We sat in companionable silence as the sun climbed higher, its warmth slowly chasing the cold from my bones. The wildflowers glowed in the light, and I found myself wishing I was good with paints instead of charcoal. It was the kind of scene artists dreamed about.
I glanced at Iggy. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, soaking it all in. With his delicate features—long lashes, button nose, sharp cheekbones—he looked like something out of an old folktale. A fae prince, maybe.
I tried to burn the image into my memory, already planning to draw it later. Natural beauty framed by more of the same. I half wondered if he was hiding pointed ears beneath that ridiculous beanie and had to bite my sleeve to hide my smile.
“Are you scared?”
His voice snapped me out of my daydream. His eyes were open now, fixed on the lake’s surface, perfectly still without the wind. It mirrored the sky above in soft, shifting colour.
I rolled the question around in my head. Simple on the surface. Heavy underneath.
Was I scared to leave the Willow? To stay sober without counsellors. Without Dr Williams. Without Iggy.
There was only one honest answer.
“Yes.”
“Me too,” he whispered.
Iggy tore his eyes away from the scenery and began plucking at the smaller daisies around us. He pulled and pulled and pulled until a small pile had formed on the blanket in front of him.
“I don’t know who I’m meant to be out there,” he admittedquietly. “In here, I have a schedule. A label. An explanation for why I am the way I am.”
He picked up one of the flowers and twirled it between his fingers.
“But once we leave, I’m just me.” His voice dipped. “And I don’t know what that looks like anymore.”
I didn’t answer straight away. I let his fear sit between us, unchallenged. We’d circled this before, ever since the day I told my story and he stormed out of group therapy. Addiction clearly wasn’t the only thing he was grieving. Something had been taken from him, something that had once defined him, and he was fighting that battle at the same time.
Iggy dropped the flower, shoulders slumping. “All the obvious parts of me that people could point at are gone,” he said. “So what’s left?”
When I replied, my voice was rougher than I expected. “People look at me and see someone who’s made it. They don’t see the work it takes to stay that way. And they won’t once I leave here either.”
I rested my chin on my knees and turned towards him.
“They’ll expect me to just be better. To go back to performing, writing, smiling for the fans. To handle my shit because I always have.” My grip tightened around my legs. “I’m scared that if I admit I’m struggling, even a little, it’ll feel like I’m failing again.”
The memory of the label’s ultimatum pressed in on my chest, and my voice fell to a whisper.
“And if I fail, that they’ll take it all away.”
Iggy reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from my face. His fingers were cold, but the touch warmed something in me anyway.
“You’re scared of disappointing them,” he said softly.
I huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’m scared of disappointing myself.”
He let his hand fall back to the blanket and turned towards the lake. The sun was fully up now, the water glittering like it had been dusted with gold.
“I guess we’re both scared of being seen too clearly,” he murmured. “Or not seen at all, in my case.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe we’re just scared that once the safety net’s gone, everyone will stop asking how we’re really doing.”
Iggy looked back at me then, something soft and sad settling behind his eyes. His smile came, but it didn’t quite reach its full potential.
“I didn’t have anyone asking before,” he said. “So I guess that part won’t change.”
There was nothing I could say to that, so I didn’t try. I just reached out and laid my hand over his, and we turned back to the view together, sharing the quiet. A small pocket of beauty in the middle of everything we were carrying.
