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James POV:
The walls looked like they were spinning. I didn't know which way was up or down; I could only feel Iris's hand, anchoring me halfway in reality.
She was sitting on my bed, her back leaning against the headboard, while I was half lying on top of her. Her arms were wrapped tightly around me, her hand gently stroking my hair. All I could concentrate on was the warmth of her body, her steady breathing, and her touch.
I had no idea how many days had passed since then. Whenever I tried to remember anything, there was nothing but fog. Thick gray fog and two thoughts that came again and again for brief moments of clarity.
First of all, my mom was dead.
Second, I kissed another girl in front of Iris.
No matter how much alcohol I drank or what I took, I would never forget the look on Iris's face in that moment. She looked so incredulous and hurt, as if I had destroyed her world.
I buried my face in Iris's waist again. Firstly, because I was afraid she would get up and leave at any moment. Secondly, because I was afraid the tears would come back again.
But neither of those things happened. Iris stayed, and I obviously had no more fluid left for crying.
I felt like there was nothing left in me. Maybe my soul had died with my mother. How else could I have done that to Iris?
How could I do that to Iris?
What's wrong with me?
What the hell was wrong with me?
Several thoughts filled my head, more and more kept coming in. I was so deep in thought that I didn't notice I had stopped breathing.
"James, you need to breathe," I heard Iris whisper suddenly. Her words made me realize I had actually stopped breathing. I wasn't sure for how long.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It wasn't that difficult.
"What's happening to me?" Whispering those words was so tiring that it felt like shouting.
Iris's hand stopped stroking my hair. "You're grieving," she replied quietly.
"But why?" I had forgotten to breathe, and now my breathing was coming too quickly.
I sat up abruptly. My chest hurt, as did my limbs, which felt as if I'd been doing too much exercise. In the last couple of days, I had done nothing but suppress what was currently happening in my life.
"Why what?" Her gaze was warm, and I wondered how she could look at me like that after everything I'd done.
"Why I'm sad, I mean. I didn't even like my mom particularly." Before I even finished saying the words, I froze. Did I really just say that?
Iris grabbed my hand and held it tight. "You lost your mother. It's normal to be completely devastated when someone so important to you dies," she said in her normal, confident-sweet voice.
"What happened here?" Iris spoke suddenly, carefully lifting my right hand.
I followed her gaze. My knuckles were still covered in blood where they had burst, the rest of my skin was marred with red and bruised spots. Maybe it hadn't been a dream after all. Or if it was, then it was a realistic one.
"I hit my father." The words came out of my mouth without any judgment. I felt nothing as I said it. Another thing that was wrong with me.
After all, every halfway normal person knows that you never raise a hand against your parents. But in that moment, when my father told Lydia and me the news of my mom's death, so toneless, cold, and simple—that was when I could no longer restrain myself.
Iris lifted my hand to her mouth and pressed her soft lips to the back of it. My heart began to beat faster, and a tremor ran through my body. Her touch felt so good, even though her gentleness was killing me. Everything about it felt so wrong and right at the same time.
My parents had instilled in me as a child that I must not let my feelings show. That's how other people got to know you and could judge you at a certain point.
As soon as you showed weakness, you made yourself vulnerable, and as the future CEO of a large company, you couldn't afford that.
But they didn't prepare me for a situation like this. What do you do when you lose your mother at the age of eighteen? For me, there was only one answer: you try to suppress the truth with alcohol and drugs and pretend that none of it happened.
"Iris, I don't know how to deal with this," I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Everything I was taught feels useless right now. I feel like I'm drowning, and I don't know how to swim."
She looked at me with those compassionate eyes, her hand still holding mine. "James, no one expects you to have all the answers, especially not now. It's okay to be lost and to not know what to do. But you don't have to face this alone."
Her words struck a chord deep within me. I had spent so long trying to handle everything by myself, to be strong and invulnerable. But maybe it was okay to lean on someone else, to let someone else help carry the burden.
"Iris, I...I don't deserve your kindness after everything I've done," I said, my voice breaking.
She shook her head, her eyes unwavering. "James, everyone makes mistakes. What matters is how you move forward. You can still make things right, but you need to let yourself feel and heal first."
"I'm sorry," I said hoarsely. My throat felt rusty, and it took a lot of effort to speak. "I'm so sorry for what I did."
