. She was the tornado, the forest fire, and never knew when to stop, forever chasing a special kind of high that, albeit exhilarating for her and gave her a false sense of purpose, came at the expense of Iris' dumb little feelings.

Who cared about hurt feelings when a whole life was at stake?

"It'll be okay," Iris reassured her, for the millionth time that afternoon, but it fell on deaf ears. When Lyra had already made up her mind about something, it would take an entire city to even try to sway her—and ultimately fail at it, even. Why would she bother trying when she knew how fruitless it would be? "You're jumping to conclusions already, and these are your parents. I'm sure they'll be happy to see you regardless of what you look like or what you wear. You look incredible in blue."

"Of course it's easy for you to be all Miss Sunshine and Happiness about this," Lyra grumbled, gripping handfuls of her pink streaks. "Nothing about me looks acceptable, let alone incredible. You don't know my parents, okay? They're gonna flip—"

"But you knew about that before you dyed your hair, right?"

Lyra huffed, complete with an unnecessarily dramatic eye-roll. "Yes, but I assumed it would fade away in time so I wouldn't look like a fucking clown before going home to see my parents. I wash my hair every day; go figure the one time I need the dye to fade quickly just so happens to be the time it clings to my head like its life depends on it. You could at least try to be helpful and supportive, you know."

Letting her win would be a good idea. Letting her win the argument would be the right, wise thing to do, but Iris knew better than to convince herself that was how it would end. Even if she acquiesced and admitted she wasn't being supportive enough of the love of her life, her soulmate, the most important person in the world, she feared it would still not be enough.

Iris knew she would never be enough. Not entirely, at least, and no matter how hard she worked, no matter how much she bent and broke, there would always be something missing. She'd always be dangling off the edge, the promise of almost having been enough lingering tauntingly close to the tips of her fingers, but still too far out of reach.

It was how she'd always lived her life, hanging on to every almost moment she could clench her hands around. She had almost gotten Lyra, she had almost fixed her parents' marriage, she had almost saved Lyra's life, she had almost gotten the career of her dreams, she had almost gotten herself out of her slump.

"I'll be there with you the whole time," Iris muttered. "It might not be too much, but it's the most I can do. It's all there is to me."

Lyra then turned to her, face softening, and she almost looked like the girl Iris once knew—the one she thought she knew, anyway, the soft soul hidden behind the sharp, cutting edges. Not all of her was made of fragile, yet dangerous glass. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking it out on you. It's not your fault I don't think about the consequences of my poor decisions, like, ever." Iris nodded, which felt like an innocent enough gesture, one that wouldn't set her off or imply any ill intent. It was a slippery slope, she knew that, and she knew Lyra would quickly catch on to the extent she'd been walking on eggshells around her, but she wouldn't understand why, and Iris couldn't explain it to her. "I know our situations are different. Our parents and our relationships with them are different."

That was true.

Lyra had met Iris' parents (on separate occasions) shortly after their first run in with each other in the hallway, and to say they had immediately clicked was an understatement, if that were possible. Maybe they both needed someone to talk to—not a counselor or a therapist, no, because their pride would never allow them to seek help—but someone Iris' age they could latch on to, a surrogate daughter in a way. A daughter by proxy, a stranger who would remain neutral but still feel familiar thanks to her connection to Iris.

Though the marriage was already shaky by then and they weren't officially separated or getting started on the divorce, Iris had noticed the lengths they'd go to avoid each other, and that included visiting her at college, something she hadn't realized how badly it would sting the second time around.

They couldn't—or simply wouldn't—get along, not even for her sake, and, as an only child, one learned to blame themselves for all the fighting and the silently thrown glares around them because they were the only thing the arguing parties had in common. Iris was the common denominator in every situation, so it had been horribly easy to welcome the guilt.

Individually, they were great. Iris knew how lucky she was to still be close to both her parents well into her late teens, when she was supposed to rebel and live far from their influence, but they were understanding, a lot chiller than Lyra's description of her own family. So, she understood why she'd happily reciprocated the love and attention—she needed her own surrogate family, one that didn't feel as overbearing to her as her own.

"I guess," Iris said, doing what she knew best—she'd be a buffer, inconsequentially standing by to try and ensure the evening would go as smoothly as possible.

Originally, nothing bad had happened during dinner with the Sinclairs, other than the hours she'd spent awake at night agonizing over whether she'd made a good first impression or not. With the changes made to the current timeline, though . . . there was no way of knowing.

Lyra sighed. "Just so you know, being around my parents for more than five minutes at a time is worse than being punched in the tit."

ଓ༉‧.⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

thank you as always for reading!! please make sure to let me know what you think so far ~

wc: 1944 (docs) // 1922 (wattpad)

total wc: 14895 (docs) // 14709 (wattpad)