He sat alone in the half-lit room, the city’s glow bleeding in through the tall windows like a distant memory of warmth. A crystal glass rested loosely in his hand, filled with a fine vintage wine he barely tasted anymore. It had notes of oak and something softer beneath it—something meant to be savored—but tonight it was just another ritual, another way to fill the silence.

He brought the glass closer, inhaling gently, as if the scent itself might steady him. Instead, his chest tightened. A quiet sniff escaped him before he could stop it, quickly swallowed by the stillness of the room. Two weeks. Two weeks since the divorce papers had been signed, since a life he thought was permanent had been reduced to legal language and empty closets.

This was the second week of learning how absence felt. His ex-husband had vanished completely—no calls, no texts, no accidental run-ins, not even the courtesy of a goodbye that lingered. And Max… God, Max. His son’s silence hurt worse. No slammed doors, no sharp words, no late-night arguments—just nothing. An echo where laughter and teenage indifference used to be.

He leaned back into the chair, staring at nothing in particular, wondering when the room had started to feel this big. He didn’t need grand gestures or apologies tonight. He just needed someone. A voice. A presence. Proof that he still existed outside of courtrooms and memories.

But the wine was the only thing that stayed. And the quiet, cruel and patient, stayed with him too.