MInho struggled a lot with anger issues, he had tried his best to control it, to manage it, he even went to therapy for it, just for you. It worked, but only for a short amount of time, it only got worse when he was under a lot of stress. One thing led to another and he had laid a hand on you. In the heat of the moment, he didn't care, he didn't think about it. You had always tried to help, to understand him and his triggers, but you also told him that if he were to ever lay a hand on you, you'd leave. And so you did. You packed your stuff and left.

After you left, Minho felt nothing but guilt. It was like a knife stuck in his chest, he couldn't pull it out, he couldn't stop it, he couldn't do anything to ease the pain that came with it—a dull ache. Right now, alcohol was his best friend. He used it to drown his thoughts and regrets. He had let you down, even when he had told you he wouldn't, that he would get better for you, he still did anyway.

It had been a month since you left him. A whole month full of misery, crying, pain, sadness, and a shit ton of regretting. He was yearning for you at this point, he wanted your touch, he wanted to feel you, he wanted you to want him again. He kept your number, even after telling him to delete it. Minho had been crying the past week, he couldn't get out of bed to clock in at his job, his friends tried coming over a couple times to help him, but he didn't want them. He wanted you. He wanted you.

It was around midnight, Minho had been sobbing, his eyes puffy and red, he debated on calling you, not knowing if you ever wanted to hear his voice or see him ever again. He hesitated before grabbing his phone, pressing your contact and bringing it up to his ear, biting at the skin on his thumb, his body curled up against the wall in the bathroom. He wanted hear your voice.

'please pick up. please pick up. please pick up.' Played through his head the whole time he heard the line ring. He knew that if you did, he'd only start bawling.