Episode 37: Ignored Echoes
Morning arrived with lazy insistence in Mira's room, sunlight spilling through the half-drawn curtains and settling across the bed in warm patches. The air smelled faintly of her breakfast from the night before, now stale but comforting in its familiarity. Mira stretched, rolling over with a soft groan, her phone immediately in hand. Notifications lit up the screen in a steady stream: messages, updates, missed calls. One blinked insistently — her mother's name — but Mira's eyes skimmed past it without a flicker of acknowledgment. She set the phone aside, smiling faintly at the screen of a sitcom that had long since stopped being new. The laughter spilling from the speakers filled the room, wrapping her in a cocoon of ease, insulating her from the world that existed beyond the four walls she had claimed for herself.
At the hospital, the air was heavier, thick with the antiseptic scent that never truly faded. Elara's eyes opened slowly, the ceiling above her familiar but too bright, too sterile. Her limbs felt leaden, uncooperative. Every breath required a quiet negotiation with her body, every small movement demanded energy she could barely summon. Her mother sat beside her, brushing damp strands of hair from her face and murmuring soft encouragements. Her father stood near the window, reviewing the latest chart updates with furrowed brows, muttering numbers and percentages under his breath. They moved in tandem, a choreography of worry and attention, their vigilance total, their concern unwavering. And yet, Mira was not there. That absence stretched across the room like a shadow, palpable, heavy, unavoidable.
Elara lifted her hand weakly, almost involuntarily, as though reaching for the presence that was not there. "Is Mira… coming?" she asked softly, voice barely above a whisper. Her mother's hand tightened on hers instinctively, but she did not lie. "She's resting," she said carefully, the words precise, intended to comfort even as they acknowledged a painful truth. Elara nodded faintly, though the weight of the answer pressed down upon her. No anger surfaced; she had learned too quickly that expectation brought disappointment and exhaustion. Instead, a quiet ache settled in the spaces Mira's absence left behind.
Meanwhile, Mira scrolled lazily through her phone, indulging in videos, messages, and fleeting glimpses into the lives of people she barely knew. Every notification from her mother, every missed call, was brushed aside without thought. The sitcom's laugh track provided a comforting rhythm, the television offering dialogue she could follow passively while her thumb moved almost absentmindedly. Occasionally, a faint pang flickered at the edges of her mind — a small echo of concern that she quickly ignored, smoothing it away with a sigh. Comfort was easy, and Mira embraced it fully. The world of responsibility, of urgent human need, existed somewhere else entirely.
Back in the hospital, Elara attempted a small sip of water, her body trembling slightly as she did so. Her mother guided the glass, steadying her, murmuring reassurance. "Careful… take it slow," she said, her voice lined with exhaustion that came not from sleep, but from relentless worry. Her father hovered, noting every minuscule reaction, every tiny shift of Elara's expression, consulting monitors, taking notes in a quiet, urgent rhythm. Time in the hospital had its own cadence — slow, deliberate, and mercilessly unyielding. Each moment was weighted, every small breath significant, every gesture meaningful. Mira's absence had transformed from a quiet omission into a gaping void in the room's atmosphere, felt even in the spaces her parents tried to fill.
By midday, the routine of hospital life pressed onward. Doctors visited in precise intervals, checking vitals, adjusting medication, offering reassurances, their voices low but authoritative. Elara responded weakly, swallowing instructions along with water, nodding as best as she could while her body resisted compliance. Her parents followed every direction to the letter, yet they glanced frequently toward the door or the chair where Mira might have been. The absence of her sister hung heavily, a constant counterpoint to their own engagement. Mira could have offered another layer of support, but instead, her comfort at home persisted unbroken.
Mira's phone buzzed again. She glanced down: another message, another call from her mother, urgent but not alarming. The cursor hovered for a moment over the answer field, but her thumb withdrew, leaving the notification to blink insistently. She had chosen, in that instant, the television over presence, distraction over duty, laughter over concern. The decision was small, almost invisible, but its significance rippled in Elara's world far more powerfully than any confrontation could. Mira returned to the sitcom, the room filled with its synthetic laughter, her comfort complete, her guilt postponed.
