Chapter 3: The Weighted Blanket of Reality
1047 Words
Sunday arrived not with a bang, but with a dull, insistent throb in Elara’s lower abdomen that signaled the arrival of her monthly biological tax. By 8:00 AM, the cold Toronto rain drumming against the dorm window felt like it was syncing up with the cramps radiating through her core.
She didn't even try to reach for her highlighter. She simply reached for the bottle of ibuprofen on her nightstand, swallowed two with a grimace, and burrowed deeper into her nest of blankets. Her cramps were particularly bad on the first days of her cycle.
"You okay?" Madi’s voice was a whisper. She was standing by the door, draped in a massive faux-fur coat, clutching her portfolio.
"Ugh," Elara groaned into her pillow. "The internal demolition team has arrived. I’m staying in the trenches today."
"I’ll bring you a Gatorade on my way back from the studio," Madi promised, blowing her a sympathetic kiss before disappearing into the hallway.
Alone in the quiet room, Elara felt the weight of the week catching up to her. She reached for her phone, scrolling past a notification from the university portal, and tapped on a contact she usually only called when she felt particularly vulnerable.
"Elara? Is everything alright? You never call on a Sunday morning," her mother’s voice was crisp, seasoned with the authority of a woman who had spent thirty years teaching Sociology.
"I'm fine, Mom. Just... the usual. Cramps. Rain. Being a human is exhausting."
"Have you been eating? Or are you living on that overpriced bean water again?"
Elara smiled despite the pain. "Yes mum, I’m eating. I actually had a real dinner last night. With friends."
"Friends? Anyone I know?"
Elara hesitated, tracing the pattern on her duvet. "Yeah. Just Madi and the girls."
"Ooh a girls night. It's nice to see you taking care of yourself so well, You lucked out with a roommate you get along so well with ," her mother noted, her voice softening. "How is... how are you feeling about Simon? About the breakup with Simon? You haven't mentioned him in weeks." She knew her mum went well, especially knowing how much Elara had always bottled things up, but she really didn't want to talk about that.
Elara stared at a smudge on the ceiling. Simon. The man who had occupied her heart like a squatter for almost two years, only to leave it cluttered and dusty. "I don't know mum. I don't think he actually loved me. I don't think he ever really knew me even. He moved on so fast too, like I never mattered." Perhaps it was the hormones, she was never this talkative about her feelings.
"Don't let him get you down Ellie. It has nothing to do with you, boys like that never know what they want and try to string along whoever they can. I'm sorry baby"
"Thanks mum. " Elara said,
They talked for another hour, moving from the heavy topics to the mundane gossip of their hometown and the to the grey eyed man that occupied her thoughts ever so oftesln. By the time they hung up, the ibuprofen had kicked in, and the hollow ache in Elara’s chest had eased just as much as the one in her stomach.
By late afternoon, the rain had turned to a fine mist. Elara managed to untangle herself from her blankets. She felt a surge of domestic energy—the kind that usually followed a long period of feeling like a shut-in.
She put on her thickest wool socks and padded down to the communal kitchenette. It was empty, smelling faintly of burnt toast and industrial cleaner. She’d made a quick run to the corner bodega earlier for a head of celery, some carrots, and a rotisserie chicken.
Making soup was a rhythmic, meditative process. The thwack-thwack-thwack of the knife against the wooden board, the hiss of the onions hitting the pot, the steam that carried the scent of thyme and pepper. It was the only kind of chemistry Elara truly understood.
As the soup simmered, she retreated to her desk. She checked her messages.
From: Julian Thorne (2:14 PM)
You weren't in the library today. I assume you haven't been swept away by a Victorian windstorm?
Elara felt a flush that had nothing to do with the stove.
To: Julian Thorne (4:45 PM)
Just a strategic retreat. I’m currently making enough chicken soup to cure a small nation. I'll come by tomorrow. Assuming I survive the night.
From: Julian Thorne (4:50 PM)
Save a bowl. Not for me—for Barnaby. He’s a connoisseur of poultry-based liquids.
Are you sick?
To: Julian Thorne (4:51 PM)
Nice try, Thorne. Get your own soup.
Just cramps, they get really bad sometimes
From: Julian Thorne (4:53 PM)
Sorry about that. You don't have to come by tomorrow
To: Julian Thorne (4:56 PM)
I think I will be fine by then. Thanks though, good night
When Madi finally shuffled back into the room at 7:00 PM, looking exhausted and covered in charcoal dust, she stopped dead in her tracks.
"Is that... real food? Like, from a stove?"
"Sit," Elara commanded, ladling a generous portion of steaming soup into a mismatched ceramic bowl. "And don't ask me about my feelings. Just eat." She knew that was to be the next question. Elara always made soup when she was in a slump.
They sat together on the floor, the space heater humming between them, eating in a comfortable silence that only old friends can manage. Elara felt the tension of the week—the library collision, the project pressure, the Chloe-induced sourness—slowly dissolve.
She was still an English major with an uncertain future and a body that occasionally betrayed her, but as she leaned her head against the cool metal of her bed frame, she felt grounded. Tomorrow, the world would be loud again. Tomorrow, she’d have to deal with Julian and the "real world."
But for tonight, the soup was hot, the room was quiet, and she was exactly where she needed to be.
- Writer
