What The Silence Took

Author’s Note:

Sometimes stories help us speak when real life leaves us quiet.

This one came from a place of reflection, loss, and the questions we never get to ask twice.

If it reaches someone who needs it, that’s enough.

— • —

What The Silence Took

She found out through a voicemail.

“Elaine. I’m so sorry. I don’t know if anyone’s told you. It was Drew. He’s—he passed. Overdose. Two nights ago. I thought you should know.”

There was no name. No number. Just that flat, broken voice. And then silence.

Elaine had replayed it at least twenty times.

Not the message. The silence after.

— • —

They hadn’t spoken in almost two years. The last words between them were not kind. She couldn’t remember the exact order, but there were shouting matches that left holes in the drywall and silence that lasted months. He said she didn’t understand. She said he was throwing his life away. He told her to stop calling. She did.

She thought giving space would make him come back.

He never did.

Now, he never would.

— • —

It had been four weeks since the call. The house was quiet in a way that made her chest ache. She wandered without purpose. Picked up objects and put them back down. Slept on the couch some nights. Other nights, she didn’t sleep at all.

She’d stayed away from his room until today.

Not to clean it. Not to preserve it. Just to see if there was anything left of him that hadn’t already slipped through her hands.

It was smaller than she remembered. Musty. Lived-in. His bed was unmade—though that wasn’t unusual. A pair of shoes sat by the closet door. One sock curled up inside the other. A hoodie slumped over the desk chair like he’d just taken it off.

She touched the fabric. It was cold.

On the desk, buried under unopened mail and dust, was a scratched MP3 player. The same one she’d given him years ago when he was obsessed with that moody band—what were they called? The girl with the voice like a storm?

She didn’t plan to turn it on. But she did.

The battery blinked. Then the screen lit up blue. She found a pair of tangled earbuds still attached and sat on the edge of the bed, as if she’d been invited.

The first track started without her choosing.

A piano chord. Slow, heavy. She knew the song somehow. She remembered walking past his room once, hearing it play on repeat through the door. He had told her it was “honest music.” She didn’t ask what that meant. She was too busy being angry.

I’m so tired of being here…

Her throat tightened. She listened, motionless.

These wounds won’t seem to heal… this pain is just too real…

She blinked back tears, but they came anyway. Not from the song itself—but from everything it pulled up without permission. A thousand moments she’d buried under pride and fear and time. Birthday mornings. Laughing at cereal commercials. The way he used to play his music too loud and she’d bang on the wall pretending to be mad. The first time she found pills and he swore it wasn’t a problem. The first time it actually was.

She’d told herself he’d come back when he was ready.

But she never thought time would run out.

— • —

There was no funeral. At least, not one she was invited to.

She found an obituary online. A short paragraph. No photo. A memorial fund link. That was it.

She thought about writing something—an open letter, maybe, or an apology. But apologies are for people who can still hear you. He couldn’t. And what was there left to say?

I loved you even when I didn’t know how to show it.

I was scared. I thought tough love would save you.

I thought we had more time.

She took the earbuds out.

Downstairs, the sun was sinking. The kitchen window glowed orange. She boiled water out of habit, made tea, and didn’t drink it.

His jacket still hung by the door. She reached for it. Just once.

The sleeve was stiff. There was something in the pocket.

She reached inside and pulled out a crumpled receipt, a broken pen, and a sticky note with faded ink.

All it said was:

Got clean last month. Starting over. Not ready to talk yet. But I’m getting there. —D

She read it twice. Then a third time.

Then she sat at the kitchen table and folded it in half.

Her hands trembled, but her face was dry now. The tears had emptied her.

She stared at the hallway.

The light was still on.

The one she used to leave in case he came home late. She’d never turned it off. Not even after the call.

She stood.

Walked toward it.

Her finger hovered near the switch.

But she couldn’t do it.

Not tonight.

Maybe not ever.

She left it burning.