The weight of shadow (part-7)

The Weight of Shadow

Episode 7: We Wear the Silence Like Skin

Elara thought she understood what broken meant. But Mira—Mira redefined it.

The first time she saw her in the school garden after that confrontation, Mira wasn't sitting. She was folded. Knees pressed to her chest, chin digging into fabric. She looked like she was trying to disappear. And in a way, maybe she was.

There was something terrifying about that kind of quiet. Not the silence of peace but the silence of something caved in. Elara stood a few feet away, hesitant. Her heart begged her to run forward, wrap Mira in an embrace and promise that it would all be okay. But her feet felt glued. And Mira didn't even look up.

When she finally did, her eyes weren't wet. They were empty. Elara had expected pain, rage, even confusion. But this? This felt like grief. Not for someone else—but for herself.

They didn't speak that day.

Elara sat on the bench across from her. For a full hour. Just sat. Breathing the same air. Listening to the wind twist through the garden. Trying to say everything without words. And Mira let her.

In the following days, Mira continued to drift through school like a ghost. She was there, technically. She went to class. Did her work. Ate her meals. But nothing about her was present. Her voice remained locked somewhere too far for even her to reach. The Mira that used to tease Elara for her crooked handwriting or giggle at the sound of the school bell had vanished.

And Elara couldn't shake the feeling that she was watching someone fade in real-time.

She tried everything. Little notes in Mira's locker. Soft glances during class. Waiting for her after school with an extra cup of tea. Nothing was met with hostility. Just... silence.

Then came the unexpected. Mira's parents brought her home.

Not quietly, not kindly. After weeks of tension, Elara heard about the argument. Mira's mother yelling about letters, shame, rumours. Mira's father saying the school didn't help, that their daughter needed love, not rules. Doors slammed. Tears were shed. But at the end of it, Mira came home.

Except the Mira who came back wasn't Mira. She walked into her old room like a stranger. Touched nothing. Spoke to no one. Elara saw her one afternoon standing in the hallway, staring at the floor like it was the only solid thing left in her world.

Mira walked like a ghost. Alive but dead inside. Just surviving. Not living.

Elara tried to talk to her. Once. Twice. But Mira barely acknowledged her. Her words were slow, detached, like they had to push through thick fog to reach the surface. Her eyes never quite met Elara's. Her hands always tucked into her sleeves. Her steps always silent.

What scared Elara the most was what Mira had started to avoid: mirrors.

She wouldn't look at herself. Not once. Elara noticed it slowly. The way Mira turned her head when passing the hallway mirror. The way she kept her bathroom door half-closed while brushing her hair. The way she hung a scarf over the mirror in her room.

And then one night, Elara saw it happen.

She had come over to drop off some notes. Mira's mother let her in, hopeful. She found Mira sitting on the edge of her bed, staring at the floor. Elara knocked softly.

No response.

"I brought the chemistry notes," Elara said.

Mira didn't answer.

Elara hesitated, then walked in. She placed the notebook on Mira's desk and turned to leave, but something made her glance back.

Mira had stood. She walked to the mirror, paused, and then—

Looked.

It was less than five seconds. But in that moment, her expression crumbled. Her hand went to her mouth like she was trying not to scream. Her knees buckled slightly.

Elara took a step forward but stopped.

Because in that same moment, Mira whispered, "Why do I look like this? Like something not meant to survive?"

Elara didn't know what to say. Shame locked her voice. Guilt twisted her stomach. She wanted to hold Mira. To apologize. To scream at the universe. But she just stood there, watching as Mira sank to the floor, tears falling in silence.

That night, Elara cried too.

Mira started writing again. Elara noticed the crumpled bits of paper in her trash bin. The pen marks on her fingers. The way she stared out of windows for hours like the sky held answers.

She wrote poems. Dark ones. Soft ones. Bleeding ones.

"My name is a whisper I don't respond to anymore, A bird with clipped wings watching others fly, I speak to the dark more than I speak to light, Because light asks questions I don't want to answer."

Elara found that one, tucked beneath a library book. She didn't confront Mira. She didn't dare.

But she started walking a little closer.

Until one morning, Mira was gone.

Her bed was cold. Her bag missing. A single page on the pillow:

"I thought coming home would fix something. But maybe I'm the broken piece. The silence is getting louder. I just need to breathe somewhere I won't be watched breaking. I'll come back. Maybe. If I find the pieces worth returning with."

Panic ripped through Elara. She called. Ran. Screamed.

But this time, Mira had run far.

And the weight of her shadow was heavier than ever.

---

Author's Note:

Thank you for returning to Weight of Shadow for Episode 7. This chapter was an emotional avalanche to write. The story now dips deeper into the journey of post-trauma survival, self-worth, and the devastating weight of self-perception. Mira's struggle with mirrors, with her words, and eventually with disappearing again—is not fiction for many.

To anyone who has looked in the mirror and not recognized the person staring back: You are not alone.

To anyone who writes instead of screams: Keep writing.

And to the Elara in your life, or within yourself, who is trying to hold someone together even while falling apart: Thank you.

Sometimes we heal in circles. Sometimes we break again before we begin to rebuild. But every part of that process matters.

I hope you stay with Mira.

Until next time,

Stay soft. Stay breathing.

— Aarya Patil