Elara attempted to shift position in bed, a movement met with resistance from her exhausted limbs. Her head throbbed slightly, a dull ache that refused to ease. Her mother adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, smoothing corners and brushing damp strands from her temple. Her father watched, hands clenched lightly at his sides, each second a silent battle against helplessness. Every medical intervention, every careful adjustment, carried an urgency magnified by Mira's absence. They were two parents, alone in a room of fragile life, trying desperately to compensate for one sister's deliberate choice to remain elsewhere.
Afternoon descended with measured slowness. Mira ordered lunch, scrolling through delivery options with meticulous care, choosing indulgence over necessity. She ate at ease, television playing continuously, her phone occasionally illuminating her face with notifications she never opened. Each sound, each visual, each small indulgence reinforced the distance between her world and the hospital room where Elara's body strained against weakness. The stark contrast was invisible to Mira but undeniable in the hospital, where every moment was saturated with vigilance, effort, and the quiet ache of need unmet.
Elara's headache worsened. Her mother noticed instantly, her hands moving to support her daughter, offering water and gentle words. Her father consulted the nurse quickly, asking for updates, suggesting interventions, moving swiftly through steps that could prevent escalation. The machines monitored every vital sign, the rhythm of beeps and hums now a background chorus to the tension that saturated the room. Mira's absence was no longer just a shadow — it had become a weight, pressing against the edges of their consciousness. Every small decision, every tiny shift in Elara's condition, was framed by the knowledge that one sister had chosen not to participate.
Evening arrived. Outside the hospital, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the floors, muted through the high windows. Inside, Elara drifted into shallow sleep, her body too weak for deep rest. Her mother sat beside her, speaking softly, her voice a tether in the dim room, brushing back hair, adjusting blankets, repeating instructions she had already given a hundred times. Her father remained near the window, quietly reviewing notes, monitors, and charts, every movement precise, controlled, purposeful. Mira's chair remained empty, the small absence magnified against the backdrop of intense vigilance. It was a presence defined entirely by what it was not — deliberate, deliberate neglect disguised as comfort.
At home, Mira settled into the quiet of her room. The television played a new show, its volume low but sufficient to fill the silence. Her phone buzzed once more: another missed call, another message from her mother. She glanced at it, thought briefly, then turned her gaze back to the screen, her comfort unbroken. She ate a small snack, sipped water, adjusted pillows, scrolled through social media, laughed softly at a video, and did everything she could to remain in the insulated world she had chosen. Every sound from the hospital, every image of distress, every flicker of worry existed only in the periphery of her mind, easily ignored, easily dismissed. For Mira, this was not cruelty — it was comfort. For Elara, it was absence made tangible, deliberate, and aching.
Night fell. The hospital dimmed its lights, monitors continuing their steady rhythm, nurses making quiet rounds, whispers of intervention filling the pauses. Elara slept fitfully, waking often, murmuring occasionally in dreams that were small and inconsequential but revealing in their fragility. Her parents remained vigilant, a constant presence of care, exhaustion written in every movement, every glance, every whispered reassurance. Mira's absence had become a physical weight, felt in every shadow, every soft sound, every flicker of light. Her presence was missed, needed, and deliberately postponed.
At home, Mira finally set the phone aside and allowed herself to drift toward sleep. The television murmured in the background. Notifications continued to flash, messages remained unopened, and the gap between her world and the hospital widened into an unbridgeable chasm. Comfort prevailed, distraction dominated, and the echoes of need remained unanswered.
Author's Note
This episode demonstrates the deliberate and persistent nature of Mira's distraction, showing how comfort and entertainment can act as an insulator from responsibility. Elara's suffering is magnified by absence, while her parents' vigilance highlights the emotional and physical weight of unshared care. The deliberate choice to ignore calls from the hospital is central here, reinforcing the theme that absence can be cruelty when it is a choice, planting seeds for the inevitable guilt and tragedy to come in future episodes.
— Aarya Patil 🌙