Some part of me believed I could still go back there. That somewhere existed my 21 year old self and Frank, that I could go back and see him, go up the stairs to his room, sit by the window where he worked, the window where he watched me. And I’d say sorry. Or I’d say something other than sorry. I’d say the things that sorry makes unnecessary. I’d say them and or I’d say nothing and instead we’d lie down on his mattress on the floor beneath the picture of the woman with the tattooed face. I always thought we would, one day. What if the things you regret aren’t anything more than the times you said no, you said wait, thinking it was like a circle and you’d get another chance, you’d get chances forever.