Episode 13: The White Walls
The hospital smelled of antiseptic—sharp, clean, and strangely cold. For Elara, the first step inside felt heavier than the weight of her trembling body. The walls gleamed white, endless, lined with posters she didn't bother reading. The air buzzed faintly with machines, footsteps, and distant murmurs, but all of it seemed muffled, like she was hearing the world through a layer of glass.
She clutched the strap of her small bag, the one she had packed so reluctantly. Her mother walked beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed, while her father dealt with the reception desk. Elara kept her eyes down, watching the sterile tiles pass beneath her shoes. She told herself: It's just temporary. It's just some tests. I'll be back home soon.
But her body betrayed her. Even standing there, her legs wobbled, her breath shallow. The hospital's weight wasn't only in its walls—it was inside her, pressing against her chest.
When the nurse called her name, Elara followed obediently. Her parents' voices trailed beside her—gentle, encouraging, but edged with worry they couldn't disguise. She wanted to tell them not to look at her like that. She wanted to tell them she was fine, that she didn't need all this. But her voice stuck in her throat, unspoken, swallowed by silence.
The room they were shown to was small, lined with white sheets, a single narrow bed, and a window with closed blinds. Elara sat down on the edge of the mattress, her fingers twisting together in her lap. Her mother adjusted the pillow, smoothed the blanket, fussed with small details. Her father spoke to the nurse, asking about schedules and tests.
Elara just sat quietly, staring at the wall.
She thought of Mira. Was she awake yet? Was she sitting at their table, eating breakfast, pretending not to notice Elara's absence? Would she laugh too loudly today, just to fill the space Elara usually occupied? The thought made Elara's chest ache more than the weakness in her body.
Her first day blurred with pokes and prods, blood tests, doctors' quiet questions. They asked her things like "How long have you been feeling this way?" and "Do you get dizzy often?" Elara answered honestly, her voice steady but soft. Her parents listened carefully, their faces tight, nodding at every word.
In the afternoon, after the first round of tests, Elara lay on the hospital bed. The blanket felt stiff, the air conditioning too sharp, the walls too blank. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant hum of machines. She tried to close her eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. The hospital felt too awake, too alive in its own mechanical rhythm.
She remembered the sound of Mira's breathing at night, the way her sister would toss slightly before settling into sleep. The silence here was lonelier.
At home, Mira sat on her own bed, staring at the space where Elara's bag had been packed. She hadn't touched breakfast that morning. The silence in the house felt unnatural, like a song missing its melody. Mira kept waiting to hear Elara's cough, her laugh, her soft voice calling from the hallway. None came.
Her parents had called earlier, assuring her that everything was fine, that Elara was resting, that she would only need to stay a few days. Mira nodded, smiled, said "that's good." But when she hung up, she pressed the phone to her chest and whispered: She should be here. She should be with me.
Back at the hospital, Elara's mother coaxed her to eat the small meal delivered on a tray. The food was bland, tasteless, and she struggled to swallow more than a few bites. Her mother's eyes softened, but she didn't push. Instead, she reached out, brushing Elara's hair from her forehead. "Just rest," she whispered. "We'll take care of everything."
Elara nodded, but inside, she felt the weight of guilt. She didn't want to be something her parents had to "take care of." She wanted to be strong, independent, helpful. Now she was a burden, lying in a bed while they worried endlessly.
That night, after her parents had dozed off in the chairs beside her, Elara sat quietly by the window. She pulled the blinds aside just enough to see the faint glow of the city outside. Cars passed, lights blinked in buildings, life moved forward out there. She pressed her forehead lightly against the glass, her breath fogging the cool surface.
She thought of Mira again. She imagined her sister brushing her hair absentmindedly, maybe scribbling in a notebook, maybe pacing her room. Elara wanted to tell her: Don't worry about me. Live your life. Smile for me. But the distance between them felt larger than the miles of road—it was the distance of silence, of unspoken fears.
The following days carried the same rhythm. Tests, waiting, whispers between doctors. Elara grew used to the smell of antiseptic, the prick of needles, the taste of metallic medicine. She adjusted to the routine with quiet patience, never complaining. She wore her small, tired smile whenever her parents looked at her, hiding the depth of her exhaustion.
But inside, she kept reaching out—in memories, in thoughts—for Mira.
Mira, meanwhile, kept building her shield of denial. When classmates asked about Elara, she shrugged and said, "She'll be fine." When neighbors inquired, she laughed and said, "It's just check-ups." Her words were light, casual, convincing. But at night, alone in her room, her hands trembled. She clutched Elara's pillow, buried her face in it, and let silent tears soak the fabric.
Neither sister said what they truly felt. Elara hid her pain to protect Mira. Mira hid her fear to protect herself. And in the quiet space between them, the shadow of truth grew larger.
The hospital room, with its white walls and sterile air, became Elara's new world. She learned the sounds—the beep of the monitor, the rattle of trolleys, the soft footsteps of nurses. She learned the faces—the doctor with calm eyes, the nurse with a kind smile. She even began to smile back at them, adjusting herself to the rhythm of their world.
But late at night, when the world hushed, she whispered softly into her pillow: "Mira…" as though the name itself could keep her alive.
And at home, Mira lay awake, whispering into the darkness: "Come back soon."
Two sisters, separated by walls and silence, bound by the same unspoken fear.
The white walls were closing in.
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Author's Note 🌙 – The White Walls
This episode focuses on Elara's first days adjusting to the hospital—her quiet patience, the weight of being a burden, her longing for Mira—and contrasts it with Mira's loneliness at home, where she uses denial as a shield. Notice how both sisters are protecting each other by hiding their truth, which makes their bond feel both tender and tragic.
The slow pacing lets us sit in Elara's adjustment: the sterile walls, the bland food, the rhythms of hospital life. It's meant to feel isolating yet intimate, showing how the sisters miss each other silently.
— Aarya Patil 🌙