BECOMING HER

CHAPTER 1

“Good night, Elara. See you tomorrow,” Thelma said as she picked up her coat from the rack.

“Good night,” Elara replied, waving as Thelma walked through the door and disappeared into the night.

Elara heaved a sigh and began cleaning up before leaving the café. She was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go straight home, take a warm bath, and fall asleep. But she couldn’t do that just yet.

“s**t” she gasped, glancing at the clock. Just five more minutes before the pharmacy closed.

She hurriedly put away the cleaning equipment, switched off the lights, and rushed toward the door. The sharp burst of cold air that hit her face when she opened it reminded her she’d almost forgotten her coat. She quickly grabbed it, double-checked the locks, and sprinted toward the pharmacy.

When she saw the lights still on inside, she slowed down, catching her breath and sighing in relief.

“Elara,” Mrs. Freya called warmly from behind the counter. The elderly woman smiled kindly at her. Elara returned the smile as best as she could.

“Sorry I’m late,” Elara said between breaths.

“It’s no problem, honey,” Mrs. Freya replied, already wrapping up the medicine Elara had come to collect. “Here you go. And say hi to your mom and sister for me.”

Elara nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”

Finally, she could go home.

She put her headphones on and hugged her black coat tighter around herself. Why is it so cold tonight? she wondered as she approached the stairs leading to her building.

The apartment complex sat on the outskirts of town. From a distance, it looked more abandoned than inhabited. The paint was chipped and peeling, exposing gray concrete beneath. Thin cracks snaked across the walls like spiderwebs, and several windows were patched with mismatched curtains or cardboard.

Elara climbed the stairs and stopped at her front door, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.

The apartment was small and worn, but lived in. The couch was old and slightly sunken in the middle, covered with a carefully tucked floral sheet to hide the tears. A small wooden coffee table stood unevenly on one leg, supported by folded cardboard. The curtains were faded from years of sun, and the walls carried faint stains that no amount of scrubbing could remove. Yet the space held warmth family photos taped to the walls, a neatly folded blanket on the couch, and the faint smell of home-cooked food lingering in the air.

“Mom?” Elara called out.

Silence.

“Isla?” she tried again, panic slowly rising in her chest.

A shadow moved in the kitchen doorway. It was her sister.

“Isla, what are you doing there?” Elara asked. “And where’s Mom?”

Isla looked up at her with sunken, tired eyes. “Elara, you’re back,” she said softly, ignoring the questions.

“Mmm,” Elara hummed, stepping closer. “Where is Mom?”

“She went to the store to get some things,” Isla replied.

“Oh. Okay.”

“How was your day?” Isla asked, walking past her to sit on the couch. She tapped the space beside her, inviting Elara to sit.

“You know… the usual. Shitty customers. Confused customers.”

Isla smiled faintly at that response.

Just as she was about to respond, they heard a heavy thud coming from the apartment next door.

Not loud enough to shake anything, but loud enough to settle into their nerves.

“Ughhh,” Elara groaned, dropping her head back against the couch. “They are at it again.”

Next door lived what Elara privately referred to as The Construction Dynasty. A family of five who seemed permanently in the middle of either rearranging their entire apartment or disciplining their children at Olympic volume. The father believed in tools. Loud ones. The mother believed in shouting across rooms instead of walking into them. And the two boys roughly nine and eleven treated the corridor like a racetrack and every piece of furniture like an obstacle course.

It was a daily symphony of dragging chairs, running feet, dropped objects, and dramatic scoldings that somehow resolved nothing.

“Been like this the whole day,” Elara continued. “Some renovating or whatever.”

Another dull bang. Followed by a child’s voice yelling, “I didn’t even touch it!”

“Just when I thought I could get some rest after a stressful day.”

She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead dramatically, like an actress about to faint from emotional devastation.

Isla stared at her for a second.

Then burst into laughter.

Real laughter. Sudden and bright.

“Elara,” she managed between giggles, “if you collapse, I promise to tell them it was caused by emotional damage from poor interior design.”

Elara shot her a look. “I am suffering.”

“You’re auditioning,” Isla corrected.

Before Elara could defend herself, they heard the front door open.

Their mother stepped in, carrying two heavy grocery bags. She didn’t pause to greet them immediately; she walked straight to the kitchen and dropped the bags onto the counter with a soft exhale.

Right on cue, another loud thud came from next door.

She closed her eyes briefly. “This is giving me a headache,” she complained, rubbing her temple.

Under the kitchen light, the resemblance between her and Isla was striking. They shared the same warm brown complexion, the same soft oval faces, the same gentle curve of their noses. Even their smiles tilted slightly the same way when they were amused. Isla was almost a younger, thinner echo of her same expressive eyes, same delicate features.

Elara had always stood apart.

Her face was sharper. Her jaw more defined. Her nose straighter. Her eyes darker and set a little deeper, carrying a quiet intensity that didn’t quite match the softness beside her. Where her mother and sister seemed to glow warmly, Elara seemed carved from cooler light.

People often commented on how much Isla looked like their mother.

No one ever said who Elara resembled.

She had never seen a picture of her father.

Not even once

Sometimes, catching her reflection in a dark window, she wondered if the unfamiliar angles looking back at her belonged to him.

“What do you think?”

The question from her mother dragged her away from her thoughts.

“Huh?”

“Mom was asking if you wanted takeout,” Isla repeated gently from the couch.

Elara blinked, straightening. “Of course.”

“Alright then,” their mother said, already reaching for her phone. “Noodles again? Or should we be adventurous tonight?”

“Adventurous sounds expensive,” Elara replied.

“That’s a no then,” Isla murmured.

Their mother smiled faintly and placed the order.

Another muted thud came from next door, followed by the familiar murmur of voices. It was still annoying, but softer now almost background noise.

“Let’s put something on while we wait,” their mother suggested. “A movie. Something light.”

“Not a tragedy,” Elara said immediately.

“Not a documentary,” Isla added.

That settled it.

A few minutes later, the TV flickered to life, filling the room with gentle light. The noise next door faded beneath the soundtrack of whatever cheerful film they’d chosen. The apartment felt smaller somehow, but warmer.

They didn’t talk much after that.

They didn’t need to.

Elara leaned back into the couch, her sister curled beside her, their mother seated close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally.

Comfortable silence settled between them not empty, not strained. Just shared.

And for a moment, with the noise muted and the lights dimmed, it felt almost like nothing was missing at all.