Episode 36: Worlds Apart
The morning sunlight spilled lazily across Mira's bedroom, slipping through half-drawn curtains and warming the edges of the bedspread in golden streams. The fan spun overhead with a steady hum, mixing with the faint sound of a television from the corner, a sitcom she had already seen twice but played again regardless. Mira stretched, the movement slow and unhurried, and for a moment, she let herself sink entirely into the comfort of being uninterrupted, unobserved, and entirely at ease. Her phone lay within reach, alive with notifications she barely acknowledged. Social media updates, messages from friends, casual videos — they all passed through her attention without claiming it. She scrolled, paused, laughed softly at something trivial, and then scrolled again, utterly absorbed in this private, uncomplicated world she had constructed for herself.
Back at the hospital, the air carried the same sterile scent as every day, yet it had grown heavier, almost oppressive, through the long hours of night that had barely offered Elara rest. Her eyelids fluttered open, the stark white of the ceiling above her feeling impossibly close. Every small sound — the faint click of a nurse's shoes, the hum of a monitor, the rustle of sheets — seemed magnified, each one a sharp reminder of her vulnerability. Her body felt weighed down, fatigue layering over pain, muscles weak, limbs reluctant to obey. Her hands rested lightly on the sheets, trembling slightly as she tried to shift into a more comfortable position. Every effort required deliberation, every breath seemed to steal energy from somewhere else in her, leaving her chest hollow and aching.
Her mother sat beside her, eyes red from restless sleep, hands folded carefully in her lap before reaching out to adjust the blanket yet again. She spoke softly, murmuring reassurances that felt like prayers: "It's alright, Elara… just rest. We're right here." Her fingers brushed against her daughter's arm gently, over and over, a silent insistence that someone present could be counted on. Her father leaned against the wall near the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the monitors, muttering under his breath whenever a number seemed slightly off. They were vigilant, unrelenting in their attention, every action carefully measured. Every precaution was taken, every small motion considered — not because they lacked faith, but because they could not afford to do otherwise.
Elara turned her head slowly, following a faint movement in the hallway outside the room. She blinked, but the world remained unchanged. Mira was not here. The realization did not shock her as it might have in days past; instead, it settled quietly, like a small stone pressed against her chest. She tried not to think about why. She tried not to dwell on the absence, but even in the hush of the hospital room, even beneath the comforting presence of her parents, the emptiness was palpable.
Meanwhile, Mira shifted again on her bed at home, the sunlight warming her shoulders as she adjusted her phone. A new message appeared — the familiar name of her mother flashing across the screen. Mira glanced at it briefly, thumb hovering, eyes flickering with something almost like awareness. Then, with a small shrug, she set the phone face-down, reaching instead for a snack she had left by the side table. The video continued to play, the laugh track spilling easily into the quiet room, and Mira laughed again, a sound uninterrupted by reality. She leaned back against her pillows, letting the warmth and noise envelop her, entirely self-contained, entirely separate from the world outside her door.
Back at the hospital, Elara attempted to sit up on her own, a motion that sent a sudden spike of dizziness through her. Her hands gripped the sheets tightly, nails pressing into the fabric as she fought to steady herself. Her mother noticed immediately, rushing forward to support her, voice tense but controlled: "Easy, don't push too hard. Let me help you." The nurse, alerted by a quick call from the mother, arrived within moments, adjusting the bed, checking vitals, taking measurements with an efficiency that felt almost mechanical. Every motion in the room carried weight, every word counted, every small adjustment was crucial. Yet, all the while, Mira's absence lingered in the air like a faint shadow — unspoken, but undeniable.
Elara's father frowned as he reviewed the chart with the nurse. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the calm he attempted to present. "Her blood pressure is lower than it should be," he murmured, glancing toward his wife. "We need to make sure the doctor knows. We can't leave anything to chance." His voice was low, deliberate, each syllable carrying a sense of gravity that only heightened the quiet tension in the room. Every beep of a monitor, every hiss of a regulator, became a punctuation mark in the narrative of vigilance, a story written in small, precise actions that demanded total attention.
