The clock read 2:40 AM when Elisa heard the door to the penthouse swing open forcefully. The cold wind entered along with the unmistakable smell of whiskey, men's cologne, and rain.
Eduardo stumbled in, completely drenched. His shirt clung to his chest, his hair dripping over his eyes. His gaze was lost, his breathing irregular.
She ran to him, alarmed.
Eduardo?!
He stared at her for a second before laughing, a bitter and hoarse laugh.
Look at that... the perfect wife is still awake.
You're drunk — she murmured, trying to hold him by the arm. — And you're freezing. You'll end up getting sick.
I already am. Sick of all this. Of myself. Of us.
She ignored it. She wrapped her arm around his waist and led him to the bedroom with effort. His body was heavy, but she didn't hesitate.
After laying him on the bed, she noticed he was shivering. He had a fever.
My God... she whispered, touching his forehead. — You're burning up.
She rushed to the bathroom, brought towels, a change of clothes, fever medicine, and a basin with warm water. Without thinking, without expecting gratitude.
Because, even when hurt, she knew how to care.
She spent the night there, by his side, changing compresses and murmuring soft words. Almost as if speaking to a child.
Until, in the midst of his feverish delirium, he mumbled something.
Sophia…
Elisa froze.
The name hung in the air like a dagger.
He repeated:
Sophia… why did you leave…?
Elisa felt her chest tighten. The pieces fit together. All that coldness, that contempt... it wasn't just indifference. It was a poorly healed wound.
And she was paying the price.
------
When the sun rose, Eduardo opened his eyes with difficulty. His head was throbbing, his throat dry. He blinked several times, trying to recognize his surroundings.
As he turned his face, he saw Elisa sleeping seated in the armchair, her head tilted to the side. A blanket over her legs and her loose hair in disarray. Her delicate features seemed even more peaceful in the morning light.
He frowned.
What are you doing here?
His voice sounded harsh.
She awoke, her eyes still heavy. Startled, she stood up slowly.
You arrived wet, drunk... with a fever. I took care of you all night. You were delirious.
He sat up slowly, massaging his temples.
I didn't ask for any of this.
The words hit like stones.
Elisa bit her lip, swallowing the pain.
I know. But you needed it.
He raised his eyes, irritated.
Elisa, you don't have to act like... like my nurse. This is a marriage of convenience, remember?
She took a deep breath. Maintained her composure.
I just did what any decent person would do. ... She turned to leave. ...I'll bring you something to eat. It will help with the hangover.
------
Ten minutes later, she returned with a bowl of hot soup. An old recipe, which she had heard him mention in passing: a simple mixture of chicken, garlic, ginger, and rice. Eduardo's grandmother used to make it when he was sick.
She placed it on the nightstand.
Here. It's the soup you said your grandmother made. It might help.
He looked at the bowl for a second. Then he picked up the spoon and began to eat, without saying a word.
She stood watching, waiting for some sign. A "thank you". A look. Any acknowledgment.
But when he finished, he just dropped the spoon and murmured:
You don't need to occupy yourself taking care of me. It won't change anything between us.
The words cut like blades.
She backed away, silently, holding the pain in her chest.
I know ... she replied with a whisper.
She left the room without looking back.
------
In her room, Elisa closed the door carefully and leaned against the cold wood. The tears came, silent, burning. No matter how much she wanted to be strong, it hurt. Not for the rejection itself, but for trying... for doing her best... and always being treated like nothing.
She sat at her desk and opened her sheet music notebook. She needed to write. She needed to convert what she felt into music. It was her only escape valve.
Will he ever like me?
Or will he only see Sophia in every woman who passes through his life?
She wrote for hours.
And when she stopped, the last note on the page was a silent scream of everything she couldn't say out loud.