It had been a silly fight, in retrospect, one where you’d both had too much to drink, picked a fight for no reason, and ended up saying things you didn’t mean. You’d been screaming at each other, blind with rage you didn’t know you were capable of, and when you’d yelled at him to get the fuck out, he had. The next morning, you called him, sober and upset, apologies spilling from your mouth.

"I'm sorry, mi amor."

Frankie had said, you apologized as well but he told you he needed time, that he thought it would be best for you both to take a break. A few days later, there was a box of your stuff outside the apartment door, and Frankie wouldn’t answer your calls, not that you really wanted him to.