Cleo = Italics

Lewis was in complete and utter conflict with himself.

His mind was a playing card: one side with an attractive looking picture with a number to decipher the order of the game and the other with far less notable patterns that made his eyes hurt just by looking at them.

Unlike the patterned side, the picturesque surface of the card actually gave him a shot at winning the game. 

Without the back of a playing card, the front cannot exist. That is the sole reason that the back is there. The back is never meant to be looked at. It is simply there. 

The card's illustrated half told the easy story. The story that seemed to fit in with everything else. The story that made sense. The story that would allow Lewis to burst into outrage and slam the door on his problems there and then. This timeline of fables consisted of a grinning superstar who broadcasted his happiness for the whole world to see, all the while living his perfect little life.

A glance at the bottom side of the card spoke of a far more serpentine scenario. A timeline in which the tears of the golden boy had not only been fools gold after all. A twisted fairy-tale in which Lewis had forgotten that he was not the sole person grieving.  

One look at the boy's face told him that it was time to look at the back of the card.

Lewis' gaze faltered as he spotted the other figure cloaked in the darkness of night. "Do you have a tissue by any chance?"