Harry Styles
Her presence is comforting.
I'm almost finished with this book and I'm not really enjoying it to be honest. There's nothing special about it and whilst the writing is good, it isn't revolutionary. It isn't' my cup of tea, but I'll be fair when I write about it, I bet somebody somewhere will like it.
Iris has been working on that painting of hers while I've been sitting here finishing this book. I'd probably have gotten through it much quicker if I was able to stop looking up at the sight before me. She's so fascinating and even when she looks so focussed, she still looks so at peace. You can tell when somebody likes what they do, and it's almost like being an artist was something she was made for.
Every now and then she'd hum a song I've never heard before, but only for a few seconds before she snapped back into full concentration. There'd occasionally be a frustrated sigh, or little comments she'd make talking to herself, I didn't mind though.
"Oh mon dieu, qu'est-ce que c'est..." She muttered, dropping her paintbrush and staring up at the canvas in defeat.
"What's wrong?" I asked her, closing my book with the scrap piece of paper as it's bookmark left between the pages.
She looked over at me, clearly stressed and just pulled her hair down from the way it was tied up a second ago, "Nothing."
She's probably stressed because she's been sitting there all day looking at the same painting for hours. I stood up and wandered over, crouched down behind her as I looked at her painting, which looks like a photograph by the best, most high quality camera. This doesn't even look like a painting at all.
"Wow," I said, not necessarily knowing what I'm supposed to even say. I'm amazed. "That's amazing, Iris."
"What colour is this?" She asked me, pointing to a colour that looks like green, but now I'm questioning myself and I'm ridiculously nervous to answer in case it's a trick question.
"Green?"
"Exactly!" She groaned frustratedly, resting back on her arms and staring at the painting like it's ruined. "It's meant to be more...Forrest green."
"I didn't know there was different greens." I shrugged apologetically, suddenly feeling guilty for offending her, if I did. "If i knew Forrest green was a thing I would have said that. ...It is very forest green now that you say that."
"You're just saying that." She said, turning to face me with squinted eyes.
With a smile, I stood up and walked so I was far away from the painting, the other side of the room with my back against the wall. Iris was sitting cross legged on the floor with paint speckled across her skin, on the sleeves of her blouse and she was looking at me in confusion.
"It looks like a photograph from over here." I told her, to which she then sighed and got up to join me. Standing next to me, she stared at the painting and yet still, it didn't look like she was getting any more impressed with it. "You still hate it?"
"Why doesn't it look right?" She sighed, shoulders dropping as she ran her hand through her hair.
"Probably because you've been looking at it for hours." I answered truthfully. "Take a break from it."
She nodded, taking a deep breath and wandering to the kitchen area of her studio. She licked the kettle on and washed out the two cups we had drank from a while ago. Waiting for the kettle dot boil she picked up a packet of cigarettes, pushed open the wooden boarded doors that cover her window, and she sat up on the window ledge where I saw her sitting earlier.

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Dear Iris [h.s]
FanficWARNINGS ON FIRST CHAPTER "Dear Iris,... Parting is such sweet sorrow..." Harry Styles, an aspiring writer. Iris Grace, an artist with high hopes. Two people destined for more than they're set up for...can they make it through their world of turmoi...