She was never quite sure if her mother had named her after the flower or the eye. "Both," her mother would say, touching the space between her own brows. "The iris is the bridge. Color between the storms."
But Iris always added the extra letters: irisintheesky . irisintheesky
It was her handle, her mantra, her secret signature on everything from sketchbook corners to the condensation on a windowpane. When people asked why, she'd just point upward. She was never quite sure if her mother
On the hard days—the ones where the world felt too flat, too gray, too explainable —Iris would lie in the tall grass behind her apartment complex. She'd wait. She wasn't looking for airplanes or satellites. She was looking for the break. " her mother would say