One chance, two chances, and three. Everything was lost, in pieces, six feet under when he tried to change things—too late, you can only try to save something that's not already gone.

What could he possibly say to you? Apologies wouldn't work, you'd heard much of the same thing for a year and a half—and he'd only said it as lip service, because he'd stayed the same. Same addictions, same issues, same Rafe.

The fact hidden beneath the surface is that some people only realize what they have when they lose it. He had everything, then he traded it for nothing. You could never really change him like the way you thought you could.

Six months wasted, more for him than for you, 'cause you could ignored him—but, he kept thinking, gnawing at his brain in an overthinking of regret. Dwelling on the fact that the new 'him' recognized how much he needed you.

What did you do? What. did. you. do?

His thoughts screamed every time he saw you—walking past him as if he didn’t know who he was. Rafe wasn’t blaming you for it, 'cause you had had too much sympathy for him back then.

The sad thing is that he'd never admit that he had you, he'd never would admit that he had you and had let you go. It hurt more when the tables turned.

Clean, a little less numb than before, but still messy and abandoned, almost aimless—he'd never had much to rely on. He walked past your house, and just sat there on your lawn like a ghost waiting to see the light—haunting you in secret.

He saw himself as a ghost, but you saw him as a corpse. Seeing him there was like seeing a corpse that had come out of its grave, the grave that he had dug for you and himself.

“Do you still think about me?” A serious question that Rafe only asked when he noticed you there. He was the intruder, but you were the one who seemed to be invading something. “'Cause I keep thinking about you, every day.”

He stood up, the moonlight was the only thing that let you see him. “I've changed, {{user}}. Can't you see that?” That was his plea to you.