Episode 9: The Silence Between Apologies
> "You are not a burden. But sometimes I wish I didn't have to carry you to prove it."
This was the first line Elara wrote that she never meant to send.
---
Mira's return to the city was quieter than anyone expected. There was no dramatic reunion in the school hallways, no collective sigh of relief from classmates. Most people moved on as if she had never gone missing at all. A few stared. A few whispered. But none approached.
Elara walked beside Mira through the halls again, just like she used to. But nothing felt the same. The silences were heavier now, more frequent. Before, their quiet had been comfortable, like two people breathing in sync. Now, it was fragile. Full of things unsaid.
Mira's eyes still darted to the ground when anyone passed too close. She kept her sleeves long, her voice low, and her gaze distant. Elara noticed everything, but said nothing.
At first.
---
The days passed. Weeks, even. And slowly, Mira began to exist again.
She would answer questions in class, though only when called. She no longer flinched when a teacher said her name. She sat with Elara at lunch and sometimes even smiled when Elara cracked a joke about how the cafeteria pizza might be an interdimensional weapon.
But Elara noticed how Mira's smiles never reached her eyes.
And she noticed something else, too.
She was getting tired.
Not just physically. But emotionally. Spiritually. Quietly.
The emotional labor of being the anchor to someone drifting was starting to weigh on her.
Elara had never regretted staying. Not once. Not when Mira ran away. Not when Mira didn't call. Not when Mira came back with more silence than words.
But lately, there were moments — tiny, shameful moments — when she wished she could set the weight down. Just for a little while.
---
One night, Elara was in her room, curled on her bed, reading a poem Mira had written in the library. Mira had folded it like a letter, even sealed it with a sticker. It wasn't for anyone else. It was just something she wanted Elara to read.
> "Some days I feel like a grave of all the girls I used to be."
> "I talk to ghosts that wear my old faces."
> "They say they miss being me. I don't know how to tell them I don't."
Elara stared at the lines until the words blurred.
Then, she began to write in her journal.
A line that kept repeating itself:
> "I miss being someone who could just breathe without worrying if it hurt someone else."
---
At school, Elara tried to keep the mask on. She smiled, nodded, laughed at jokes. But the more she carried Mira's weight, the less she could carry her own.
She stopped drawing in the margins of her notebook. She stopped listening to her favorite music. She even forgot her dad's birthday until her mother reminded her.
But she kept showing up for Mira. Always.
Until the day she didn't.
---
It was a Tuesday. Cloudy. Mira had a panic attack in class — sudden and sharp. Her breathing went shallow. Her hands trembled. The teacher tried to help, but only Elara knew what to do.
She took Mira to the nurse. Held her hand. Stayed through the worst of it.
After Mira fell asleep, Elara walked out and sat alone in the hallway.
And cried.
Not loudly. Not brokenly. Just... silently. The kind of cry that comes when you've been strong for too long.
---
Later that night, she wrote the letter.
The one she would never send.
> "Dear Mira,
I love you. More than you'll ever know. But sometimes, loving you hurts.
I wake up wondering how to hold your pain today — what shape it'll take, how heavy it'll be. And sometimes I forget what mine even looks like.
I don't want you to be okay for me. I just want to not disappear in the process of helping you survive.
You are not a burden.
But sometimes I wish I didn't have to carry you to prove it.
— Elara."
She folded the letter. Tucked it inside her journal. And never opened it again.
---
The next day, Mira noticed. For the first time in weeks, she really looked at Elara.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Elara's smile was thin. "I'm fine."
But Mira didn't look away.
"You're lying," she said quietly.
Elara stared at her. The honesty in Mira's gaze broke something open.
"I don't know how to not be okay," Elara whispered.
Mira's hand reached out. Shaky. But sincere.
"Then let me be strong for a while," she said. "Let me carry you."
And for the first time, Elara let her.
She let herself fall into Mira's arms. Let herself cry. Let herself be held.
And Mira held her. Not perfectly. Not easily.
But honestly.
---
That night, Mira handed Elara a new poem.
> "You don't have to set yourself on fire to keep me warm.
I've learned how to light candles now."
And Elara smiled.
For real this time.
---
Author's Note #1
Episode 9 was hard to write. Not because it's painful — but because it's real.
We always talk about the people who are hurting, but we rarely talk about the people who love them — who carry them — who stay.
This episode is for you.
For the supporters. The best friends. The anchors. The ones who show up again and again, even when no one asks if they're okay.
You are seen.
You are allowed to feel tired.
And you deserve to be held, too.
---
Author's Note #2
To the Elara in all of us:
You are not selfish for needing rest. You are not weak for needing care.
Love doesn't mean always being the strong one. Sometimes it means knowing when to fall and who is safe enough to catch you.
Thank you for loving the Miras of the world.
Thank you for surviving with them.
And thank you for choosing to stay.