Chapter 21 — Iris
Iris didn’t sit with Noah at lunch anymore.
Not dramatically.
Not like a breakup scene.
She just stopped appearing at his side, the way a light stops flickering when someone finally replaces the bulb.
Noah still moved through the halls with the same crowd around him.
Same laughter. Same easy shoulders.
But there was a thinness to it now.
A missing shape.
I saw Iris on Thursday in the dance studio wing.
The door was open a crack.
Music leaked out—strings, sharp and clean.
Inside, Iris stretched alone in front of the mirror.
No audience.
No phone recording.
Her hair was tied back so tightly it pulled the skin at her temples smooth.
She caught my reflection in the glass.
Held it for a second.
Then looked away.
When the bell rang, she stepped into the hallway and walked straight toward the exit.
Noah appeared at the corner.
As if he’d been waiting.
He didn’t call her name.
He didn’t touch her arm.
He only fell into step beside her.
A careful distance.
The kind people keep when they’re afraid of being seen as the villain.
They stopped near the trophy case.
The glass reflected them both—two clean silhouettes trapped in a frame.
Iris reached into her bag and pulled out a thin elastic.
A hair tie.
Black.
Plain.
She placed it in Noah’s palm.
Closed his fingers around it.
Her lips moved.
I couldn’t hear the words.
Noah’s jaw tightened.
He said something back, quick and low.
Iris shook her head once.
Not angry.
Certain.
Then she stepped away.
Noah’s hand lifted half an inch, like he might grab her sleeve.
He didn’t.
Iris walked toward the doors without looking back.
Her shadow stretched long under the hallway lights.
When she passed beneath the final fluorescent strip, the shadow broke—cut in half by a glare.
She didn’t slow.
Noah stood still by the trophy case.
A black loop of elastic trapped in his fist.
The bell above the exit door chimed softly when Iris left.
Noah didn’t move until the sound faded.
Then he slid the hair tie into his pocket like it was evidence.
And turned—straight toward the corridor where I was standing.
Our eyes met.
Only for a beat.
His gaze didn’t ask for comfort.
It asked if I’d witnessed what he refused to name.
I looked away first.
Not out of shame.
Out of choice.