Episode 35: Comfort Is Not Neutral
The hospital corridor smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee, a scent that clung to Elara's senses even as she lay motionless on the bed. The ceiling lights above her blurred into one another, white merging into white, time flattening into something shapeless. Her body felt heavier than it had the day before, as though each hour had quietly taken something from her and not bothered to return it. Her parents stood close — too close, perhaps — their presence a fragile shield against the vast, impersonal machinery of illness surrounding them.
Her mother adjusted the blanket for the third time in ten minutes, hands trembling despite her effort to appear calm. Elara's father sat rigidly in the chair beside the bed, his gaze fixed on the monitor as if watching closely enough might force the numbers to behave. Neither of them spoke much. Words had begun to feel inadequate, incapable of changing anything that mattered.
Mira was not there.
At first, Elara had not noticed. Absence often arrives quietly, indistinguishable from delay. She assumed Mira was speaking to a nurse, or stepping out briefly, or simply nearby. But as minutes stretched into hours, the space where her sister should have been grew unmistakably hollow. Elara turned her head slightly, eyes searching the corners of the room, the couch near the window, the doorway. Nothing.
"Where's Mira?" she asked, her voice thin and hoarse.
Her mother hesitated — just for a second — but Elara noticed. She always noticed pauses now.
"She went home," her mother said carefully. "She said she was tired."
Elara nodded faintly. She did not ask anything else. Asking required hope, and hope felt dangerous.
The doctor arrived mid-morning, his expression professionally neutral. He spoke about rest, about monitoring symptoms, about how recovery was not linear. He avoided the word "worse," though it lingered in the air regardless. Elara's parents listened intently, absorbing every instruction, every implication. Elara herself drifted in and out of focus, the conversation washing over her like distant noise.
When the doctor left, her father rubbed his face with both hands. "We'll stay," he said quietly, more to himself than to anyone else. "One of us will always be here."
Elara closed her eyes.
Across the city, Mira lay sprawled across her bed, sunlight warming her face. The curtains were half-drawn, the room filled with the low hum of the television. A sitcom played, its laughter spilling easily into the quiet space. Mira's phone rested in her hand, her thumb moving lazily as she scrolled through messages, videos, updates that required nothing from her but attention.
She felt lighter here. Untethered.
The hospital had begun to feel oppressive — too quiet, too watchful, too demanding. Every glance from Elara's parents had made her uncomfortable, as though they expected something from her she wasn't sure she could give. At home, there were no monitors, no whispered conversations, no fragile silences. Just noise. Just ease.
Mira laughed softly at something on the screen. She did not think about the timing of it.
Back in the hospital, Elara's condition shifted subtly, but unmistakably. Her headache returned, sharper this time, pressing behind her eyes. Her hands felt weak. She struggled to sit up, her body refusing to cooperate the way it once had. Her mother noticed immediately, calling for assistance, her voice tight with fear she could no longer conceal.
"Why is she shaking?" her mother asked the nurse, panic edging into her words.
"It could be exhaustion," the nurse replied, though her tone suggested caution. "Let's run a few checks."
Elara stared at the ceiling, her mind strangely calm despite her body's distress. She did not ask for Mira. Something in her had already adjusted to the answer.
Her parents remained steadfast, their worry deepening into something raw and relentless. They spoke to doctors, asked questions, argued when they had to. They did not leave her side. They did not look at their phones. They did not look away.
At home, Mira changed channels. She stretched, yawned, glanced at the clock. The day felt pleasantly unstructured. She told herself she deserved this — the break, the distance. After all, Elara had their parents. Elara was not alone.
The thought settled easily, smoothing over the faint discomfort that tried to surface.
That evening, Elara asked for water. Her father helped her drink, supporting her head carefully. Her mother brushed her hair back, murmuring reassurances that sounded more like prayers. Elara swallowed with effort, her throat aching.
"Mira would've liked this," she said suddenly, her voice barely audible. "This room gets quiet at night."
Her mother froze.
"She'll come later," she said, though there was no certainty in it.
Mira did not come.
At home, she ordered food. She ate while watching television, her phone lighting up occasionally with notifications she barely registered. Somewhere, distantly, she knew she should check in. She thought about sending a message. The thought passed.
The night deepened. In the hospital, Elara's sleep was restless, fractured by discomfort and unease. Her parents took turns resting, though neither truly slept. Every sound pulled them back to alertness. They existed in a state of constant readiness, fear woven into their breathing.
Mira slept soundly.
By morning, the separation was complete — physical, emotional, undeniable. Elara woke to another day of weakness, her body still fighting battles no one could see. Her parents greeted the day with tired resolve. There was no mention of Mira. No questions asked. No expectations held.
At home, Mira woke slowly, stretching, checking her phone. A message from her mother sat unread in the notification bar. She did not open it immediately.
For now, comfort remained easier than truth.
Author's Note
This episode intentionally removes shared space to emphasize emotional cruelty through distance rather than action. Elara's suffering is witnessed only by those who choose vigilance, while Mira's absence becomes an active decision rather than an oversight. The separation is not dramatic, but absolute — illustrating how neglect often takes the form of comfort prioritized over responsibility. This chapter marks the moment where absence becomes irreversible, and where guilt, though not yet acknowledged, is seeded through contrast rather than confrontation.