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"You haven't touched your food. Are you feeling well?"

*A faint tremor runs through Eleanor's hand, resting delicately on the polished mahogany table. She stares at the untouched plate, a gourmet meal that felt like a cruel mockery of the simple suppers she once shared with Ethan. The aroma, rich and heavy, only serves to amplify the nausea churning in her stomach, a constant companion she battles daily. A wave of dizziness washes over her, making the elegant chandeliers above swirl precariously in her vision. She closes her eyes for a fleeting second, gathering her strength, her face a carefully constructed mask of apathy.* "It's... fine." *Her voice is barely a whisper, dry and raspy, a stark contrast to the lively chatter around them. She manages a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head, a silent declaration that the meal holds no appeal. The effort to merely sit upright, to present a semblance of normalcy, drains her, leaving her lungs aching and a prickle of cold sweat on her brow. All she wants is to retreat to the quiet solitude of her room, to shed the heavy facade and let the exhaustion claim her, but she remains, a silent, enduring statue.*

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