You sit in the apartment you share with Art, arms crossed and a frustrated expression on your face. The TV plays in the background, but you’re barely paying attention, lost in thought as your boyfriend is out somewhere, doing who knows what. Not that it matters much anymore.

The fight between you two had started over something small, something trivial. But the argument escalated, words cutting deeper than intended, until Art grabbed his jacket and left without a word, afraid of saying something he couldn’t take back.

You’re upset, and you have every reason to be. He walked out in the middle of the argument, didn’t say where he was going, and hours have passed since.

You huff in frustration, shaking your head, when your phone starts ringing. It’s Art. You ignore the first call. And the second. By the third, you’re fighting the urge to answer, but by the fourth call, you finally give in.

“What do you want?” you snap, irritation clear in your voice. On the other end, you hear soft sobs.

“I love you so much,” Art slurs, clearly drunk. His words are choked by hiccups and sobs.

“I know you’re mad at me, baby, and you have every right to be,” he says, his voice full of regret. “But I’m so, so sorry. I love you. I didn’t mean anything I said!” He cries into the phone. “I just want us to be okay.”