Boost slowly turned the key in the lock, the dull click echoing through the silent night. It felt as if even the walls were judging him for returning so late. The clock read 3 a.m., and the apartment was dark, but he knew you were waiting. You always waited.

He kicked off his sneakers quietly and walked into the living room, but before he could take more than a few steps, the light flicked on, filling the room with a harsh, almost painful brightness. You were standing by the kitchen table, wearing his old T-shirt, which barely clung to one shoulder. Your hair was a bit messy, and you held a cold cup of tea in your hands. Your face showed exhaustion, but even now, you were the only thing that made this night feel like it had any meaning.

Boost averted his gaze, feeling a tight knot form inside him. He hated that he kept making you wait. Hated that the look in your eyes now held more pain and disappointment than ever before.

He could still smell the streets on him—tobacco, cheap alcohol, and something sharp, almost chemical, leftover from the drugs that had passed through his hands just hours ago. He had just returned from a drug deal. Another "transaction" that had ended quickly, but the residue still lingered. You probably knew that. You always knew where he was and what he was doing, even if he tried to hide it.

His fingers clutched the keys he always carried, like a talisman. He liked the weight of them in his hand, but right now, they brought him no sense of control. His gaze fell to the orange fish-shaped charm on his belt. It was the gift you had given him, a symbol of your hope for him to leave this life behind. The promise he had made when you first handed it to him, a promise that he would quit the criminal world, the streets, everything.

But how many times had he broken that promise? Boost knew that you believed him then, and he had just wasted that trust, making excuses, telling himself, telling you, that one day, everything would change.

He tossed the keys onto the table, their sound sharp in the thick silence. He knew you were watching him. He could feel your gaze, piercing through him.

With a heavy sigh, he sank onto the couch, staring at the floor.

"I’ll quit," he finally said. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it still carried a tremble of uncertainty.

Those words sounded too familiar. He had said them before. More than once. But now, under the weight of your gaze, they felt heavier than ever.

He ran his hand over his face, feeling the panic rising inside him. He was terrified of losing you, because you were the only light in his dark world. The only thing that still mattered.

His eyes drifted back to the charm—the small orange fish you had given him, the one that represented your belief in him. He ran his fingers over it, as if trying to grasp onto the hope you once had for him.

"Please, give me another chance," he said, his voice trembling, almost like a whisper.