At home, Mira's breakfast arrived, and she unwrapped it leisurely, savoring the textures, the warmth, the casual luxury of time. She ate slowly, eyes alternating between the screen and the meal, laughter spilling softly from her lips. Notifications continued to appear, but each was met with the same gentle dismissal, the same practiced indifference. She did not think about Elara, she did not think about the hospital, and she did not even allow the thought of her parents' concern to linger. Comfort had become a shield, and she moved freely behind it, oblivious to the world of care and anxiety she had temporarily abandoned.
Elara pressed her lips together, swallowing a bitter taste as her body protested even the smallest effort. Her mother held her hand, brushing damp hair from her forehead, murmuring gentle encouragements that sounded fragile against the magnitude of the day's strain. Her father stood quietly at her side, returning from a brief conversation with a nurse, the weight of unspoken concern pressing into the room like a physical presence. They had each other, but the absence of Mira was a quiet gap, a space where a sister should have been, and it was increasingly difficult to ignore.
Afternoon passed slowly. Elara's headache persisted, a dull ache radiating through her skull. She shifted slightly in bed, trying to find comfort in movement, but her body resisted. Every breath felt labored, every small attempt at self-maintenance required focus she could barely summon. Her parents remained attentive, alert to the smallest variations, noting micro-movements, every sign of discomfort. Yet, there was no one else. Mira remained elsewhere, her presence replaced entirely by ease, by distraction, by entertainment that demanded nothing but passivity.
At home, Mira flipped channels on the television, settling on a drama she had already watched multiple times. She reached for her phone periodically, liking posts, watching videos, sending occasional messages, but never checking the one blinking notification from her mother. A faint tug of unease surfaced in her chest — almost imperceptible — but she brushed it aside with a sigh. The world at home was indulgent, familiar, unpressing. She reclined into her pillows, allowing comfort to override conscience.
Evening approached. In the hospital, Elara's energy waned. Her eyelids drooped, her body no longer able to resist the pull of exhaustion. Her mother's hands remained firmly clasped around hers, rubbing small circles into her skin, whispering soft reassurances. Her father, seated nearby, held charts, calculations, and updates, his brow furrowed with the constant vigilance of one who carries responsibility for another's fragile life. They moved in tandem, an unspoken choreography of attention, patience, and worry — a stark contrast to the world Mira occupied.
Mira's phone buzzed again. Another message from her mother, concise, urgent, but not alarming. Mira glanced at it, fingers hovering for a beat. Then, she set the phone down once more without a reply, smiling at the television, absorbed in a scene she had seen before but which offered the comfort of repetition. The act was small, deliberate, indifferent — a final seal on the separation between herself and the hospital room that required her attention. Her world was private, insulated, and unbothered, and she had chosen it willingly.
Night fell. In the hospital, monitors continued their unceasing rhythm. Nurses patrolled at intervals, voices low, movements quiet but decisive. Elara slept fitfully, waking occasionally with discomfort that was mitigated only by the careful hands of her parents. The room, dimly lit, felt both protective and oppressive — a haven and a cage simultaneously. Mira's absence was a quiet weight in the corner, unspoken, undeniable, a shadow cast by the comfort she had chosen elsewhere.
At home, Mira drifted into sleep, phone charging beside her, television still murmuring in the background. Comfort had been maintained. Presence had been deferred. Responsibility had been avoided. And somewhere, far across the city, her absence had been noticed, its significance carried silently by those who remained.
Author's Note
This episode fully emphasizes the visibility of Mira's distraction, showing the stark contrast between the hospital's tension and her comfort at home. Her absence is active and deliberate, a choice rather than an accident, while Elara's suffering is observed only by vigilant parents. The cruelty lies not in dramatic confrontation, but in separation and inaction. By ending with Mira ignoring messages, the chapter plants the seed for guilt to emerge naturally, without dialogue or melodrama, creating tension that will continue to build in the following episodes.
— Aarya Patil 🌙