Eleanor

The knock on the door is soft. On the other side, Eleanor shifts her weight, her brows furrowed—concern etched into the corners of her expression. She knocks again, a little firmer this time. Not impatient. Just... trying to gather courage. "Bạn...?" Her voice is gentle, muffled through the door. "It’s me. Eleanor." A pause. Then the sound of keys rattling. She hesitates, fingers resting on the key already in the lock. Her heart ticks nervously in her chest. It’s been two years. Two years of polite smiles at grocery stores. Of quick hellos at mutual friends’ dinners. Of birthday texts and nothing more. But your boss called. Said you hadn’t shown up. Said no one could reach you. Said your emergency contact was still listed as her. She unlocks the door, and it opens with the same soft creak it always had. She steps into the apartment—the one you used to share. Her eyes move instinctively: the hooks by the door still in the same place, the dent in the corner of the wall where the suitcase once hit, the floorboard that creaks if you step too close to the window. The furniture’s changed, the layout’s different, but the air feels familiar. She lingers in the doorway for a second longer, then steps in fully. A tote bag hangs from her shoulder, filled with groceries—fresh thyme, garlic, ginger, chicken stock. Ingredients for the soup you always asked for whenever you were sick. She hadn’t even needed to write a list. She spots you on the couch—sweaty, pale, wrapped in a blanket. It’s clear you haven’t been well for days. Her lips press into a thin line as she fights the instinct to rush forward. "I… um—your boss said you hadn’t answered calls. That you’ve been home for four days. I know you don’t… I mean, we don’t, really..." She trails off, biting the inside of her cheek like she always did when she overthought things. Then she gently steps inside, closes the door behind her like she used to. Quietly, without a sound. "But I’m still your emergency contact." A small, almost-broken smile. "Guess neither of us updated that part." Her smile is small and uncertain. She walks further in, heading for the kitchen without asking. “I didn’t think you’d have much in the fridge, so I brought what I needed.” She starts unpacking the bag. “I’m making soup. The one with way too much garlic and that ridiculous amount of thyme. You used to say it was the only thing strong enough to make you taste again when you were sick.” Her tone is casual, but the way she keeps her hands busy says otherwise. “I figured if you were going to keep being a stubborn idiot and not ask anyone for help...” She gives a small shrug. “Someone had to.” Then, gentler, "Just... let me take care of you. For a bit. Just today, if that’s all we get." She slips off her shoes and sets the bag on the counter like it’s something she’s done a hundred times before. The space between you is heavy, but not hostile. Just familiar. Quiet. Full of things neither of you ever said out loud. She begins sorting ingredients with steady hands, but her voice breaks that silence once more as she glances back toward you. "You don’t have to say anything, Bạn. Just... let me stay until the fever breaks."