Episode 12: The Hidden Shadow
Elara woke with the first light of dawn streaming faintly through the thin curtains of her room. The pale golden glow should have brought warmth, but instead, it felt heavy on her skin. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, and for a moment she stared blankly at the ceiling, unmoving. It was becoming a pattern these days. The mornings no longer felt fresh to her; they felt like a continuation of the weight she carried through her nights.
Her chest felt tight, her throat dry, her body weak in a way that didn't match her age. She was young; she was supposed to feel restless, full of energy, laughing easily. But now, even stretching her arms felt like an effort. She rubbed her forehead, hoping the dull ache that sat there would go away. It didn't. It hadn't for weeks.
Elara sat up slowly, forcing herself out of bed. She told herself what she always did: It's nothing. It's just stress. It's just tiredness. Maybe I stayed up too late last night. Her body protested every small motion, but she continued, not allowing herself to linger too much on it. She didn't want to alarm anyone. She didn't want anyone to worry. Especially not Mira.
Mira, after all, had just started to find her strength again. She had just begun to walk taller, talk firmer, laugh once in a while. Elara couldn't take that away from her, not after everything they had both endured. So Elara smiled whenever she could, acted casual, brushed off her fatigue, and went through the motions of life as though nothing were wrong.
But Mira noticed.
Not fully, not clearly, not in a way that made her stop and ask the right questions. Mira noticed the paleness in Elara's face some mornings, the way she rubbed her temples more often, the way she sometimes avoided heavy laughter because it left her short of breath. Mira noticed the uneaten food left on her plate, the way Elara's steps seemed slower when walking back from school, how her once playful chatter had grown softer.
And yet, Mira told herself it was nothing. Everyone gets tired. Everyone skips a meal or two. Everyone has days when they don't feel like talking much. So she treated it casually, with the same denial Elara wrapped herself in. When she saw Elara leave food unfinished, she teased her lightly—"You've turned into such a picky eater." When she saw her walk slower, she adjusted her own pace without comment. When she saw her hold her head, she said, "Don't worry, I get headaches too."
Mira's casualness was not born out of cruelty. It was born out of fear. A fear she didn't even admit to herself. To acknowledge that Elara's struggles might be more than "ordinary tiredness" would mean facing the possibility of losing her sister in some way. And Mira wasn't ready for that. So she told herself it was small, it was temporary, it would pass. She told herself the same lies Elara whispered inside her own heart.
Days slipped into weeks. The symptoms became clearer, harder to disguise. At night, Elara sometimes coughed harshly into her pillow, muffling the sound so no one would hear. Sometimes her hands trembled slightly when she lifted a glass of water. She woke Mira once or twice by shifting restlessly, her breathing uneven, but when Mira asked, Elara brushed it away—"Just a dream," she'd say. "Go back to sleep." And Mira would, convincing herself not to pry.
Their parents, too, began to notice. Unlike Mira, they did not dismiss it so easily. They watched quietly, observing the changes with growing unease. The hushed conversations between them grew longer, heavier. In the kitchen, in their bedroom, late at night, they spoke in low tones, their words never reaching Mira or Elara clearly. But the worry in their voices hung in the air, a silent shadow that both sisters sensed without fully understanding.
One evening, Elara fainted briefly while helping her mother carry some folded clothes. It wasn't long—just a moment where her knees buckled and her vision blurred—but it was enough to freeze the household. Mira rushed to her side, holding her arm. "Elara, hey, what happened?!" Elara forced a smile even then, brushing her hair out of her face, muttering, "I just stood up too quickly. That's all." But Mira felt her own heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to believe Elara, yet doubt gnawed at her.
That night, as Elara slept, Mira lay awake. She thought of the moment Elara had swayed, how pale she looked. She replayed it again and again, her chest tightening. But then she whispered into the dark, as though convincing herself: It's nothing serious. She's fine. Tomorrow she'll be better. And she turned her face into the pillow, forcing herself to sleep.
But their parents did not sleep so easily. That same night, Mira overheard fragments of their conversation.
"…we can't wait any longer…"
"…she's weaker every day…"
"…hospital in the city…"
Mira sat up in bed, straining to listen, her breath caught in her throat. Her parents' voices were tight, urgent, heavy with a fear Mira didn't want to name. She pressed her hands over her ears, refusing to hear more. She didn't want to know. She didn't want the fragile bubble she had built—the bubble where Elara was fine—to shatter.
The following morning felt heavier than usual. Mira noticed her parents watching Elara more intently as she ate breakfast. Elara herself smiled faintly, pretending nothing was wrong, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She looked thinner somehow, her movements slower, her spoon trembling slightly as she lifted it. Mira forced herself to talk about ordinary things—schoolwork, classmates, some joke she'd overheard—filling the silence that seemed to suffocate the table. She wanted to keep things normal, keep things light.
But after breakfast, her parents exchanged a glance. Her father cleared his throat. "Elara," he said gently, "we're going to the city tomorrow. There are doctors there who can run some tests. We just want to be sure."
The words hung in the air like a sentence Mira couldn't process. City. Doctors. Tests.
Elara lowered her eyes, her lips pressed together. She nodded slowly, almost as though she had expected it. She didn't protest, didn't argue. That silence was worse than any objection. It meant she knew too. She knew this wasn't small anymore.
Mira's world tilted. She laughed suddenly, a short, awkward sound. "Tests? Come on, it's just tiredness. She's fine, aren't you, Elara?" She looked desperately at her sister, willing her to agree, to laugh with her, to dismiss it.
But Elara only gave a faint, tired smile. "Maybe they're right," she whispered. "Maybe it's better to be sure."
The quiet acceptance in her voice broke something inside Mira. She wanted to scream, to argue, to pull her sister away from the shadow that loomed larger with each passing day. But she stayed silent, her throat burning, her hands clenched into fists.
That evening, Mira lingered by Elara's door, watching her pack a small bag. Elara folded her clothes slowly, pausing every now and then as though even this simple task drained her. Mira wanted to step in, to snatch the bag away, to say "You don't need this. You're fine. Stay here." But she couldn't. She just stood there, her lips pressed shut, her chest heavy with unspoken words.
The next morning, when their parents prepared to leave for the city with Elara, Mira stood in the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She forced a smile, waved, pretended it was nothing more than a short trip. "See you soon," she said, her voice too bright, too fragile.
Inside, though, her heart whispered something else entirely: Please come back. Please don't leave me alone with this shadow.
And as the car drove away, taking Elara with it, Mira felt the weight of denial pressing harder against her chest. She told herself again, desperately, recklessly: She'll be fine. She has to be fine. But somewhere deep inside, fear had already planted its roots.
The shadow had begun.
---
Author's Note 🖤 – The Hidden Shadow
In this episode, I slowed the pace to show the gradual rise of Elara's illness, how Mira notices but dismisses it, and how their parents begin to silently panic. Notice how Mira clings to denial—joking, brushing off, refusing to acknowledge reality—while Elara quietly accepts more than she admits.
This stage is important because it sets the emotional foundation for everything that follows. Mira's casualness and avoidance now will later become guilt, while Elara's hidden pain deepens the tragedy. The "hidden shadow" here is not only Elara's illness but also the growing silence between them.
— Aarya Patil 🌙