Episode 34: Some Distances Are Chosen...
Morning entered the hospital quietly, as it always did, without announcement or ceremony. The light filtered in through the narrow window, pale and uncertain, resting on the walls and the edge of Elara's bed as if testing whether it was welcome. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and something metallic, a smell that never quite left no matter how often the sheets were changed. Elara's mother sat beside the bed, her back straight despite the ache that had settled into her shoulders over the past few days. She had learned how to sit like this, alert even in stillness, her eyes returning again and again to her daughter's face, watching the rise and fall of her chest as though breathing itself required supervision.
Elara's father stood near the window, one hand pressed against the glass, the other gripping the strap of the bag he carried everywhere now. Inside it were clothes Elara might not wear, food she might not eat, and papers he reread endlessly just to feel useful. He had barely slept. The chair in the corner of the room bore the quiet evidence of his restlessness, shifted slightly out of place, as though he had stood up and sat down too many times to count. When he turned away from the window, his gaze moved instinctively to the machines, to the numbers that blinked steadily, offering reassurance without promise.
Elara lay between them, awake but silent. Her body felt heavier than it had the day before, not with pain exactly, but with effort. Even opening her eyes took concentration. She did not want to worry them more than she already had, so she kept her face calm, her expression neutral. Watching her parents carry fear so carefully made her feel older than she was, as though some quiet shift had already taken place inside her, one that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with endurance.
"Did you sleep at all?" her mother asked softly, reaching out to brush Elara's hair back from her forehead.
"A little," Elara replied. It was easier than explaining the truth.
Her father nodded, as though that answer was enough to hold onto for now. Neither of them mentioned Mira, but the absence of her name hung in the room, unspoken and persistent. Elara noticed it and chose not to fill the space. She had learned that some gaps were safer left untouched.
Across the city, Mira woke slowly, unbothered by alarms or urgency. Sunlight spilled freely into her room, warming the floor and the edges of her bed. Her phone lay beside her, already alive with notifications. She reached for it before fully opening her eyes, scrolling through messages, short videos, and updates that required nothing from her beyond a moment's attention. The world, framed through a screen, felt manageable and distant in the way she needed it to be.
The hospital crossed her mind briefly, like a thought passing through water, leaving no ripple behind. Elara was stable. That word had settled comfortably in her mind, smoothing over the sharper edges of concern. She told herself there would be time later, that today did not need to begin with heaviness. She turned on music, letting sound replace silence, and moved through her morning without interruption.
Back in the hospital, the doctor arrived with practiced calm, delivering information in careful phrases that balanced reassurance with caution. Elara's parents listened closely, nodding, asking questions that revealed both their attention and their fear. When the doctor left, they sat together in silence for a moment, absorbing what had been said and what had not.
"She's holding on," Elara's mother said quietly, as if naming it might help.
Her father squeezed her hand. "So are we."
Elara closed her eyes, pretending to rest, though sleep did not come. She felt surrounded and alone at the same time, held by love yet aware of something missing she could not quite name without making it real.
Mira spent the late morning outside, sitting in a café where laughter came easily and the air smelled of coffee and sugar. She met a friend, listened to stories that belonged to another kind of life, one measured by minor inconveniences and passing joys. Mira smiled, responded, let herself be carried along by the conversation. Here, no one spoke in whispers. No one looked at her with careful sympathy. She felt normal again, and the feeling was intoxicating.
At the hospital, lunchtime passed slowly. Elara's mother tried to coax her into eating, her voice gentle but insistent. Elara managed a few bites before shaking her head. Her father watched silently, worry etched into the lines of his face. They stayed, as they always did, taking turns stepping out to breathe, to stretch, to gather themselves before returning to her side.
When the nurse asked if there were any other visitors expected, Elara hesitated before answering. "I don't think so," she said, and the words settled heavier than she expected.
The afternoon light shifted, stretching shadows across the floor. Elara slept in fragments, waking to the same room, the same sounds, the same quiet vigilance of her parents. Time seemed to loop rather than move forward, each hour blending into the next without distinction.
Mira returned home and collapsed onto the couch, television playing in the background. She scrolled through her phone, attention drifting easily from one thing to another. Once, she opened her messages and hovered over Elara's name, then closed the app without typing anything. She told herself she would visit tomorrow, that today had already slipped away. The thought carried no urgency, only mild discomfort she quickly pushed aside.
Evening arrived at the hospital with familiar stillness. Elara's parents prepared themselves for another night, their movements slower now, fatigue catching up with them. Her mother sat beside the bed, holding Elara's hand, her thumb moving in small, repetitive circles that spoke of reassurance and fear in equal measure. Elara watched her parents and felt a quiet resolve settle inside her. They were here. They would stay.
Mira fell asleep easily that night, comforted by noise and distance. The hospital remained contained somewhere else, managed by others, removed from her immediate world. Morning would come again, and she would tell herself the same things she had today.
At the hospital, Elara lay awake longer than usual, listening to the machines and the distant sounds of the corridor. She did not reach for her phone. She did not expect anything to change overnight. Something subtle had already shifted, not loudly or painfully, but firmly enough to be felt.
By the time morning returned, the pattern had set itself. Elara's parents resumed their quiet vigil, Mira remained comfortably removed, and the space between them settled into place, unnoticed by some, deeply felt by others.
Author's Note ❤️
This chapter is meant to sit quietly with the reader rather than demand a reaction. The contrast between presence and absence is intentional, not exaggerated. Elara's parents represent endurance and responsibility, while Mira represents ease and avoidance, not out of cruelty but choice. This episode does not resolve that imbalance; it allows it to exist, to grow familiar, and to take root. The weight of that choice will only become visible later.