The Burden Of A Shadow

Here is the revised and expanded Chapter 8, now adjusted to meet 1500 words:

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Chapter 8: The Shadows of Secrets

The morning sunlight crept through the blinds, casting golden slants across the room. Amara sat on the edge of the bed, still in yesterday's clothes, her body unmoving as though stuck between moments. She hadn't slept—how could she? Every sound in the house felt magnified in the quiet. The ticking of a clock, the faint hum of the refrigerator, even the creak of the bed frame as she shifted.

Lucas's words from last night played on a loop in her head, a haunting refrain: Since when do you paint?

The question had been casual enough, but the way he said it, with that sharp gaze, unsettled her. Adelaide didn't paint. She had always dismissed Amara's art as "messy little scribbles," a pastime unbecoming of someone with the future Adelaide was supposed to have. Lucas noticing was dangerous. Too dangerous.

Pushing herself off the bed, Amara scanned the room. The evidence of her late-night painting session was everywhere. The half-finished canvas still leaned against the wall, streaks of bold, uneven colors dominating its surface. Brushes and tubes of paint were scattered across the desk, a palette with dried smudges of blue and red balanced precariously on the edge.

With a sharp intake of breath, she started gathering everything. The brushes went into a box; the tubes followed quickly after. She tucked the canvas under the bed, far enough back that even the most curious eyes wouldn't see it.

When she was done, the room looked as it should—immaculate, just like Adelaide had kept it.

But Amara still felt exposed.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it, her stomach twisting as she saw Lucas's name again.

"Can we talk later? I'll come by after school."

Her fingers tightened around the phone. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Every time he was near, it felt like she was teetering on the edge of discovery. Yet, she couldn't outright refuse him. That would only make him dig deeper.

Ignoring the text, she flipped to another message from Claire.

"Hey, you okay? Let's grab coffee later? Miss you."

Amara let out a hollow laugh. The real Adelaide had been popular, the kind of person people noticed when she wasn't around. But Amara wasn't like that. The idea of sitting across from Claire, pretending to be someone she wasn't, made her stomach churn. She deleted the message and tossed the phone onto the bed.

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The kitchen felt colder than usual, the tiled floor biting against her bare feet. She poured herself a cup of coffee, sipping the bitter liquid without sugar. Coffee was one of the few things that felt like hers, a small rebellion against the tea Adelaide had always preferred.

The house was too quiet. Her parents had left early, as usual. They didn't ask about her, didn't check to see if she was eating or coping. They had only one concern: that she stayed in character.

She thought about their last conversation, her father's stern tone echoing in her head.

"You owe us this, Amara. Don't you think we've sacrificed enough for you?"

They'd sacrificed nothing. It was her who had been forced to give up her identity, her life, her dreams.

The shrill ring of the doorbell startled her. Her heart leapt to her throat. She wasn't expecting anyone.

She set the coffee down, her hands trembling as she approached the door.

It wasn't Lucas.

Ethan stood there, leaning lazily against the frame. His dark eyes carried their usual sharpness, but there was something else there too—curiosity, maybe? The faint smell of cigarette smoke clung to his jacket.

"Morning," he said, his tone nonchalant.

"What are you doing here?" Amara asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Claire sent me. She's worried about you."

Amara stiffened, gripping the edge of the door. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you keep saying that." Ethan smirked, stepping forward. "Mind if I come in?"

Amara hesitated, but before she could refuse, he brushed past her. He moved like he belonged there, his eyes scanning the pristine living room.

"This place always feels like a museum," he commented, running a finger along the edge of the mantel.

"I don't have time for this," Amara said sharply.

Ethan turned to face her, his smirk fading. "What's going on with you?"

She crossed her arms, her heart pounding. "Nothing's going on."

"You've been... different," he said, his tone softer now. "Quieter. It's not like you."

Amara swallowed hard, trying to think of a response. "People change," she muttered.

"Not like this," Ethan countered, his gaze narrowing. "It's like you're not even Adelaide anymore."

Her blood ran cold.

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "So, what's the deal? You hiding something?"

Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to stay calm. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Ethan studied her for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you ever need to talk—"

"I don't," she snapped, cutting him off.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a smirk returning to his lips. "Alright, alright. I'll leave you alone. For now."

He turned to leave but paused, his eyes catching on something near the couch—a small streak of blue paint on her wrist.

He tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. "Since when do you paint?"

Amara's breath caught.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, rubbing at the spot.

Ethan lingered for a moment before shrugging. "See you around, Adelaide."

As the door closed behind him, Amara collapsed onto the couch, her hands shaking.

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The rest of the day passed in a haze. Amara couldn't shake the memory of Ethan's piercing gaze, his pointed question about the paint. He was starting to see through her, and that scared her more than she wanted to admit.

By the time night fell, she was exhausted, but sleep wouldn't come. She found herself wandering the house, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallways.

Eventually, she ended up in Adelaide's room. The bed was perfectly made, the desk neat and organized. But the perfection only reminded her of everything she wasn't.

Her eyes fell on Adelaide's old journal, tucked neatly into a corner of the desk. She hadn't touched it since moving in—it felt too personal, too invasive. But tonight, something drew her to it.

She flipped through the pages, her heart heavy with every word.

"April 14th: Lucas is sweet, but he's too much sometimes. I wish he'd give me space."

"May 1st: Ethan called me out again today. He's always questioning me. It's exhausting."

"May 23rd: Mom and Dad keep pushing me. They don't care about what I want. Sometimes I feel like I'm just... disappearing."

Amara froze. The words felt eerily familiar, like they could have come from her own mind.

A knock at the window startled her. She turned sharply, her heart pounding as she saw Ethan outside.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, opening the window.

"Checking on you," he said, climbing inside.

" I think I'm seeing you to much today no!! —"

"Relax." His tone was sharp, but there was concern in his eyes. "You're not okay, and you know it."

Amara crossed her arms, glaring at him. "I don't need you to tell me what I am or aren't."

Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not trying to fight. But you're not yourself, Adelaide. And I think you know it."

Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to stay calm. "I'm fine," she said weakly.

Ethan didn't look convinced. He glanced around the room, his eyes catching on the corner of the bed where the canvas was partially hidden.

"Since when do you paint?" he asked again, his tone casual but his gaze sharp.

Amara froze, her mind racing for an excuse.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, stepping in front of the bed.

Ethan didn't push further. He shrugged and moved toward the window. "You can keep lying to everyone else, but you can't lie to yourself forever."

He climbed out, leaving Amara alone with his words—and the realization that her time was running out.

What's with everyone being obbsed her painting anyway , can find other things to notice.

Amara felt so tired of pretending, but could she do. the show has to go on with or without her willingness, she sighed to the hopelessness of her situation

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