Because the sky was never just the sky to her. It was the only place where something could be vast and delicate at the same time. Where a storm could rage two miles away while a single patch of quiet blue stayed perfectly still above her head. That was her. That was the iris in the sky —not the whole atmosphere, not trying to be. Just a small, watching circle of color. A pupil dilated with wonder.

But Iris always added the extra letters: 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 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."

There, she'd think. There I am.