Silas sat alone at the massive marble dining table, the sheer scale of the room pressing down on him like an physical weight. The house felt too big—vast, hollow, and suffocatingly quiet. Every corner echoed with an absence that felt physically saddening, a stark, painful reminder of life without Catelyn. He missed her with an aching, visceral intensity that made his chest tighten. He stared blankly at the screen of his phone, having just sent her another unanswered text weeks ago. It sat there, cold and silent. She wasn't going to reply; she was out there, moving on, busy living a life that no longer included him. The realization struck him with a dull, heavy thud.
Seeking solace in the only craft he truly mastered, his hand reached out for the bottle—his signature creation, WSilas. It was a meticulously crafted red wine, a rich blend of deep, sun-ripened grapes infused with a subtle, haunting hint of blueberry.
He lifted the heavy glass bottle and poured. The deep crimson stream hit the crystal glass with a sharp, crisp sound—a chime that should have signified celebration or quiet evening comfort, but tonight, it only sounded like a lament. He was drowning in his own solitude, nursing a grief he couldn't shake, intending to blur the sharp edges of his loneliness with drink.
As he brought the glass to his lips, a vivid memory hijacked his thoughts. He could see her so clearly: Catelyn, curled up beside him on the plush living room couch, the television casting a soft, flickering glow across their faces. They had shared this exact wine then, sharing quiet sips, easy laughter, and deeply intimate moments. He remembered her bright, captivating smile, her striking black crystal eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies, and the way she used to talk so freely and openly, unburdened by the world. Most of all, he missed the easy silence they used to share—a comfortable quiet where words were entirely unnecessary.
Now, she wasn't here. She wasn't in this room, she wasn't in this house, and worst of all, she wasn't in his life. The permanence of it felt depressing to his soul, draining the very vitality from his existence.
He swirled the liquid, watching the overhead light catch the rich burgundy depths within the crystal. He had altered the entire trajectory of his life for her. He had retired early—or so he told himself be with her, viewing it as a temporary sacrifice so they could be closer, spend more time together, and build something real. He owned the company; he had the luxury, the wealth, and the power to afford it. He had cleared his mornings, canceled high-stakes meetings, and ruthlessly carved out empty spaces in his calendar just for her. That was his language of love—dedication, time, and absolute presence. And he hadn't minded a single second of it.
The tragedy was that all that sacrificed time, all that cleared space, now belonged to nobody. It was disheartening, a bitter pill to swallow.
He brought the glass to his lips once more. On the palate, it was a masterpiece: notes of red cherry, subtle cedar, and a smooth, lingering whisper of vanilla. He had engineered it to be perfect and precise, just like the life he had once envisioned for them.
Yet, his heart felt entirely hollow. Catelyn was out there, living her life, breathing the same air, entirely untethered from him. They had gone their separate ways, a divergence that felt entirely unnatural. As the wine slid down his throat, he felt numb—only alone, profoundly depressed, and adrift. He had been more than ready to pause the entire world for her, to put his multi-million-dollar empire on hold just to hold her hand.
Right now, his mind had room for nothing else. Just him, the sprawling emptiness, and the glass of WS.
Loving her had been the least complicated thing he had ever done in his twenty eight odd years of existence. It came as naturally as breathing, and he knew, with a certainty that bordered on agony, that he could still give her his all. He loved her deeply, fiercely, and unconditionally. He still did. He wanted her back, and in the grand scheme of his reality, nothing else mattered.
The house stood around him like a monument to what used to be—the rich velvet couches, the heavy oak chairs, the polished tables and display stands. It was all there, but it was deadened by the silence. There was no seeing her. No soft, melodious voice calling out his name from the hallway. No lounging together on the couch, her head resting softly against his steady chest while the television murmured in the background.
It was pathetic, really. He knew how he must look—lonely, desperate, and hopelessly depressed. He had everything on paper. He had his life, his health, and a thriving company worth eight figures. He had all the time in the world. But wealth and freedom meant nothing when the one person who gave them meaning was gone. What truly broke him was the simple, devastating truth: she was no longer part of his story.
He swirled the remaining wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid climb the sides before settling. He would do it all over again in a heartbeat. He'd clear the calendar, walk away from the boardroom, and lay his entire world at her feet. Because that was his love—absolute, consuming, and head-over-heels.
He didn't care about the pride, the distance, or the split. He just wanted her back. If she walked back through that front door right now, he would accept her without a single condition, welcoming her home to the heart that had never stopped beating for her.