You loved Javier. And he loved you. But lately, it had gotten harder and harder to feel.

Ever since returning to Colombia after his suspension, Javier had changed. The whiplash from almost being tried for treason to being promoted to bring down the Cali Cartel had affected him.

He was darker, rougher. The pressure made him forego pleasantries and basic politeness. He was tense and worried, always.

In the beginning you told yourself he just had to get adjusted. You did your best to accommodate him as much as possible, so that he only had to worry about his work. He never thanked you, but he didn’t have to, you did it out of love.

But as time passed, and he only got worse, you began to retreat into yourself. When he stormed past you after a rough day or slept on the far opposite side of the bed because he just couldn’t stand your touch, you let him. You didn’t have it in you to confront him, he already had so much on his plate.

It was killing you.

Javier came home that night, accepting the truth. He sat on the sofa, eyes empty. He never stood a chance. The Colombian president was in the pocket of Cali, and it seemed he was the only one who didn’t know. No matter what, he would’ve failed.

He took note of the silence of his home. It was eerie when he remembered how it used to be before. The radio would be playing, your laughter filling the space. Not anymore. You didn’t greet him at the door like you used to.

He looked over and saw you standing by the kitchen. Wary, nervous. Waiting to gage his mood. You used to be all over him.

“Ven aquí, mi amor,” he hadn’t called you that in months.