I can tell by the look in Iris’s eyes that nothing was going right for him.

He was tired, dark circles under his eyes and a yawn coming out of his mouth every minute. His routine had become messed up and he had started to forget a lot of things easily, mainly his duty of watering the flowers inside the shop.

I wouldn’t blame him—I would never blame him.

Most days, he’s fine, well enough to get most of his tasks over with. Other days, he’s a complete mess, tripping over his shoes and the flower pots, forgetting where things had been placed. It worried me how drastically Iris had changed in the span of a few months and I was starting to fear that bringing back the smiling boy that had greeted me so sweetly before was going to be harder than I had originally thought.

“Iris,” I call his name, wincing when he starts to pour water on the floor instead of the flowers. He wasn’t listening, floating in his own world that I had always wanted to be apart of—that was the least of my worries now. These days, I didn’t have time to worry about that because I was too busy trying to get Iris through the day. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He hums, blinking slowly as he stares out the window, watching the strangers pass by. I nod and say nothing else, even if I know he’s not okay.

“Actually,” he starts, causing me to look away from my task and at him. He still isn’t facing me, which only makes me worry more. “I’ve had a lot of things on my mind recently.”

“What kind of things?” I ask.

Iris takes a moment to respond, most likely thinking of a reply that wouldn’t worry me more than I already was. It’s quiet, so quiet I can hear the footsteps and conversations of the people passing by outside.

“A girl.”

My eyes widen and my body freezes. Iris’s response leaves me shaken, afraid of what else he has to say. I don’t want to hear what he has to say anymore—I don’t want to care what’s on his mind or what kind of things keep him up at night anymore.

I don’t want to care.

“She was in my dream,” Iris continues. I try to ignore him, but my brain refuses to cooperate and I end up listening to him anyway. “It was always the same image shown of her—curled up on the floor, tears rolling down her face as she reached towards me. I don’t understand it. I don’t know who she is.”

Despite my wishes of not wanting to care, I can’t make the curiosity disappear. The more he talks about it, the more intrigued I am. A girl, crying, reaching out to him—just what kind of dreams is he having?

“Her name,” I say quietly. “Did you hear her name?”

He’s quiet again, hesitating. I can tell he’s debating on whether to tell me her name or not, but it wouldn’t make any difference to me if I knew it or not. His dreams have nothing to do with me—and yet, I can’t stop myself from wanting to know more about them. Slowly, he turns to face me, his eyes blank like mine had always been before (it seemed to me we had traded place) but that’s only for a moment. A small smile make its way onto his face and his eyes twinkle with a faint light.

“May,” he says. “Her name was May.”