The Burden Of A Shadow

The house was silent when Amara stepped through the door, the weight of the night settling heavily on her shoulders. The quiet was both a relief and a reminder that her parents were absent—never home, always preoccupied with their own lives. It had been like that for as long as she could remember, leaving Amara to navigate the complexities of life alone. She could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, but beyond that, there was nothing.

Her fingers brushed the doorframe as she stepped into the hallway, her thoughts drifting back to the events of the night. The tension with Lucas had been palpable. She still couldn't shake the way he had looked at her, how he had tried to pull her closer, as if she were some possession, some thing he could mold into his idea of who she should be. The memory of the dance, of his hands on her waist, sent a shiver down her spine. She had wanted to pull away, to create distance, but she had stayed, frozen in place. He wasn't the person she was scared of—yet—but the weight of his expectations suffocated her just the same.

She didn't belong in this world. This life. But it wasn't just Lucas. There was Ethan's piercing gaze, his quiet intensity, the way he seemed to know something was off. How long would it take before someone figured it out? Before they realized she wasn't Adelaide?

Amara shook her head, trying to clear the thoughts that swirled around like a storm. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep pretending. How much longer she could live this lie. The truth of her situation was beginning to eat away at her, and the mask she wore was becoming harder to maintain.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, the soft vibration cutting through her thoughts. She reached for it absently, her eyes scanning the screen. A text from Lucas. She hadn't responded to his message from earlier. She didn't know what to say. What could she say?

"Hey, are you okay? Let me know if you need anything."

She stared at the message, the words feeling too familiar, too loaded. Lucas wasn't the type to ask if someone was okay unless there was something he wanted. Something he expected from her. And she didn't know if she could give him that. She didn't know if she wanted to.

Instead of responding, she dropped the phone back onto the counter, her mind racing with a thousand conflicting emotions. She walked up to Adelaide's room, her room now. The door creaked as she pushed it open, the sight of her sister's things surrounding her like a stranger's possessions. It felt like she was living in someone else's life, someone else's skin. Her sister's life, her sister's identity, and her sister's friends. But Amara had no choice—this was the life she had to embrace, even if it wasn't hers.

Her gaze fell on the canvas in the corner of the room, the one she had started painting earlier. It was still unfinished, a chaotic swirl of colors and shapes. The brushstrokes were rough, not like the polished work Adelaide used to do. But it was hers—Amara's. In the mess of the paint, she could feel a small sliver of herself. She could breathe.

She reached for the brush again, her fingers gripping the handle tightly. But before she could dip it into the paint, her phone buzzed again, startling her. She glanced at it quickly. Lucas. Again.

"Come on, it's not like you to ignore me. Are we still good?"

Amara's heart skipped a beat. She wasn't sure what to feel. She wasn't sure if she wanted to respond, if she wanted to keep playing this game. But she knew she couldn't keep pretending forever. Not when it felt like she was losing herself in the process.

The phone buzzed a third time. A message from Claire.

"Hey, how are you doing? Missed you today. Hope everything's okay."

Her chest tightened. Claire's concern was genuine, but it felt like a weight she didn't know how to bear. How long could she keep pretending to be Adelaide in front of everyone, including her friends?

Amara pushed the phone away and turned back to the canvas. She didn't want to deal with Lucas's expectations, or Claire's concern, or the suffocating weight of the life she was trapped in. She wanted to paint. To create something real, something that was just hers. Something to remind her that she wasn't lost.

She dipped the brush into the paint, her mind beginning to quiet as the colors spread across the canvas. For the first time in days, she could feel something like peace settle in her chest. It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind her that she was still here. Still alive. Still herself.

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway interrupted her thoughts, and she froze, brush in hand. She didn't need to look out the window to know who it was. Lucas. He was early.

She could hear the door slam as he stepped out of the car. Then, the sound of footsteps approaching the door. He wasn't even going to text her to let her know he was coming. He just did it. As if it was expected.

Amara's stomach churned as she stood there, unsure of what to do. She couldn't hide in the room forever, but the thought of facing him now, when everything felt so fragile, made her want to run. To lock the door and disappear.

But she couldn't. Not this time.

She put the brush down, wiped her hands on the rag by the easel, and walked out of the room. As she descended the stairs, she heard the doorbell ring, and her heart sank. The door opened before she could get there.

"I thought I'd come check on you," Lucas's voice rang out as soon as the door swung open. His grin was wide, but there was a tension in his eyes, something unspoken between them. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.

Amara forced a smile, her mind racing. "I'm fine," she said, but her voice didn't carry the confidence she tried to project. "Just... tired."

Lucas didn't seem convinced. He walked into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, running a hand through his hair. "You sure? You left the party pretty early. Didn't seem like you were feeling it."

She swallowed, her pulse quickening. "I just wasn't in the mood," she said. "I told you, I'm fine."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her with a sharp, searching gaze. "You know, you don't have to pretend with me," he said quietly, his voice almost too serious. "If something's wrong, you can tell me."

The sincerity in his voice sent a wave of discomfort through her. She wasn't sure how to respond. If she told him the truth, if she let him see the cracks beneath the surface, would he still want to be around? Or would he start questioning everything?

Instead, Amara simply nodded, hoping her smile was convincing enough. "I'll be fine, Lucas. Just need some rest."

He didn't push it further, but his gaze lingered, his suspicion simmering beneath the surface. "Okay," he said finally. "But if you need anything…"

"I know," she interrupted, her voice a little too sharp. "Thanks."

There was a brief silence before Lucas stood, his movements slow, deliberate. "Alright. If you're sure."

"I'm sure," Amara repeated, her voice softer this time.

He gave her one last look, as though trying to read her, before walking toward the door. As he opened it, he paused and turned back to face her. "Don't keep me waiting too long next time," he said, his words hanging in the air between them.

She forced a smile. "I won't."

As the door clicked shut behind him, Amara felt a wave of relief rush over her. But it was quickly replaced with a cold, creeping dread. How much longer could she keep up this act? How much longer before everything she had tried to hold together started falling apart?

The answer, she knew deep down, was that it wouldn't be long at all.

She stood there, her thoughts a whirlwind, until the silence in the house became oppressive once more. Her phone buzzed again, but this time, she didn't look. Instead, she walked back to Adelaide's room and stared at the unfinished canvas. The paint had dried in patches, and the colors, though chaotic, seemed to offer her a glimpse of something she could still control.

But then, just as she picked up the brush again, Lucas's words from earlier echoed in her mind: Since when do you paint?

Amara froze.

She looked around the room, at the brush in her hand, at the remnants of the colors scattered across the floor. She hadn't realized it, but Lucas had seen the art supplies. Had he noticed? Or was he just asking out of curiosity?

She bit her lip, hesitant. Would he remember this moment? Would anyone? And would they ever question the person she was pretending to be? The truth was, she was running out of time.

With a sigh, Amara turned back to the canvas. The cracks were starting to show.

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