Chapter 5

The walk home felt like miles, though the diner was barely a fifteen-minute stroll from Lip’s house.

“What am I even going to say to him?”

I whispered to myself. Lip wouldn’t yell. He never yelled. That was what made it worse. Lip’s quiet disappointment, the furrowed brow—it would all gnaw at me long after the words were spoken.

When I finally turned onto the street, the sight of the small, weathered house I called home since childhood nearly stopped me in my tracks. The front window glowed warmly from the living room lamp. Lip was waiting. He always was.

My hand trembled as I pushed open the door.

Lip was seated in his usual spot on the worn recliner, an old mug of tea cradled in his hands. The television was on but muted, the light flickering across the room. He looked up at me as I entered the room, his face already etched with concern.

“You’re home early.” Lip’s voice was calm, but there was a hint of something heavier beneath the words.

I shut the door behind me, leaning against it for support. The lump in my throat refused to budge, but I forced myself to speak.

“Lip... I lost my job.”

The silence was deafening. Lip set the mug down on the side table, the soft clink feeling like a gunshot in my ears.

“What happened?”

“I was late. Again. Mr. Tomas didn’t give me a second chance.” My voice cracked, and I couldn’t meet Lip’s gaze. “I screwed up. I—” I stopped, my words tangled in the knot of shame swelling inside me.

Lip sighed deeply, rubbing his temples. “Steven, I’ve told you a hundred times—no, a thousand—you’ve got to take this seriously. It’s not just about you anymore. You’ve got bills to pay, responsibilities to handle. You’re not a kid.”

“I KNOW!” 

I shouted, surprising even myself. My fists clenched at my sides. “I know, okay? You don’t have to remind me every second of my life. I screwed up, Lip. I get it.”

Lip’s eyes softened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not trying to come down on you, kid. I’m just... worried. You’re better than this. I know you are.”

That was the problem. I wasn’t sure I believed that anymore.

Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, but my thoughts swirled like a storm, refusing to settle. Every mistake I made played back in vivid detail—the late mornings, the ignored advice, the alarms I snoozed.

My stomach twisted as I imagined Mr. Tomas’ smug expression, the look of satisfaction as he fired me. I hate Tomas, but more than that, I hate myself .

“Why didn’t I just listen? Why didn’t I try harder?” I whispered into the empty room.

The regret clawed at my chest, a relentless pressure that made it hard to breathe. Lip’s words echoed in my mind, but so did that voice—soft, haunting, unsettling.

“Please stop doing this.”

What did it mean?

“Please stop doing this.”

Why now?

“Please stop doing this.”

Is it my subconscious warning me?

“Please stop doing this.”

Or am I finally losing it?

“Please.”

“Stop.”

“Doing.”

“This.”