Cold Heart

Back in his apartment that evening, Luciano paused before the mirror, running a hand over his chest absentmindedly.

The memory of the first doctor’s words lingered like a shadow.

He traced the faint line of muscle that had once defined him, noting how even the body betrayed time and circumstance.

The chest pain was mild tonight, a whisper, but a whisper that reminded him of all the yesterdays he’d outlived against odds.

He remembered his twenties vividly, nights lying awake, heart racing inexplicably, staring at the ceiling while the city slept.

He had skipped social gatherings, declined invitations, and excused himself from familial closeness. Each heartbeat was a countdown he alone understood.

He didn’t break hearts because he couldn’t bear the thought of heartbreak in return. Every cold word, every clipped dismissal, every rumor-fueling act of distance was a shield, and armor forged from fragility.

He knew what people, even his staff thinks of him. But it was safer that way; at least it would dissuade his uncle from trying to fix his marriage.

And that suited him perfectly.

However, his heart didn’t always beat uncontrollably, it wasn’t always painful. The clinic smelled of antiseptic and quiet disappointment.

Luciano sat in the corner chair, his posture rigid, and fingers tapping lightly on his knees, though the tapping had more to do with habit than nerves.

Across from him, the doctor shuffled papers, eyes flicking up briefly returning to the charts.

“Do you understand the situation,.” The man said carefully,.. as though the truth could shatter the glass walls of the office.

Luciano’s hands didn’t stop their restless motion. “I understand.”

The doctor’s mouth tightened.

“The hospital is yet to find a cure for it; however, your condition is stable, but progressive. We’re collaborating with other hospitals internationally, working on treatments, but…..” He let the sentence hang.

Luciano’s eyes remained on the floor. The flickers of something unspoken passed through them, frustration, resignation, fear disguised as control.

At the board meeting, he could bark orders and control the fates of hundreds, but his condition was the only thing he no longer had control over.

The doctor had told him bluntly, “You may not see fifty.”

It sounded like a verdict. He had laughed, at first, to cover the sting.

But the echo of those words had carved a path through his life.

He remembered how it had first happened. Tightness while climbing the stairs of his mansion to his room, a pressure that left him winded after a few steps.

At twenty-one, he had shrugged it off as stress, pushing harder in the gym, running faster, working longer. But the chest pains persisted. Nights of sleeplessness followed, each beat of his heart a reminder that he was mortal, and fragile.

Since then, every choice had been a careful calculation. Friends were unnecessary; romance a risk he couldn’t afford.

Intimacy was dangerous, not because of women, or men, or preferences, but because the truth would terrify them if they ever learned the secret he carried in his chest.

Luciano’s phone vibrated, breaking the heavy silence; a reminder of tomorrow’s meeting, client briefings, endless negotiations. He set it aside, hands still lingering for a moment on his bare chest.

He moved away from the mirror and directly to his study, he had more documents to review.

Immediately he sat down and turned his home computer on, his phone rang.

“Hello, mum.” He answered the phone, his voice clipped and measured.

“Luciano,” his mother said, a note of worry in her tone.

“How are you my son? Work…. Is it still so demanding?

He glanced at the pile of documents on his desk before answering.

“It’s fine, just the usual,.”

“Mhm,” she said softly. “You’ve been working non-stop. Ever since your father….”Her voice wavered, but Luciano said nothing.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, colder this time. “Don’t worry about me.”

A pause filled the line. “Just… try not to exhaust yourself, mi Amor. Even your father….” Her words trailed off again, swallowed by memory.

“I’ll manage,” he said flatly. “Always have.”

“Alright….” She whispered. “Just…. Call me when you can, even a few minutes. I’d like to hear your voice.”

“I’ll call when I can,” he replied, already turning back to his documents, leaving the conversation, and her worry hanging in the cold air.

Luciano ended the call without another word, setting the phone down soft, persistent and almost accusing.

He felt a faint tug at his chest, but he ignored it, putting himself in spreadsheets and reports.

Meanwhile, in her quiet apartment across town, his mother sat back in her chair, staring at the silent phone. She sighed, the sound heavy with frustration and worry.

“He’s so … distant,” she muttered to herself.

“Ever since your father….” Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched the edge of the table.

Luciano, on the other end, clicked through emails with precise, efficient motions, shutting down any thought of his mother’s worry.

But for a fleeting second, as he paused to sign a document, he thought of her voice.

The worry, the longing for connection and, against his better judgment, a small, uncomfortable heart flickered in his chest.

A reminder that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely untouchable.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer an answer. Loneliness was a shadow that followed him, quiet and patient. He had grown used to it, and yet, in rare moments like this that his coldness wasn’t armor, it was a barrier.

His stomach growled, a sharp reminder that he hadn’t eaten all day. Coffee had been his only sustenance, bitter and weak, barely enough to keep him upright.

He pushed the documents aside, letting pens and papers clatter gently onto the desk.

“Right,” he muttered to himself, “food first.”

In the kitchen, he opened cupboards and the fridge. Bread, vegetables and milk; were there waiting for him to touch. Earlier, he had dismissed the staff to their quarters, saying he wasn’t hungry.

Lucinao sliced the bread, layering it with whatever vegetables he could find, simple, quick and efficient.

He assembled a sandwich with meticulousness, as if the act itself demanded focus.

A glass of milk followed, poured without hesitation, set neatly beside the plate.

Sitting at the wide kitchen table, he took a bite, chewing slowly, tasting the bland mix of bread and vegetables.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He drank the milk in measured sips, the cold liquid sliding down his throat.

For a moment, he allowed himself to simply exist, the solitude of his kitchen and the small act of feeding himself was oddly grounding.

Yet as he finished, he pushed the plate aside and returned to his study.