ELEANOR
Armando had been acting strange for the past few days and I couldn’t help but notice it. It had been three days now since he took me to the hospital and ever since then he hadn’t left the mansion, not even to step outside the front door into the compound. It was really so strange for someone like him-who always moved around with purpose-to suddenly become so stationary.
The mansion was unbearably quiet and it wasn’t the peaceful kind of silence either. This silence was suffocating, heavy, and stretched across every corner of the house like a thick, invisible fog.
Yesterday I had accidentally dropped a spoon while I was in the kitchen and the clattering sound that came from it echoed so loudly throughout the mansion-making the stillness even more pronounced-to the extent that it startled me as though I’d disturbed some fragile balance. That was how quiet everything had become.
I had always wanted space-some peace and quiet-away from Armando, yet now that I had it, I wasn’t as relieved as I thought I’d be. For someone who always claimed to want peace and quiet away from him, I found the lack of noise unsettling.
Something about the way he kept himself locked in his room-barely eating, barely existing-made me restless.
I didn’t know why I cared especially because he’d never given me much reason to-not with the way he treated me, but the whole thing just seemed to stir something inside me.
I still found myself thinking about him against my own will-wondering if he was okay.
A part of me could tell that he was hurting, even if he’d probably refuse to admit it. I’d been there, in a similar situation before-bottling up emotions and pretending to be fine when everything inside was crumbling-so I just couldn’t entirely blame him
Most people-Matteo, Giuseppe, and the rest of his men-probably wouldn’t have noticed since they usually only saw the wall he had built around himself. To them, he was unshakable-unaffected by anything or anyone, but I could see right through it.
When I was younger, my father’s poverty had made my sister and me easy targets for ridicule. We’d heard the whispers, the mockery of neighbors and even so-called friends. People had said our father was too poor to keep our family together and that’s why our mother left us. They never said it outright of course, but they’d hide their insults in “friendly” conversations.
I remembered one time when a group of girls I used to call my friends were talking about college. We were sitting on the cracked steps of my school, laughing about something irrelevant, and then one of them turned to me.
“Are you going to apply to college Eleanor?” she had asked, feigning interest.
But before I could even answer, another girl cut in, laughing. “Oh, come on. You know Eleanor’s family can’t afford that. Don’t get her hopes up.”
The group erupted in laughter, and I forced a smile, pretending it didn’t sting. But it did. Their words had cut deep and they stung like hell.
I could still hear their voices, still feel the heat of shame crawling up my neck.
That memory-and many others like it-had stayed with me, buried deep but always ready to resurface. I’d learned to build my own walls after that, to act like nothing they said or did could touch me. I’d learned what it was like to carry pain silently, to force a tough exterior because showing anything else felt like admitting defeat.
Maybe that’s why I understood Armando in that moment. He probably wasn’t so different from me after all.
I’d been leaving meals-well covered and arranged on a silver table with wheels just like in fancy restaurants-at his door whenever I cooked something for myself, but each time I passed his room later, the trays would still remain untouched.
At first, I told myself it wasn’t my problem, that he was free to starve himself if he wanted to, but whenever I tried to sit down and eat, the thought of him not eating would instantly make my appetite shrink-although I would still end up forcing myself to eat due to the fact that I was on strict medication.
Last night, I’d intentionally skipped making him dinner hoping he’d come out of his room to complain or even yell at me. Anything would’ve been better than this oppressive silence, but still he didn’t. He remained locked away-isolated in his room as if something had forcefully confined him there, and I too stayed in my corner, pretending it didn’t matter when for some reason it did.
I hated that I cared so much. I hated the part of me that kept worrying about him, the part that wanted to check on him, to try pulling him out of whatever dark place he’d recently crawled into.
No matter how many times I tried to ignore him, it would only seem even more impossible and so here I was again tonight, trying to make him his favorite dish so it would at least increase my chances of finally getting him to eat something.
I’d remembered the last time he’d made it-the first and only time I’d seen him cook, the memory so vivid I could replicate every step. I could see the way he chopped the tomatoes, stirred the pan, and added garlic, basil, and salt with care. It wasn’t just the ingredients or the technique that stuck with me-it was how effortless he made it look.
I stood in the kitchen, staring down at the plate of pasta I’d just finished preparing. It was Armando’s favorite-Pasta al Pomodoro. I wasn’t sure why I was doing this, why I even cared. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten in days, and for some reason, the thought of him starving himself felt like something I couldn’t ignore any longer.
I’d told myself over and over that it wasn’t my problem, that he could take care of himself. But no matter how much I tried to convince myself, I still ended up here, recreating the one dish I was sure he liked.
I shook off the memory, focusing on the plate in front of me. The pasta was perfect-or as perfect as I could manage. One thing I couldn’t deny was that my cooking had improved ever since I moved here. I’d learned to use the complicated, high-end appliances that filled Armando’s kitchen, tools I’d only seen on cooking shows back when my family was still whole.
I wiped my hands on a towel, took a deep breath, and picked up the tray. I told myself that this time would be different, of course I knew for sure that it wasn’t going to be an easy task, but maybe… just maybe, he’d eat if I brought him something familiar.
When I reached his door, I froze. The last time Armando had spoken to me was three days ago, back when we’d sat together in awkward silence at the dining table. Since then, there had been nothing-just an oppressive quiet that hung over the mansion like a storm cloud.
I swallowed hard and knocked softly on the door.
“Armando?” My voice sounded small, even to me.
I listened carefully for a response, but I didn’t get any.
I knocked again-a little firmer this time-but still, there was nothing.
I stood there for a moment staring at the closed door, my hand tightening around the tray as I debated what to do next. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood. Maybe he wasn’t even in the room. But deep down, I knew he was there. I could feel it.
“Armando, please,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I just want you to eat something.”
He still hadn’t answered, but I could hear faint movements from the other side of the door. He was still awake.
I clenched my jaw and made a decision. To hell with it. If he was going to get mad then so be it but I sure wasn’t going to stand outside his door all night.
I pushed the door open, and the first thing that hit me was the smell of cigarette smoke. The room was pitch dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the hallway behind me.
I hesitated, stepping inside cautiously. “Armando?”
The door creaked as it closed behind me, and I was swallowed by the darkness. My heart was pounding, and I could feel the tension-heavy and unyielding-in the air.
I scanned the room, squinting to make out shapes. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out any trace of moonlight. The air felt thick-almost suffocating-and the silence was deafening.
“Armando,” I said again, my voice trembling slightly. “I made you something to eat.”
Still nothing.
I took a step further into the room, the tray wobbling slightly in my hands. My courage, the same courage that had pushed me to open the door without his permission, was starting to falter.
What if he was angry? What if I’d crossed a line?
There was no turning back now. I was already here, standing in his space uninvited and unsure. My mind raced, imagining all the ways he might react.
My pulse quickened as I waited for him to speak, to yell, to do anything, but there was only that numb silence as I stood there, trapped between the fear of his reaction and the desperate hope that maybe-just maybe-he’d let me in.