ଓ༉‧.⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

Meeting Lyra's parents for the second time in her life should be easier.

In theory, that is; after all, she'd already been through it and knew exactly how they'd react to her in their first encounter and every other that followed suit, but that wasn't Iris' reality.

The anxiety suffocating her whenever she was around the Sinclairs was far too strong to ignore and, while she could blame it on first-meeting jitters for the night, she feared it would never truly fade away. As long as she remained in this timeline, perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop and cement the fact she would lose Lyra no matter what she did, forever damned by the narrative, or by fate, or whatever it was, she'd also be worrying about their impending grief.

If she failed at the one thing she couldn't get wrong, they would have to bury their daughter for the second time, unbeknownst to them; at least the ignorance surrounding that was a blessing in disguise, but there was a nagging voice at the back of Iris' head, an evil little gremlin grunting in her ear, that insisted that parents always knew. They would always know something wasn't quite right, and the constant plague of déjà vu Iris was experiencing would pass along to them.

They probably wouldn't be able to place it as well as she could—she had created an alternate reality all by herself, after all, but that wasn't the kind of thing you got to brag about during dinner or cocktail parties, really—but déjà vu by proxy didn't sound like the most fun someone could have, especially when it came to losing someone. Especially when it came to losing someone as dear to them as their own daughter. Lyra could bitch and complain about them all she wanted, but those were the two people in the whole world who had ever loved her more than Iris herself had, and Iris . . . well.

Iris was still attempting to put all that love and heartache into words, finally coming to terms with the fact that the heartbreak had settled in long before Lyra died. It had crept up on her on its toes, as silently as a fox mid-hunt, and had been waiting in the dark, anticipating the perfect moment to strike. Lyra's death had been the catalyst for the pain to explode out of Iris' chest, but it had always been lingering, patiently waiting.

Grief was patient, until the moment it wasn't. It was one of the slowest, most silent ways to kill someone, too—like drowning, Iris found. Drowning had always been known as a silent killer, stealing people from the world and turning them into foam, tossing it around its waves, and, if someone wasn't paying close attention, no one would even know.

Lyra had just vanished, and no one had been able to do a thing to prevent it or save her. Maybe they hadn't paid enough attention, or maybe they hadn't tried hard enough. Maybe the currents had been too strong, maybe they hadn't wanted to be caught by the riptide, too, but had Iris known . . . had she known Lyra was in the water, she would've jumped in right after her.

Or so she thought. Or so she hoped. Blind hope was a real bitch of a feeling, making you believe you would be able to do things that, realistically, perhaps you wouldn't get around to depending on the circumstances. It was easy to think in hypothetical scenarios and assume you'd know exactly what you would do given the chance, but, when faced with the actual reality and not just the perfectly tailored hypothesis in your head, there was no time to rationalize or weigh every possible choice at your disposal.

She had walked away, hadn't she? Wasn't that a way of asserting the path she'd choose?

"You okay?" Iris asked Lyra, as they parked right outside the house the former had to pretend she didn't know like the back of her hand.

In her head, she was sweating profusely, one awkward conversation away from spilling out all her secrets, but, when she caught a glimpse of her reflection on the rearview mirror, she almost looked in control of her emotions. If she didn't stare back at the wide-eyed girl on the other side of the mirror for too long, she could almost fool herself into thinking she looked beautiful.

She didn't look like the original version of herself, that was for certain. According to her memories, she'd originally worn a burgundy dress, which had been a poor decision considering how low the temperatures had dropped, and pulled her hair back into an elegant bun, leaving some loose locks to frame her face, highlighting the sharper angles and, hopefully, softening the ones she felt were too harsh.

In this reality, however, it was a warmer night—cold, but not as cold as Iris remembered it, and it was a clear sign she had altered the natural flux of things enough. It was the main thing people knew about chaos theory, the butterfly effect; besides the distant cause and effect aspect of it all, it always came back to global warming, like Iris needed to feel guilty about destroying everything around her, including the weather patterns.

Normal people didn't worry that much about that kind of stuff.

They worried about plastic, the loss of a future to global warming, and climate change, sure, along with their own powerlessness and how the focus was on them and their usage of paper straws and overconsumption of avocado toast instead of on the multi million dollar companies and their wasteful habits or celebrities and their private jet usage. That was entirely valid, but they had no reason to believe they had single-handedly caused palpable changes to the weather personally.

However, normal people also hadn't ever had to worry about the consequences of time travel and changing the course of history outside of fiction. As far as Iris knew, she was all alone. Maybe it was self-centered, maybe not, but there was no evidence otherwise.

"I'll be," Lyra breathed out. She sported that look, the look plastered on the face of people with a not-so-simple relationship with their parents, but Iris supposed that was the case for a lot of people out there. Though she still looked remarkably beautiful, the harsh lighting cast on her face by the streetlights only highlighted the haunted, semi-vacant, fearful glimmer in her eyes. It was a look filled with internal conflicts, the ones focused on the competing feelings of loving your parents but also hating them and being unsure of their validity; they gave you life and love, but they'd also brought you great pain, and you couldn't find the right balance. "It'll pass."

That description was a far cry from the woman Iris had left behind in the original timeline, the one Lyra had devastated beyond belief following her death, but Iris understood. Coraline had been a spitfire of a woman when Iris first met her, not too different from her own daughter, which had left her feeling simultaneously at ease, knowing somewhat to expect from her because she was used to Lyra's temper, but there was also some uncertainty lying underneath.

