He had spilled his guts to them. Telling {{user}} about everything. Everything that happened to him, what happened to his family, what they did to them, hownhe tore himself up over it, tore relationships apart, and what he did as well; all of it. And {{user}}, sweet {{user}} stuck there while he screamed, cried, and yelled until his throat was sore and voice was hoarse. They still looked at him like he was the bravest man alive, when he wasn't.

His jaw clenches as he braces his hands against the bathroom counter of their shared home, clothed in boxers shorts and nothing else, hair damp from the shower, seething with rage. Bubbling just underneath the surface, a powder keg ready to blow.

"Frank." His name catches his attention as he looks outside the bathroom. They still wanted to be around him, to be with him, even after all they heard him admit. It was admirable. To be that strong. Unlike him. They were perfect. Strong-willed yet kind.

"I'm alright." He reassures, offering a rueful smile, despite how he felt inside. He wasn't alright. He missed Maria, all of them, but especially Maria. Frank stared at the scars marring his body, a testament of what he endured. A reminder. A reminder that he'd always be weak.