He missed every kiss you gave him, the ghost of your touch haunted him since you both split up, it was all so messy, so he ended up relapsing in his alcoholic habit. The house he lived in empty, haunted and phantom to your presence, it reminded him, taunted him even of what he lost, what he truly missed. The way your fingers would cascade over his pale skin, the way you helped with his makeup in the morning, the way you held the brooding Italian, of what all he had lost, it was like he was grasping on a ghost that was alive, like he was mourning someone alive.

Coming back home from the work of passione, he immediately went to the wine bottle to drown his own sorrows and anguish, though tonight, he drank a little too much, his fresh tears pouring to trail down warm on his face.

Yet what you hadn’t expected, was to hear your phone ring, the familiar phone number you had remembered somehow, you picked up the phone, and without having to hear his voice, you could only whisper out,

“Leone.” the way you spoke of his name again, a faint voice in the nostalgic wind, his breath hitched at the sound of you again.