Mike Sinclair was more mellow, a gentler force of nature that shouldn't be underestimated. He was firm in his convictions, fiercely believing in Lyra's untapped potential, and made sure to remind her she couldn't be wasting her time with trivialities like arts and crafts or music, so he'd always tried to push her more towards a desk job, a regular nine-to-five, white picket fence life. Though Lyra had tried to please Coraline the most, it was Mike's desires she ultimately honored, leaving her own dreams behind.

Even in your adulthood, you never stopped trying to impress your parents. Even when you shouldn't care as much anymore.

Lyra had always been far more volatile, though, and Iris had survived her, even through her darkest moments and wildest storms . . . until the day she realized she could no longer stand in the eye of the hurricane and expect to escape unscathed. It was the one time she'd made herself a priority in her own life.

And yet, even before she left, even when everyone around them could tell things weren't quite right between Iris and Lyra, Iris had still been welcomed into their home and promised every cup of matcha she could want.

Mike would ask her about her writing, and Coraline would compliment her style. They rarely ever spoke about Lyra's pointed absence from the conversations and the outings, her isolation far too palpable and painful to be acknowledged even when she was still alive.

Then, Iris traded the coastal town of Emelle Bay for the tall, gray skyscrapers of New York, ceased all contact with Lyra, and only returned after her death—three times, at that.

Once, for the funeral.

Once, for the ghost of a girl that wouldn't stop haunting her.

Once, for a chance to repair the past.

Time would tell whether she'd need a fourth opportunity or not. She could only hope third time would be the charm.

ଓ༉‧.⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

"Coraline, this chicken pasta is heavenly," Iris said, wiping her mouth on her napkin, and Coraline shot her an amused look from across the table, while Lyra shifted in her seat. On the original timeline, they'd eaten a cheesy broccoli casserole, an earthier, more filling dish; now, she'd prepared a large pot of chicken pasta, the meat so tender it easily dissolved in Iris' mouth. "Thank you for having me."

"You're too kind," Coraline retorted, refilling her glass of red wine in a swift motion. Iris was momentarily hypnotized by the sloshing waves of the beverage swirling around on the glass, so reminiscent of the ocean. The butterfly trapped inside the car had followed them inside, fluttering around the dining room, never resting. "Lyra, you have to tell us where you've been hiding this lovely girl."

"The dorm room next door," Lyra grunted, through her teeth. She'd barely touched her dinner, having spent most of the evening picking at her food, twirling the noodles around her fork and undoing the spiral. "Iris, look, I really need to talk to you—"

Coraline huffed. "Can you please not monopolize your friend? We're trying to get to know her."

Lyra shot daggers at her, fingers tightly curled around the silver cutlery, strengthening the grip until her knuckles turned as white as bone.

Though the atmosphere during the original first meeting hadn't been exactly pleasant, thick with tension and unsaid things and resentment, the current predicament wasn't much better. Iris had spent hours dreading the moment when she'd inevitably slip up and say something she shouldn't, revealing she knew more than anyone should, or look like a fool in front of the Sinclairs. That had yet to happen, as far as she could tell, but she also knew she had to stay in their lives and not piss them off enough to get herself politely escorted out of the house by mortally offending them.

She'd still be in Lyra's orbit—she desperately hoped so, at least—as she trusted Lyra to be petty enough to give her another chance simply to spite them, but Iris was nothing without her good reputation.

Who was she when she wasn't cowering under the pressure of wanting to be liked by every single person in the world?

The Sinclairs had been far more antagonistic in the real timeline, albeit not outwardly, explicitly aggressive. They'd been guarded. Now, they'd been welcoming and warm, whereas Lyra had amped up the passive-aggression significantly as the evening progressed. Iris didn't want to think about what all those changes meant, even though she should.

Every change mattered. Every action had a consequence, after all.

"It's urgent," Lyra insisted. "You can chit-chat later."

"Lyra, stop making this about yourself," Mike scolded. "Let us get to know your friend for once."

Lyra slammed her hands against the table, startling everyone. "You've never wanted to get to know any of my friends. You always hate everyone I introduce to you. Why is this any different? Why can't I keep one good thing for myself? Why do you have to ruin everything?"

Coraline pursed her lips. "Don't be dramatic."

A sarcastic laugh escaped Lyra's mouth. "Dramatic. Sure. I'll show you something dramatic."

She stormed out of the table, out of the dining room, out of the house, and made sure to slam the front door as hard as she possibly could. Every wall shook, but no one moved. Everyone was used to the mood swings, although Lyra had to pretend she wasn't, and an awkward silence descended upon the table.

She excused herself, saying she'd go check up on Lyra, who couldn't have gone far. She hadn't taken her car keys, after all, and she wouldn't walk all the way back to campus in the dark. Not under the current weather, anyway.

Iris found her outside, standing by the road, hair falling in front of her eyes like a wild animal. She was still livid, fuming, but infuriatingly beautiful—the kind of beautiful that hurt to look at, the kind of beautiful that threatened you with harm even from a distance.

"What happened?" Iris breathed out.

"You tell me."

Iris blinked. "Huh?"

"How did you know my mother's name?"

ଓ༉‧.⭒ֶָ֢⋆.

OHHH shit

wc: 2524 (docs) // 2497 (wattpad)

total wc: 17419 (docs) // 17206 (wattpad)