Dear Iris [h.s]

chapter eighteen.

Part of a double update, please read the previous chapter first xxx

Iris Grace

Sometime next week there's an art exhibition at the town hall. I'm looking forward to something for once. It'll be great to see heaps of contemporary art all at one time, instead of the older paintings in the town hall currently.

However, it's also going to be filled with rich people bidding on art they know nothing about. Another event ruined by rich men yet again. I suppose this one will be more tolerable than the rest though, the other meaningless dances at the town hall, at least I'll like this one to an extent.

It isn't for another week yet though, and we aren't having dinner with the Styles family this week because the business is busy apparently, which is a bonus for me. The less time I have to spend with them the better. Most of them anyway.

I've not seen Harry in a day or two, not since he stayed here on my sofa. I hope he isn't embarrassed, he shouldn't be. Maybe he's just busy, I hope that's the case, sometimes it's good to keep yourself busy to get your mind off things.

This afternoon I didn't do much, I woke up early and did pretty much a whole day's worth of work in a few hours so I was exhausted. I ended up going for a walk and seeing Harry's mum who talked to me for a while.

Louise was telling me it was nice of me to help Harry, however I wasn't exactly clear what side of the story she was told, so I just told her it wasn't a bother, because it wasn't. She's a great woman, never fails to make me feel like less of an outsider. She also gave me back an empty jar which was filled with jam.

I've barely seen my own family since a few days ago when I went and Thomas smashed my glass jar on the ground. I'll go and see them at some point, I do still live there and sleeping on a couch every night isn't the greatest. The thought of it just gives me the fear, so much so that it makes me feel physically sick.

By the evening time I was knackered. I made myself some red pesto pasta, because contrary to a certain someone's belief, I think it's better than the green pesto. I had a cup of tea, a cigarette and sat on my window ledge looking out at the empty street dimly lit but streetlights that do nothing but flicker.

In my sketchbook, I had drawn a pair of eyes and before I knew it they were green with shadows cast over them by an intense stare and furrowed brows. Then those eyes were given a nose and pair of lips, accompanied by a dimple on just one cheek yet present smile lines. Then there was a chin, a sharp jawline and hair that looked so soft I'd love to run my hands through it.

Then I slammed the book shut. What the fuck am I doing?

I swear everyday is a day closer to me losing the plot completely, why am I drawing him? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Another thing, why am I putting my shoes on in the hopes I might stumble across a certain someone who also seemingly enjoys late night walks round the outskirts of the town?

I tell myself it's because I'm frustrated, because I need a breath of fresh air and to get outside for a little, but I know all too well that there's a chance I might see him. I don't know what it is that has me constantly looking for him, maybe because he's someone I don't know too well.

The unknown is scary sometimes, but when all you know is negativity, sometimes the unknown is a breath of fresh air. The unknown can't be worse than what I already know.

I walked around the town, the empty streets provided comfort and the click of my shoes on the cobblestones were also a comforting sound. It was then the outskirts of the town I found myself wandering round, alongside the walls of people's gardens to the little bench I often sit pondering to myself.