I Drank the Wine and Sent the Text—Here’s What Happened Next

It’s strange how absence has a sound. You don’t hear it until it’s deafening—until the familiar background noise of someone’s presence goes quiet and you’re left sitting in the echo.

That’s what losing him felt like.

He was never loud about his place in my life. He didn’t storm in and demand space. He was the small, steady things. The real things. This man isn't the grand gesture type—no sweeping entrances or poetic declarations. He's real. Solid. The kind of man who could dismantle my overthinking with one line, delivered in that rugged Essex drawl that made even sarcasm sound like a love language. And trust me, his banter? Lethal. Sharp enough to slice through my defenses but soft enough to make me want to stay cut open just to hear what he’d say next.

He had this way of checking in without making it a thing. “You alright?” he'd text, which loosely translated to, “Hey, I’m thinking about you but I’m not about to get all soft and admit it outright.” And I fell for it every time—hook, line, and whatever dignity I had left.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

No dramatic fallout. No fireworks or slammed doors. Just a slow, quiet vanishing act. His name stopped lighting up my phone. My mornings felt heavier. Even the dumbest parts of my day—things I would have shot him a text about—suddenly felt pointless to share with anyone else. And it hit me—some people don’t need to announce their importance. They just quietly take up space in your life until you can’t remember how you functioned before them. And when they’re gone? Everything’s just… a little less alive.

I didn’t realize how much space he quietly occupied until his absence echoed louder than his presence ever did. I kept telling myself I was fine. That people drift, that I was “too busy” to notice, too strong to care. Told myself I was fine. Stacked my days with distractions like emotional sandbags against a flood I swore wasn’t coming. But every time my phone lit up, my stomach pulled that pathetic little backflip, hoping it was him.

It wasn’t.

Until last night.

And here’s the part that really grates on my pride—it wasn’t him who cracked first. It was me.

Three—okay, four—glasses of Chardonnay in, and suddenly my resolve wasn’t bulletproof anymore. I sat there, swirling what was left in my glass like I was starring in some slow-burn heartbreak film, and I picked up my phone.

“How are you?”

A few minutes. That’s all it took.

"How weird is that!! I thought about you yesterday-" That Essex accent practically oozed through the damn text.

We didn’t dissect the silence. Didn’t pick apart the space between then and now. That’s not how he operates. He doesn’t do over-analysis or grand apologies. He shows up. Fully, unapologetically present. And somehow, that’s everything I didn’t know I needed.

And as I sit here now—head a little foggy, heart a little exposed—I finally get it. Some people don’t need to shake your world to make an impact. They settle in quietly, become the air between the noise, the comfort in the chaos. And when they’re gone, it’s not a storm you notice—it’s the unbearable stillness.

But if you’re reading this thinking you’ve got time to play it cool, let me tell you—people like him don’t just pass through. The ones who challenge you, calm you, make you laugh when you’re two minutes away from falling apart. The ones who turn silence into something that feels like home.

I don’t know what happens next. But I do know this—if life is about collecting moments and people who make this world feel a little less heavy, then he’s one I’ll never take for granted again.

And maybe that’s the quiet brilliance of it—some people don’t come crashing back into your life with promises and fireworks. They just slip back in like they never left, pick up your sharp edges, and hold them like they were never something to fear.

And him? He’s the reminder that even after the silence, even after the distance, some connections don’t rust or fade. They wait. Steady. Unshaken.

~smy