THE SPACE BETWEEN SILENCE(9)
1488 Words
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Annalise’s eyelids fluttered open like petals greeting the morning sun. The soft glow of dawn filtered through the curtains, filling her room with pale gold. She pushed herself upright, stifling a yawn.
“Morning, Mum,” she murmured when the door creaked open.
“Morning, love,” her mother replied, stepping inside with a concerned look. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been going to training lately. Is something going on? You know you can talk to me if you want.”
Annalise hesitated, twisting the edge of her blanket between her fingers. “I’m… just a little nervous about Monday. Orientation week is starting, and everything feels overwhelming.”
Her mother’s expression softened as she crossed the room and touched her daughter’s shoulder. “That’s normal, sweetheart. Especially with the competition coming up. But if there’s anything else, I’m here.”
Annalise nodded, grateful for the comfort but unable to say more. When her mother left, she picked up her phone and froze.
Clara’s message. From yesterday.
Her chest tightened. “Oh no,” she whispered. “I didn’t even see it.”
Fingers flying, she typed quickly:
Clara! I just saw your message. I’m so sorry for not replying sooner. Thank you so much. I miss you! How are you feeling? Let’s talk soon, okay.
She hit send, guilt washing over her. Clara had been sick, and she hadn’t checked in once. But as thoughts of the competition pressed in again, she shoved the guilt aside. She’d make it up to her later.
At the same time, Monica barely registered the passing hours as she slept, her body heavy with exhaustion. Sleep was her only escape from reality, from the fear that she might never compete again.
When she finally stirred, the room was dim. She stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, until the ache in her chest pushed her to reach for her phone. Notifications crowded the screen, but one stopped her cold.
Clara. A message. From yesterday.
Her stomach twisted as she read it. Clara had wished them luck, offered kindness, even after being sick. And Monica hadn’t replied.
Her thumbs moved quickly, but guilt made them heavy:
Clara! I just saw this, I’m so sorry. Annalise and I spent all day training yesterday. Thank you so much! We really appreciate it. How are you doing?
She pressed send and set the phone down, a lump forming in her throat. The words were meant to reassure Clara, but they weren’t true. She hadn’t been training. She hadn’t been doing anything at all.
Curling back under the covers, Monica shut her eyes tight, wishing she could sleep long enough to escape the truth.
_______
Clara sat at the edge of her bed, absently holding her phone in her hands. The tiny beep of a notification made her heart skip, and she quickly checked the screen.
Two new messages.
Her fingers moved swiftly, opening Annalise’s first, then Monica’s right after. Both of them had only just seen her text. Both apologized—Annalise said she hadn’t checked her phone because she was exhausted, and Monica explained that she and Annalise had been training all day yesterday.
Clara exhaled softly, a small smile tugging at her lips. That made sense. They hadn’t been ignoring her—they were just busy. She clung to that thought, allowing herself to feel better, even if the ache wasn’t completely gone.
Wanting to distract herself further, she walked to her wardrobe and pulled the doors open. Monday was almost here, and she needed to decide what to wear.
She dug through her clothes, pulling out different outfits and holding them against her body as she studied herself in the mirror. Some felt too casual, some too formal. Others didn’t quite match her mood. She tossed them aside, her bed quickly piling up with rejected choices.
Next came her hair. She stood in front of the mirror, experimenting with different styles—a simple ponytail, then letting it fall freely, then twisting it into a bun before undoing it again. Nothing felt quite right. She wanted something that said effortless but still put together. Monday had to be a fresh start.
Later that evening, Clara curled up on the couch, half-watching a lighthearted comedy on TV. Laughter filled the room, but her thoughts drifted, lighter than they had been in days. Her phone rested beside her, the earlier replies from Annalise and Monica still lingering in her mind like a quiet reassurance.
On the other side of the room, her younger sisters sat on the floor, surrounded by schoolbooks and scattered sheets of paper. Curious, Clara leaned forward.
“What are you two working on?” she asked.
Annabelle looked up. “We’re learning about plant growth. Our teacher gave us an experiment to do at home.”
Clara raised a brow. “What kind of experiment?”
“We’re growing mustard seeds on cotton wool,” Anastasia said excitedly, holding up a small container. Inside, tiny seeds were nestled in damp white fluff.
Clara tilted her head. “Wait… don’t plants need soil?”
“Not necessarily,” Anastasia explained. “The cotton wool keeps them moist, and that’s enough for them to start sprouting.”
Annabelle nodded eagerly. “Yeah! Once the roots come out, we can plant them in soil if we want them to grow bigger. But for now, we’re just watching how fast they sprout.”
Clara leaned closer, inspecting the little container. “So you just keep it damp?”
“Exactly,” Anastasia said with a grin. “But not too wet, or they’ll rot.”
Clara handed it back, genuinely impressed. “That’s actually pretty cool. How long does it take?”
“Two to three days,” Annabelle replied. “We only started yesterday, so maybe tomorrow or the next day we’ll see something.”
Clara leaned back against the couch, surprised at how interested she was. “Well, I’ll be checking back,” she said with a faint smile.
Her sisters grinned and returned to their experiment. Clara turned back to the TV, her chest loosening a little. For the first time in a while, the evening didn’t feel so heavy.
_____
Miranda sat stiffly on Beyoncé’s bed, her knees drawn close, arms locked tight around her middle. Her phone buzzed again in her hand, the screen lighting up with the same name that had appeared all morning. Mom.
She stared at it, her jaw tightening.
“Miranda,” Beyoncé murmured, leaning back against the headboard with her own phone in hand. “Just take the call.”
Miranda’s thumb hovered over the screen for a beat before she hit decline. The sharp click of the button felt final. “I don’t want to talk to her.”
Beyoncé frowned. “She’s still your mom. At least pick up and tell her you’re fine.”
Miranda gave a short, bitter laugh and tossed the phone onto the blanket. “She doesn’t care if I’m fine. If she did, she wouldn’t sit back and let him treat me like—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.
The silence stretched. Beyoncé didn’t argue. She just shifted slightly closer, her eyes soft with concern, and for a moment Miranda wished she wouldn’t look at her like that.
Then a voice floated up the stairs, faint but unmistakable. Her mother’s.
“Miranda won’t answer my calls. I just wanted to check on her.”
Miranda froze, blood rushing to her ears.
Mrs. Wesley’s reply came gentle but firm, the way she always sounded when she meant to take control. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her.”
Miranda’s chest tightened. Of course. Mrs. Wesley never let things slide.
___
Elina had picked up a strange new habit. Ever since yesterday, she couldn’t pull herself away from dolphin documentaries. The sleek creatures clicked and whistled on screen, their intelligence shining through every playful leap, and Elina soaked it all in, eyes wide with fascination.
What surprised her most wasn’t her own obsession—it was her siblings. Lucca hadn’t once demanded the remote, and Nuria hadn’t complained about being bored. Instead, they sat on either side of her, leaning forward, completely drawn in.
On the screen, a dolphin launched itself out of the water in a glittering spray, and Nuria gasped. “Did you see that?” she whispered, as though afraid to break the spell.
Lucca nodded, for once not pretending to know everything. “That’s insane.”
From the couch behind them, their parents exchanged looks over their mugs of tea. No words passed between them, but their raised brows asked the same question: When was the last time all three of them agreed on anything?
The room felt almost too peaceful, the kind of peace their family rarely managed. For a moment, even Elina wondered if she was dreaming.
- Writer
