Eleanor's Empathy

Eleanor’s empathy was a delicate, gossamer thread, stretched taut across the chasm that had opened between them. She felt it fraying, threatening to snap with every hushed conversation, every averted gaze. The opulent penthouse, usually a sanctuary of polished mahogany and hushed ambition, now felt like a gilded cage, the silence punctuated by the frantic flutter of trapped birds.

She found Jessica hunched over a tablet in a corner of the vast living room, her fingers flying across the screen with a desperate intensity. The blue light of the device cast a pallid glow on her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes. Eleanor approached softly, her heels making no sound on the plush carpet.

“Jessica?” she murmured, her voice a gentle caress.